What It Takes (146 page)

And he had one other asset: Jimmy Carter. It was Carter who gave Bush his reason for running—not to mention the time. Bush went to Carter, close of the ’76 campaign, and offered to stay on at the CIA. He offered his service—let Carter send a message of bipartisanship ... Bush would finish the job he had started a year before: restoring the CIA to its proper standing—
above politics
. ... Carter could have sent a strong signal with that move, but he never really considered it—didn’t understand.

Bush was more and more convinced: Carter couldn’t see the big picture. Carter was going to be a disaster. Bush had briefed him during the campaign. Once Carter became the nominee, he was entitled to the precious awareness—so Director Bush tried to bring him up to speed: the latest from the listening posts, the poop on the new satellites ...

“What’s the angle on that gimbal? ...”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s the angle on that camera gimbal on the new satellite? What’s the
maximum angle
? ...”

“Uh ... we’ll check on that.”

Who the hell cared what’s the angle on the GIMBAL?
... The point was: What can we see? ... What about forty-five Russian divisions on the
Chinese border
? ... Can we see if they’re
moving
?

To Bush, Carter would ever be a small-time, liberal Governor from Georgia ... who didn’t have a clue to how the world really worked, who was going to ...
screw ... everything
...
up
.

So even as Bush drove Bar’s Volvo back to Houston ... as she settled them into another new house ... as George got on a bank board, started talking up his business career ... he started turning over the big question:

Could he knock Carter off? ... Could he get there?

Bush was pretty well convinced that by 1980, voters wouldn’t be in the mood to sit through another four years of outsiders, men who didn’t know the levers, who ran against Washington. No more Carter—he’d bet on that ... and maybe no Ronald Reagan. Everyone said Reagan had the 1980 nomination sewed up, after his near miss against Ford, in ’76 ... Bush didn’t believe it. Reagan was old hat—and old: Bush would
relish
running that man’s aged ass into the ground.

He talked it over with Jim Baker ... Bake thought they might do it like Carter—work the grassroots in Iowa, establish themselves with a respectable second place as the sensible alternative to Reagan, then burst through (somewhere) with a winner’s grin, into the glare.

Candidates in a half-dozen states were already asking Bush to speak—help them out in ’78. ... In an office next to his own in the Citizen’s National Bank, Bush set up a PAC to handle the requests, the schedule, the money. That much was fine—he could stop with that ... or go whole hog.

But could he get there? (Zero-point-three percent!)

He could make a career in business. The bank board, Eli Lilly’s board, Purolator, Inc. ... that came easy to him.

Bar was so much happier since he’d left a job he couldn’t talk about—not even to her. She’d felt so left out.

The new house was fine. Houston was homey. He’d drive himself to the bank in the morning, then Don Rhodes would pick him up in his truck, if Bush had a meeting, or a date somewhere.

Wasn’t it great how it worked out?

They were in Rhodesy’s pickup, spring of ’78, on their way to the Ramada Club—Bush had a lunch date.

“Don, I’ve really gotta decide if I want to run for President.”

Rhodes was driving—didn’t even turn his head.

“Run,” he said. “Y’don’t have anything better to do.

The ’88 campaign ought to be easier—more comfortable, surely ... with his Stratoliner sweeping down now upon Des Moines. There was an Air Force Reserve base at the back of the airport, aswarm with men on duty, trucks scooting across the tarmac, snack bar flippin’ burgers one a minute ... every bit of brass in the Iowa Reserve on alert—seeing to the landing of
Air Force Two
.

Here it came: gorgeous stainless steel in the sunshine ... elegant, serifed, black capital letters on the side: THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Right away, traveling press tumbled out the back door, and a half-dozen young Advance shepherded them to a ropeline. There was a plywood stage and a microphone in front of the ropeline, and behind, some kids—looked like one busload—with hand-painted signs:
LET GEORGE DO IT
and
IOWA BUSH.
Another two or three Advance (maybe the same ones, they looked alike in their pod-people suits) were herding dignitaries to the base of the front stairs, to form a line to greet the Vice President.

Still, something was missing: What was it?

Public.

Nobody had come to see George Bush. Maybe the Air Force base was off limits. The question was: Could Bush tell?

He was waving from the door of the plane, atop the flight-stairs, and ... from up there, it looked glorious: hundreds of people in sharp winter sunshine—people being
held back
by a ropeline, kids cheering ... he bounded down the steps. Now, sure as hell, he couldn’t tell if anyone was there because he was surrounded—people smiling, grabbing for his hand. Advance wanted to lead him to the platform mike, and after they showed him, he strode over like it was his idea. He was giving jerky waves to this side and that. He waved to reporters. He waved to his own staff. He made a face—delighted to be here!

He was all delight today.

Bush had something to say. Mikhail Gorbachev had just come to Washington with the INF agreement in his pocket. The Gipper signed the deal—killed off one class of missiles in Europe—the first major treaty with the Russians in ten years!

Everybody knew, peace was big in Iowa.

Bush was for peace—
for
the treaty.

Gorby was the hottest thing in Washington since ... speakerphones. And Bush had a
sit-down with Gorbachev
. They had breakfast! (And whom did Bush take to breakfast-with-Gorby? Cooper Evans! A grain dealer, a friend ... an Iowan!) Best of all—
then
... when Gorby took his famous walk, got out of his car on Connecticut Avenue, and
waved to Americans
... who was with him? ... George Bush!

So Bush had juice today. He had INF juice. He had peace juice. He had Iowa juice. He had ...
Gorby juice
. It was like some made-up concatenation of best-selling buzzwords—like one of those have-it-all headlines in the supermarket tabs:

JACKIE O’S SEX-BUDGET-UFO DIET!

This could turn Iowa around!

“As you know,” Bush was saying, “we’ve just come from Washington, where we’ve just signed the
I-N-F
treaty ...” Bush laid into those letters. He looked like he’d hammered out the treaty himself. He decried critics on the left, who blamed the Gipper for hanging tough against the Russians. He decried critics on the right, who were raising doubts about the new treaty.

Dole had not come out for the treaty. Big mistake. Bush was trying to drive this treaty through Dole’s heart like a wooden stake.

“And I think it’s good. I think it’s good for America. I think it’s good for my ten grandchildren.”

He spread his hands to indicate he’d take a question.

A voice behind the rope called out: “How good is it for you in Iowa?”

Bush’s eyes lit up. A lob! ... He swung into Iowa juice—how he’d taken heat for having Cooper Evans in that breakfast with Gorby.

“... An Iowan, a grain expert, presenting the views of American agriculture. So let the political opportunists take some shots. I think it was very good. And I kinda resent it, that because somebody’s from Iowa, and happens to be a friend of mine, that he should be excluded.” Bush was shaking his head: as long as he was in charge, his Iowa friends would
always
breakfast with Gorby.

There was a question on whether Bush expected more summits, more arms control. This was from the national press, which never got to ask Bush anything—except at these local press-avails. Bush took the chance to spread more Gorby juice.

“Well, clearly, he’s a man who’s in control. You may know, I was with him when he jumped out of the car ...” This was rich! His voice fell to confidentiality—but then, it was nearly inaudible, so he had to belt it out.

“You know, we’re riding in this big Russian limousine they have, and he says to me: ‘How do you like my
bunker
? ...”

Bunker! Bush was enchanted with the word. But curiously, it was the only line of Gorby-talk that Bush would share in Iowa. That, and one other word:

“Stop!” ... Gorby had barked that to the KGB man in the front seat.

“And I was with him, and I sensed, uh ...” Bush was trying to get the story out—it emerged in jagged bursts. “... The adrenaline pumping ... ‘Stop!’ ... And we stopped. And he got out of the car. So, he controls the agenda. And I saw that. Yeah. You.”

“Last question!” one of the pod-people shouted, as Bush pointed to a local. The guy was dressed in a blazer, with a rep tie. He had his own microphone, and his cameraman swung around to point the lens at him. This was footage! This was:

Action News caught up with the Vice President at the airport
...

“Vice President, you’ve said you feel your advice to the President should remain secret ...”

Bush’s lips drew into a thin, crooked line. He hiked his back straight and stiff, flashing his power tie.

“... As a candidate,” Action News was saying, “would you now ask the President to let you reveal, now, what you told him about Iran-contra?”

Bush’s head was already shaking. This was a Dole line. Like Bush was going to ask permission to dive into that shithole again.

“No ... no.” He’d beaten this answer around so many times, it was an omelette in his head. “... So, the point is, mistakes were made ... but, uh, you give me the credit for half of all the good things, and I’ll take all the blame, but, ah, I’m not going to start now to tell you ...”

Tell who? ... The camera hadn’t moved. It was still focused on the Action News guy. The point to this was not the answer but the cutaway shot: the picture of the newsman asking the question, then scowling and nodding while the Big Gulp provided the audio.

“So, yes, mistakes were made. The President said that. But you move on.”

And he was moving. “Thank you. Thank you all very much.” Like it’d been great to be there ... and he steered off across the tarmac, toward his choppers, while the pod-people screamed:
Traveling press! Over here! Traveling! Traveling ONLY!

On the riser, the Iowa press was filming Bush’s back as he greeted one of his Air Force crew like he hadn’t seen him in years ... then he looked up, waved an instant of spasmodic friendliness to a steward in the door of his plane ... then craned his body around to wave to the press, like he’d forgotten to say goodbye ... and lunged to greet the Army men standing at the choppers ... and he was gone—disappeared into the helicopter.

Damn!

He’d flown in here with Gorby juice ... but it was clear, what was on TV tonight ... was Action News made him say,
again
:

“Mistakes were made.”

The great thing about that 1980 campaign was how personal it was. Bush didn’t have to work with strangers. Of course, with Bush, no one stayed a stranger for long ... but for most of those two years, you could meet the whole staff in one weekend hop from Houston to Iowa, and on to New Hampshire.

As for those few select, the Bushies of ’78–’79, they were spoiled by all the time spent with him, his endless personal attention. They’d travel with him—Bush and one body man, maybe a local who’d pick them up at the airport. Or, if they weren’t along for the ride, there’d be calls from him, every day ... a personal note if he got ten minutes ... an invite to burgers and bloodies in the backyard, if he happened to catch a Sunday home in Houston.

There were few days home. In his first year of campaigning, he traveled 180,000 miles, mostly flying coach. After that, the pace picked up. The normal road crew was Bush and David Bates, a twenty-seven-year-old Houston lawyer and body man—child of Bush-friends, childhood friend to Bush-son Jeb—and possessor of a hypereager sunniness that made him seem like a young copy of Ambassador Bush. Bates would show up, early
A.M.,
at the new Bush house on Indian Trail. Don Rhodes would come by with the truck—they’d throw their bags into the bed. By nine in the morning, they’d be in the air to some midday event—Fred Jones for Congress, say—and after Bush told the crowd what a splendid friend was Fred Jones, he’d do a little press conference, if any reporters could be cajoled to hang around. Then came the heavy lifting—private meetings: Party leaders, activists, money men ... one-on-one, twenty minutes apiece, for as many hours as it took.

“How’s Janey? The kids? ... Jeez! College already!” (Bush had the names from his travels for the RNC.)

“Listen ... I really think I’ve got a good shot at this thing—think I can
win
, and, uh, if you could help, I’d really love to have you on the team.”

Some wanted to know how Bush thought he could win ... and he was ready for that:

“I think I can make a more
active
campaign than Reagan” (i.e., that guy is
ancient
) .... “I can show I have more experience than Reagan.” (Guy doesn’t know where the Treasury Department
is
, for God’s sake!)

Then they’d ask: Who would he have for State Chairman? Bush was always ready to discuss local politics. He could reel off the names of his supporters in the state without notes, without pause—like some people always know how much money’s in their wallet.

Sometimes, a meeting would wind up with the pooh-bah telling Bush: “George, you know I wish you the best ... but I’d like to give it some thought.” Some would say, “Well, George, I know you’re going to do well, but I’m committed ...” (to Dole, John Anderson, Howard Baker, or, usually, Reagan).

Bush always understood if they were committed to somebody else. But if they said they were with him, and didn’t come through, they were off the list. That was a breach of the code. The ones that really got to him were the friends who didn’t sign up. What did friendship mean, if they weren’t going to help?