3:04 P.M. Washington D.C. July 15, 1980
“We have new information to report to you concerning alternative plans for the rescue of the hostages in Iran.” General David Jones, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, said crisply. Carter sat down, as was customary it was just him and Jones in the room, the other Joint Chiefs were still on their way, allowing the Chairman and the President some time to talk first.
“Honey Badger?” Carter asked, somewhat rhetorically. He knew about the existing plans, all of which had been packaged under the title ‘Honey Badger’, but wasn’t entirely sure which one Jones meant, there existed an entire raft of contingency plans and other rescue options designed to rescue the hostages and bloody the collective noses of the Iranians as efficiently as possible.
“Yes. We’re prepared to speak to Lockheed Martin regarding the plans for the modified C-130.” Carter nodded. The plan Jones was referring to, which as of yet had no official name, involved attaching a large number of rockets to a C-130 transport plane and landing it in the middle of Tehran. It was impressively ballsy, and also the most developed option that they currently had.
“Go ahead,” Carter said, “I’m curious to see what they have to say.” Personally he expected the men at Lockheed, inured as they were to disconcertingly odd government plans and weapons, to give a thumbs up and nothing else, but it was always good to get the advice of the experts before you started on anything major.
“We’ve also been considering scrapping the other options,” Jones said, “after the failure of Eagle Claw, we’ve learned a lot about our operating capabilities within the borders of Iran and have determined that the C-130s are likely the best way to go.”
“Let’s hold off on doing that until we know that our rocket plane is going to actually work,” Carter said, “we still don’t know if it’ll be able to land within the confines of a sports stadium.” The stadium he was referring to was the Amjadien Stadium, just across the street from the conquered American embassy. The C-130 would land there several minutes after Delta operators had been dropped on embassy grounds by a team of helicopters. The Delta men would kill the guards, rescue the hostages and ferry them into the C-130, at which point they would all lift off and exit Iran posthaste. A number of other C-130s would accompany the rocket equipped one and act as flying fuel depots for both the helicopters and the rescue plane. The plan still had a number of blank spots, but it was beginning to grow disturbingly well fleshed out, to the point where Carter would occasionally wake up at night and wonder if he was really going to put the lives of every American left in Tehran at risk over a goddamned rocket plane.
But even if he was personally hesitant he didn’t stand in the way of the Joint Chiefs. They knew what they were doing, even if Eagle Claw hadn’t exactly worked out the way he had hoped it would.
In any case, a successful rescue would certainly be better news for the nation than more endless reports of gridlocked negotiations with the Iranians, and whispers of mistreatment and other abuses of the hostages flowing from Tehran. It would also probably win him reelection…though Carter wasn’t quite as worried about that part.
Though the Republican National Convention was not quite over, with the party platform still yet to be decided, the nation was still unsure of how exactly to react to Ford’s stunning seizure of the nomination. He was a reassuring figure, that much was certain, but at the same time a stark difference from the man that the party had hoped to nominate.
Carter had given a brief little address wishing Ronald Reagan well, and in a moment that would doubtlessly make him feel guilty for the rest of his life, he had felt actual gratitude that the man had slipped and fallen. Carter had really not been looking forwards to facing him in the general. It wasn’t that he disliked Reagan, on the contrary he found him endlessly witty and almost frighteningly charismatic, but there was a certain disingenuous element to him that Carter just couldn’t ignore.
Though he felt bad that he would be defeating Ford for the second time in a row, Carter was also glad that it was his friend he would be facing. He knew Ford, he liked Ford, and he could give him a proper sendoff…and maybe a spot in his cabinet.
“That’s a good idea sir,” Jones said, “I’ll have an official report compiled for you by the end of the week.” Carter smiled. The Lockheed people would work quickly, and soon he would know if this whole rocket plane business was a good idea or not. He hoped that it would be. The sooner that he got this whole Iran business over with, the sooner he could return to fixing the nation’s other problems.
9:00 A.M. Detroit Michigan, July 16, 1980
The third and final day of the Republican National Convention went fairly smoothly. A few of Helms’ people skulked back into the hall so as to have some influence on the party platform, but there were still noticeable gaps in attendance as the party coalesced to decide what their path for the next four years would be.
It had been decided, somewhat unconsciously, that the original spirit of the platform, as decided by Reagan and his compatriots, would remain untouched, out of respect for the man. Though some of the men present winced at the language of the platform’s preamble, it was passed, fiery anti-Democrat language and all.
A plank celebrating diversity was similarly passed, after its language had been strengthened, even if nobody really had any idea what purpose it would serve beyond a veiled jab at Helms and his breakaway faction. Up next came the party’s opinion on taxes, and there came the first rough patches.
“I believe in tax reductions, but this is too much,” Baker said, scanning the text of the tax plank over the top of his glasses, “a ten percent in reductions? That’ll explode the deficit…” Ford nodded and glanced over at the other men in the room with him. He had handpicked them, a little coalition of liberals, moderates and conservatives, to rewrite the platform and balance it. The conservatives weren’t very happy about this, but they were putting up with Ford, at least for the moment.
“I agree with Howard,” Dole piped up from the corner of the room, “if we want to be the party offering a balanced budget then we need to be sure that we can actually reduce the deficit, not increase it even further.” Paul Laxalt, who had spent the previous night sleeping at Reagan’s hospital in a show of solidarity with the injured man, stared incredulously around the room.
“Howard? Bob? I had you guys figured for conservatives…why didn’t you tell me that you were switching parties?” That drew a chuckle, but Ford thought that he could detect a little trill of outrage in the back of Laxalt’s voice.
“There are such things as moderates,” someone else said laconically, “especially amongst the electorate.” Ford scanned over the plank once more.
“I do think that we should tone down the language here,” he said, hoping that that struck a compromise between the conservatives and their opponents, “I believe just as strongly as the rest of you that taxes need to be lowered in order for the economy to be revived, but we cannot promise the American people what we cannot, in good faith, deliver. Bob is right, if we lower taxes without being able to cut spending as much as we want then the deficit will expand exponentially, and so will the national debt. We need to be able to approach this realistically, not from a viewpoint of ideological wish making.” Laxalt and a half dozen others rose in protest and Ford rose with them, holding out his hands in a reconciliatory gesture.
“We cannot consent to this,” Laxalt said vehemently, “you’re hijacking Ronald Reagan’s vision.” The words stung.
“I don’t believe that the party belongs to any one man,” Ford said evenly, “or any one faction. I’m trying to compromise with you, please work with me Paul.” That seemed to take some of the wind out of Laxalt’s sails. He had clearly been expecting a fight, and Ford’s calmness took him by surprise. His compatriots noted this and glanced at each other uncertainly.
“We will reduce taxes,” Baker said, “that much is indisputable. But we must do so in a responsible way. Now…we can all agree that tax indexing is a good idea, right?” And with that progress was made, the moderates, liberals and conservatives compromising in turn until finally the economic platform had been decided upon. It was exhausting work, but Ford enjoyed it. He felt alive in a way that he never truly had during his years out of the White House. Working with the party again felt good, even if it had become disconcertingly conservative since he had first taken office.
“And now we arrive at the Black Americans plank,” Dole said, “thank Christ Jesse Helms isn’t here.” That got a laugh from the room, who were beginning to loosen up, now that most of the economic platform (with the exception of the welfare plank, which had become so messy that it had been set aside for later) had been decided.
“And to think, I used to think that that fucker was on our side,” Laxalt said with a sigh, “the fucking nerve some of these guys have…” Nobody said anything to that, it had hit a little too close to home for many of the people in the room. They had known that Jesse Helms could be an unpleasant and despicable person, but at least he had been their unpleasant and despicable agent of chaos.
“He isn’t going to be welcome back into the party if he declares an independent run,” Pete McCloskey said from next to Bob Dole, “does he even realize that?” Once again there was an uncomfortable silence.
“I think that this plank is alright actually. Let’s move on.” Ford said, and so they did. But the mention of Helms and his betrayal hung in the air, like the Sword of Damocles, ready to fall and kill any chance of victory that the party had.
11:50 A.M. Detroit Michigan, July 16, 1980
“I believe that this is the hardest negotiating that I’ve done in nearly a year.” Baker said, sipping from a glass of water. He felt oddly exhausted, even though he’d only been working for three hours now. He and Ford had taken a break for lunch, the rest of the platform committee still haggling over what to include. The portions of the platform concerning civil rights for minorities had largely been uncontroversially passed, but the ire of the conservative had been stoked when McCloskey and a small number of others insisted that support for the Equal Rights Amendment be included into the Women’s Rights plank.
Ford had shut McCloskey up, knowing that the Californian was fighting a losing battle, but at the same time convinced Laxalt and his followers to leave all mention of the ERA out of the platform entirely. Ford personally favored the Equal Rights Amendment and seeing some of the conservatives trying, quite transparently, to crush it rubbed him the wrong way.
“We’re about to get to the abortion plank,” Ford said grimly, “things are going to get ugly very quickly if McCloskey or one of the others starts piping up.” Baker sighed.
“Yeah. Personally I‘d like it if they would just leave Roe v. Wade alone and let the states handle it…but you can’t convince the conservatives. They love the constitution when it suits them, but when it doesn’t…God help you if you’re in their way.” Ford nodded.
“I supported an amendment to outlaw abortion back in ’76,” Ford said, “and I suppose I might have to support one now in order to remain consistent. I think I’ll just remain silent during that debate if you don’t mind. It’s not a very big deal, we can let the conservatives win and get our concessions on another plank.” Baker nodded hesitantly.
“Okay.” Ford turned back to his meal and said nothing else, Baker remaining similar quiet. A few moments passed, then Ford heard a small explosion of noise from the back room.
“I think that they’ve reached the abortion plank,” he said with a grim smile, “how about we go and help them out.” Baker nodded and together they reentered the room, the battle over the party’s future path continuing all around them.
8:44 P.M. Detroit Michigan, July 16, 1980
In the end it took nearly twelve hours of on and off arguing, threat making, compromising and cajoling for the men in the room to wheel out the new and improved Republican Party Platform for the year 1980. It was still largely recognizable as the old platform that Reagan had endorsed, and indeed many sections had been left completely untouched, but there were enough changes to make the moderates and liberals feel that their efforts had been worth something.
Defense spending would be increased, taxes and government spending lowered, welfare reformed, abortion outlawed, minorities (ranging from blacks to the physically and mentally handicapped) offered a fair and helping hand by the government, unions regulated, businesses freed from the shackles of unfair regulations, and inflation lowered by any means necessary. It had taken many arguments and even one threat of physical violence, but the platform had been completed. Now all that was left to do was set it before the delegates and see what they thought.
The delegates noticed the changes, and while there were minor outcries directed at the taxation plank, where they noticed that the tax cuts had been dramatically reduced, voting proceeded mostly smoothly, with Ford and Baker stamping down on any dissent that emerged.
By the time voting ended, at nearly ten, everyone in the hall was frazzled and it was all that they could do to have a celebratory glass of champagne before staggering off to bed. The convention was finally over, that was all that mattered.
9:00 P.M. New York City New York, July 16, 1980
Nearly a thousand miles away Donald Rumsfeld lay awake in the penthouse of a very nice hotel, content in the knowledge that he had a job now. Not a very wide reaching job, at least compared to his former hegemony over the Pentagon, but a job all the same. It would have its own unique challenges and perks, and would make him quite a lot of money, which was nice as well. Stock options too, which Ford had been nice enough to include in the bargain. That helped Rumsfeld discard some of his ire towards the man. He would vote for him in November, maybe even stump a little on the company floor, which probably wouldn’t be necessary…every executive worth his salt tended to be a Republican anyways.
He would even get invested in learning more about credit cards and the new ATMs that had Wriston so damnably excited. CitiCorp was growing despite the recession, and once the spell of bad economic weather that the nation was currently suffering from was cleared up by conservative policies and sensible governance, then it would blast off. Taking him along for the ride.
8:45 A.M. Washington D.C., July 17, 1980
“Jerry, sorry I didn’t call sooner, I assumed that you had your hands full with the convention.” Carter was sitting at the Resolute Desk, feet propped up on the corner and the cord of his phone wound tightly around one finger.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ford said from the other end of the line, his voice slightly tinny and fogged with interference, “things were pretty hectic. I’m less busy right now…which isn’t saying much.” Carter winced, he understood exactly what Ford meant. After his victory in the 1976 Democratic primaries he had been swamped in so much work that he often went several days without sleeping in a proper bed.
“Hell of a thing about Reagan,” Carter said, “I’m sad to see him in such poor shape.”
“I’ve been keeping tabs on him and Nancy. The doctors are saying that they’ll be able to bring him out of his coma in a few days. I hope he’s alright.” Carter smiled grimly to himself.
“He’ll have a shock when he wakes up to find that you’ve taken the nomination.” Ford was silent for a bit.
“He’ll understand why I did what I did.” Carter admired the conviction in Ford’s voice, he himself would have never felt quite so sure of himself if he had done anything like what Ford had just pulled off.
“I’m sure he will. But anyways, enough of politics…how have you been Jerry?” It was a fairly mundane question, but after all of the excitement of the past few days, Carter thought that it was appropriate.
“Sort of keyed up from the convention. I’d feel better if Betty was here with me but she’s laid out with a cold right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Carter said sympathetically, “pity she missed your big move at the convention.” Ford chuckled.
“I talked to her about it right before I went to speak to Nancy Reagan, to see what she thought. Her first words were, and I quote, ‘I hope that Jimmy and Rosalyn don’t mind us moving back in to the White House.’” That made Carter laugh out loud for the first time in a while.
“Glad to see that Betty’s still retained her sense of humor,” Carter said warmly, “though you two are gonna have to work your collective asses off if you want to beat me. At least that’s what the polls are saying right now.” Carter was right, most polls did give him an appreciable lead over Ford, especially as a convention bump failed to materialize. This didn’t upset Ford, who knew that bigger upsets had been achieved before, but it was concerning just how far they would have to climb just to have a shot at winning.
“Don’t celebrate just yet Jimmy,” Ford said, “the election isn’t for another three and half months, plenty can change in that time.”
“I might even break three hundred electoral votes this time.” Carter teased.
“Cure the malaise first, then we’ll talk about three hundred electoral votes.” Ford enjoyed these friendly little sparring matches that he had with Carter. Though they did not agree on very much when it came to politics, Ford found Carter’s honesty refreshing and his personal integrity unimpeachable.
Their friendship was unlikely, but after the sort of adversarial relationship that Kennedy, Nixon and Johnson had had with one another, refreshing. Ford and Carter chatted for another few minutes before Ford was pulled away by campaign planning duties and Carter found himself being summoned to a cabinet meeting.
“Catch you later Jerry.” Carter said, and hung up the phone, following Mondale and Watson down the corridor to the Situation Room. The meeting was about Iran, of course, what these days wasn’t?
