Really interesting TL, AnywhereButOTL. I'm enjoying it, even though it lacks a certain someone.
Thank you. As for that someone, he has been dead for several years now. I could wangle in a cameo with a human skull if you really want him to show up.
TLIAW: Last Man Standing
- Thread starter AnywhereButOTL
- Start date
Thank you. As for that someone, he has been dead for several years now. I could wangle in a cameo with a human skull if you really want him to show up.
1:45 P.M. Kennebunkport Maine, August 12, 1980
“You were right.” Barbara Bush said.
“About what?” George Bush asked from next to her. He was working on a crossword puzzle, afternoon sunlight pouring down upon them. They were seated on the porch of their house, enjoying a cloudless afternoon.
“It’s nicer up here. Houston was too warm this time of year.” Bush smiled gently.
“I sold the house down there because I thought that this was gonna be the place I retired too. Of course that was before Reagan slipped. Now I’m gonna be Secretary of State.” He savored the title he would soon hold. Secretary of State. He would hold dominion over the nation’s path on foreign policy, and work with a man who he liked quite a bit. Certainly more than Reagan…who was nice in his own respect but had a tendency to drain the energy from the people around him.
Hell, Ford had even tossed Rumsfeld away in favor of him. That more than undid any of the old resentments that Bush had felt working under Rumsfeld while the man had been Secretary of Defense. Now Rummy was just some board member in New York, far away from the political process, and far away from George H.W. Bush.
“Jerry needs to make up some ground before that happens.” Barbara said. It was characteristically blunt, but also completely true. Ford was making up some ground, but progress was worryingly slow, and Helms’ candidacy was only making things harder for him.
Bush had poured quite a bit of money into Ford’s campaign over the past few weeks and planned on getting into the game himself once the summer was over, but for now he was content to sit back and relax. He had earned himself some rest, after a grueling primary campaign and a nightmarish convention, the turmoil of the campaign felt practically restful by comparison.
“He can do it.” He didn’t feel any need to defend Ford, or extoll his virtues. Not to Barbara lat least. Instead he set down his crossword and shut his eyes, relaxing into the warmth of a sunlit afternoon.
He would rest and revitalize himself. And once that had been done then he would join Ford in securing a political future for the both of them. Jerry had rescued him from irrelevancy after all, it was the least that he could do to repay him.
5:45 P.M. New York City New York, August 13, 1980
Rumsfeld had been somewhat tempted to go and see if he could visit the Democratic convention, but had ultimately decided not to. He knew a few of the people there, but didn’t want to be seen rubbing shoulders with them. Especially with the doves out in force, that wouldn’t turn out well for anyone.
So instead he had laid back in bed, Joyce next to him, and watched the event unfold on television. Kennedy was trying to rally support for all sorts of liberal proposals, but the delegates were simply too tired to want to fight against the administration and so the doves were folding. It was much more orderly than the Republican convention had been, and Rumsfeld supposed that Carter would achieve a pretty decent post convention bounce as soon as he gave his acceptance speech.
“I think that they’re playing The Man Who Fell to Earth on channel eight,” Joyce said, “someone told me that it was interesting.” Rumsfeld reached over and picked up the remote, flicking away from the convention proceedings. He already knew what was going to happen, there was no real point in watching any longer.
On the new channel a capsule of some sort crash landed in a mountain lake. A humanoid extraterrestrial emerged and wandered into a nearby town, accompanied by odd camera angles and strange, discordant music. The film was strange enough that it kept Rumsfeld’s attention all the way through, and in some parts he even felt oddly affected by the main character’s increasing alienation from the world.
“Strange,” he said as the credits began to roll, “they only sent him.” Joyce glanced over.
“What do you mean?” Rumsfeld frowned.
“They only sent him. One man, to find water and save his home planet. You’d think that they would have sent a fleet on such an important mission.”
“Is that all you got out of it?” Rumsfeld blinked, Joyce almost sounded disappointed.
“What do you mean?” He asked, suddenly aware that he was repeating her earlier question back to her.
“I don’t think that the movie was completely about his mission. Look at what happened to him when he tried conforming to Earth culture. It destroyed him.” Rumsfeld looked back to the credits, then back at Joyce, frowning slightly. It was an interesting argument, but he didn’t see how it contradicted his point.
“I think that compliments what I said. They only sent one person, so when he failed then the entire planet was doomed. If they’d sent more people then they’d have had a better chance of succeeding. There’d be at least one person who wouldn’t be interested in meeting people and drinking alcohol.” Joyce didn’t have anything to say to that and so they lay there in silence until the credits were over and the next movie on the channel was beginning to play. The Deer Hunter.
“I think this one’s about Vietnam.” Rumsfeld said, but Joyce didn’t want to watch a war movie so he turned the television off and instead got up to go look out the window. Citicorp had provided him with a pretty spectacularly expensive apartment and he was enjoying it quite a bit, even if living in the city was more expensive than he’d anticipated.
“What time do you get off of work tomorrow?” Joyce asked from behind him.
“I should be home by three, it’s just meetings and then lunch with a prospective client. I think Mr. Wriston also wants to have dinner with us at some point, any night in particular work for you?” Silence for a little bit.
“I think Wednesday, but I don’t know.”
“Okay. I’ll ask if that works.” Silence resumed.
11:00 A.M. Sacramento California, August 14, 1980
“Hubert Horatio Hornblower…what the hell is he smoking?” Reagan wondered out loud and shook his head. He was watching Carter’s acceptance speech on television, feeling sore and vaguely unhappy. He was still working on getting his hands to work correctly, and the frustration from that was beginning to bleed over into his reaction to the speech he was listening to. Next to him Nancy shook her head.
“The audience is applauding more loudly at the mention of Roosevelt, Truman and Kennedy than they are at Carter and Mondale. I don’t think that they’re very happy with him.” Reagan smiled wryly.
“Who would be?” That made Nancy smile and she reached over, lowering the volume on the television.
“Ron, I’ve been thinking ever since your accident, about taking precautions to make sure that nothing like that ever happens again.” Reagan looked over, away from Carter’s speech. It wasn’t very exciting anyways and seemed to be winding down, Carter visibly eager to get the convention over with.
“Sandpaper on the shower floor?” He asked innocently.
“I’m serious Ron,” Nancy said, “I’ve been talking to Joan Quigley, you remember her?” Reagan nodded slightly.
“From the Merv Griffin Show.” Nancy nodded.
“Yes. Anyways, I was talking to her and your accident came up in the conversation. She told me that she could have foreseen that something bad was going to happen to you, and I believe her.” Reagan nodded.
“Astrology, that’s her speciality right?” Nancy nodded again, this time more vigorously.
“She’s so gifted Ron, and I’d do anything at all to make sure that nothing bad happens to you ever again.” Reagan considered it. He didn’t have any strong feelings one way or another regarding astrology. In his mind it was probably correct, but he hadn’t encountered any evidence to suggest one way or another its soundness as a science.
“Bring her in, I’d like to speak to her.” Nancy smiled and squeezed Reagan’s hand.
“I’ll see how quickly I can get her in. We’ll all talk, and see just what can be done.” On screen the convention’s closing ceremonies were beginning. The Democrats had decided their nominees, now they were sending them off to the slaughter.
11:45 A.M. New York City New York, August 14, 1980
“Hornblower…I’m so used to that nickname that I forgot Hubert’s actual surname for a moment. And right in front of the convention hall too…Jesus!” Carter was lamenting, but not entirely seriously. His acceptance speech had gone over pretty well, with the exception of his mangling of Hubert Humphrey’s name, and now the convention was over.
“It’s not a big deal,” Mondale said from across the room, where he was trying to swat a fly that had taken refuge up in one corner of the ceiling, “hell, most of the press already knows that Hubert had that nickname already. It wont be a gaffe…it’ll be a lovable little tribute to a great man.” He swung the rolled up newspaper that he was holding but missed, the fugitive insect buzzing lazily over to the other side of the room.
“You’re probably right Fritz,” Carter said, “in any case, a little slip-up like that wont hurt our polling numbers. If anything we’re set to bounce by a few points. That should be enough for us to be able to outlast Ford.” Mondale took another swing but missed again, the fly doing a series of loop the loops before flying out of the room completely. Mondale sat down, enjoying a dubious victory.
“We might even break three hundred electoral votes,” Mondale said, unrolling the newspaper. On the cover was a picture of Jesse Helms, looking characteristically disgruntled.
“That’s what I told Jerry,” Carter smiled, “and you know…I really am going to feel bad beating him again. We’ve gotten to be good friends over the years.” Mondale shrugged.
“He’ll survive. Hell, give him a spot in the administration if you feel that bad about kicking him to the curb, I doubt anyone would complain…it’s not like he’s Reagan or anything.” That was true, but Carter wasn’t sure of a spot where Ford would be of much use. He liked Ford, but Ford’s politics were sort of a mess and Carter wasn’t sure if he wanted that in his cabinet.
“Perhaps,” he checked his watch, “damn, we have to get going, we have a briefing in an hour.” Mondale hopped up and the two men exited the convention hall together, absorbing as much attention as they could. Despite their victory and renomination, the base was dangerously unmotivated. That would need to change if they wanted to achieve more than a slender victory over Ford.
They were leading at the moment, but if anything in politics was certain, it was that the electorate was prone to not voting at all. And if anything was going to really hurt them, it would probably be that.
1:00 P.M. Fort Collins Colorado, August 16, 1980
“We have the first batch of concepts finished, if you’d like to see them.” Atwater said, a VHS tape in one hand, a slim black folder in the other.
“Of course.” Helms waved Atwater into his office and watched as his campaign executive inserted the tape into a VHS player. Helms had never made much use of television before, only running a few token ads whenever it became necessary to, but Atwater swore by television and Helms mostly allowed him to. The screen spat static for a moment, then snapped into focus, showing a simple blue title screen with the words AFFIRMATIVE INACTION on it in bold white font.
AFFIRMATIVE INACTION [TV AD - HELMS CAMPAIGN]
The ad opens with a white man in blue jeans and a workman’s shirt [the man’s face is never shown] retrieving his mail from his mailbox. It is apparent from the brief glimpse of the man’s house and truck as he walks back inside that the man is very poor. Once inside, the man opens the first piece of mail, a notice showing that his application for work has been denied, with the job being given instead to an under qualified minority. The man tears the rejection notice in half as the screen fades to black.
VOICEOVER: What price are you willing to pay for ‘equality?’
Atwater paused the tape and looked at Helms expectantly, watching as his employer mulled over what he had just seen.
“It’s missing something.” Helms concluded after a few moments had passed.
“And what’s that?” Atwater asked.
“My endorsement.” Atwater smiled contentedly, made a little checkmark on his clipboard and let the tape continue. The rest of the advertisements were more self aggrandizing, emphasizing Helms’ and McDonald’s conservative credentials. Helms smiled like a fed cat through all of them, and when the tape ended he almost looked disappointed.
“I liked those,” he said, “you’re proving to be valuable Lee.” Atwater grinned.
“Thanks Jesse. I have a few more insights if you’d like to hear them…” Helms nodded.
“Go ahead.”
“Reagan isn’t going to just endorse Ford and stay quiet for the rest of the election. His political career is resting upon this election, so the moment he’s able to he will be campaigning for Ford. We need to figure out some way to discredit Reagan.” Helms nodded evenly.
“So you’ve been thinking about what I told you about Patti Reagan?” Atwater nodded, an unpleasant little smile working its way onto his face.
“Yup. But I think that before we start smearing her we ought to give her a closer look. She’s a spectacularly screwed up girl, and something had to have made her that way. I say that we go and find out what that is. Maybe we’ll hit gold.” Helms wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“Okay…and what are you hoping to find?” Atwater shrugged.
“Well…when I was working for Reagan, I did have the opportunity to meet Patti a few times. Patti and her mother don’t get along. At all. I think that if we apply the correct pressure then we might be able to learn some interesting things about Nancy Reagan, and probably Ron too.” Atwater had been slightly concerned that Helms might snap at him for proposing such devious action against his (former) friend, but instead Helms was nodding. Slowly, sure, but nodding all the same.
“Go ahead. Try to figure out what’s going on with that girl, but if you don’t find anything then go ahead and run the pill popping ads that we have stocked up.” Atwater nodded, scribbled a note down and then glanced down at his other plans. There were a lot of them, far more than the campaign’s limited finances could sustain. He would have to pick and choose carefully which ones he wanted to run.
“We still need to find something on Ford outside of the shit that everyone already knows.” Helms sighed.
“Larry said no to this idea but I still think that Betty Ford is a valid target.” Atwater looked conflicted.
“Sure. But the problem is, she’s getting help for her addiction, and in a public way too. We’d look like first class assholes for calling her a drunk. It’s better to go after Ford himself.” Helms groaned.
“Fine. Run the old shit against Ford…that’ll be fine as a stop-gap measure until we can find something that sticks.”
“There is something else that we could run against Reagan,” Atwater said, “but we wouldn’t be able to put our names on it. Or be within a hundred miles of it when it breaks.” That got Helms’ attention.
“Yeah?”
“Claim that he’s brain damaged. Maybe forge some medical reports…it would be risky, but if it works then it would plant some serious seeds of doubt that wouldn’t ever go away.” Helms was silent for a long time.
“Jesus Lee,” he said at last, “that’s fucking twisted,” he flashed a thoroughly unsettling grin at Atwater, “but I like it. Pull that out as soon as you can. That’ll buy us a few weeks…at least.” Atwater nodded and made a final check on his clipboard.
“Wonderful,” he said, “I’ll get to work coordinating these. Reagan wont know what hit him.”
“You were right.” Barbara Bush said.
“About what?” George Bush asked from next to her. He was working on a crossword puzzle, afternoon sunlight pouring down upon them. They were seated on the porch of their house, enjoying a cloudless afternoon.
“It’s nicer up here. Houston was too warm this time of year.” Bush smiled gently.
“I sold the house down there because I thought that this was gonna be the place I retired too. Of course that was before Reagan slipped. Now I’m gonna be Secretary of State.” He savored the title he would soon hold. Secretary of State. He would hold dominion over the nation’s path on foreign policy, and work with a man who he liked quite a bit. Certainly more than Reagan…who was nice in his own respect but had a tendency to drain the energy from the people around him.
Hell, Ford had even tossed Rumsfeld away in favor of him. That more than undid any of the old resentments that Bush had felt working under Rumsfeld while the man had been Secretary of Defense. Now Rummy was just some board member in New York, far away from the political process, and far away from George H.W. Bush.
“Jerry needs to make up some ground before that happens.” Barbara said. It was characteristically blunt, but also completely true. Ford was making up some ground, but progress was worryingly slow, and Helms’ candidacy was only making things harder for him.
Bush had poured quite a bit of money into Ford’s campaign over the past few weeks and planned on getting into the game himself once the summer was over, but for now he was content to sit back and relax. He had earned himself some rest, after a grueling primary campaign and a nightmarish convention, the turmoil of the campaign felt practically restful by comparison.
“He can do it.” He didn’t feel any need to defend Ford, or extoll his virtues. Not to Barbara lat least. Instead he set down his crossword and shut his eyes, relaxing into the warmth of a sunlit afternoon.
He would rest and revitalize himself. And once that had been done then he would join Ford in securing a political future for the both of them. Jerry had rescued him from irrelevancy after all, it was the least that he could do to repay him.
5:45 P.M. New York City New York, August 13, 1980
Rumsfeld had been somewhat tempted to go and see if he could visit the Democratic convention, but had ultimately decided not to. He knew a few of the people there, but didn’t want to be seen rubbing shoulders with them. Especially with the doves out in force, that wouldn’t turn out well for anyone.
So instead he had laid back in bed, Joyce next to him, and watched the event unfold on television. Kennedy was trying to rally support for all sorts of liberal proposals, but the delegates were simply too tired to want to fight against the administration and so the doves were folding. It was much more orderly than the Republican convention had been, and Rumsfeld supposed that Carter would achieve a pretty decent post convention bounce as soon as he gave his acceptance speech.
“I think that they’re playing The Man Who Fell to Earth on channel eight,” Joyce said, “someone told me that it was interesting.” Rumsfeld reached over and picked up the remote, flicking away from the convention proceedings. He already knew what was going to happen, there was no real point in watching any longer.
On the new channel a capsule of some sort crash landed in a mountain lake. A humanoid extraterrestrial emerged and wandered into a nearby town, accompanied by odd camera angles and strange, discordant music. The film was strange enough that it kept Rumsfeld’s attention all the way through, and in some parts he even felt oddly affected by the main character’s increasing alienation from the world.
“Strange,” he said as the credits began to roll, “they only sent him.” Joyce glanced over.
“What do you mean?” Rumsfeld frowned.
“They only sent him. One man, to find water and save his home planet. You’d think that they would have sent a fleet on such an important mission.”
“Is that all you got out of it?” Rumsfeld blinked, Joyce almost sounded disappointed.
“What do you mean?” He asked, suddenly aware that he was repeating her earlier question back to her.
“I don’t think that the movie was completely about his mission. Look at what happened to him when he tried conforming to Earth culture. It destroyed him.” Rumsfeld looked back to the credits, then back at Joyce, frowning slightly. It was an interesting argument, but he didn’t see how it contradicted his point.
“I think that compliments what I said. They only sent one person, so when he failed then the entire planet was doomed. If they’d sent more people then they’d have had a better chance of succeeding. There’d be at least one person who wouldn’t be interested in meeting people and drinking alcohol.” Joyce didn’t have anything to say to that and so they lay there in silence until the credits were over and the next movie on the channel was beginning to play. The Deer Hunter.
“I think this one’s about Vietnam.” Rumsfeld said, but Joyce didn’t want to watch a war movie so he turned the television off and instead got up to go look out the window. Citicorp had provided him with a pretty spectacularly expensive apartment and he was enjoying it quite a bit, even if living in the city was more expensive than he’d anticipated.
“What time do you get off of work tomorrow?” Joyce asked from behind him.
“I should be home by three, it’s just meetings and then lunch with a prospective client. I think Mr. Wriston also wants to have dinner with us at some point, any night in particular work for you?” Silence for a little bit.
“I think Wednesday, but I don’t know.”
“Okay. I’ll ask if that works.” Silence resumed.
11:00 A.M. Sacramento California, August 14, 1980
“Hubert Horatio Hornblower…what the hell is he smoking?” Reagan wondered out loud and shook his head. He was watching Carter’s acceptance speech on television, feeling sore and vaguely unhappy. He was still working on getting his hands to work correctly, and the frustration from that was beginning to bleed over into his reaction to the speech he was listening to. Next to him Nancy shook her head.
“The audience is applauding more loudly at the mention of Roosevelt, Truman and Kennedy than they are at Carter and Mondale. I don’t think that they’re very happy with him.” Reagan smiled wryly.
“Who would be?” That made Nancy smile and she reached over, lowering the volume on the television.
“Ron, I’ve been thinking ever since your accident, about taking precautions to make sure that nothing like that ever happens again.” Reagan looked over, away from Carter’s speech. It wasn’t very exciting anyways and seemed to be winding down, Carter visibly eager to get the convention over with.
“Sandpaper on the shower floor?” He asked innocently.
“I’m serious Ron,” Nancy said, “I’ve been talking to Joan Quigley, you remember her?” Reagan nodded slightly.
“From the Merv Griffin Show.” Nancy nodded.
“Yes. Anyways, I was talking to her and your accident came up in the conversation. She told me that she could have foreseen that something bad was going to happen to you, and I believe her.” Reagan nodded.
“Astrology, that’s her speciality right?” Nancy nodded again, this time more vigorously.
“She’s so gifted Ron, and I’d do anything at all to make sure that nothing bad happens to you ever again.” Reagan considered it. He didn’t have any strong feelings one way or another regarding astrology. In his mind it was probably correct, but he hadn’t encountered any evidence to suggest one way or another its soundness as a science.
“Bring her in, I’d like to speak to her.” Nancy smiled and squeezed Reagan’s hand.
“I’ll see how quickly I can get her in. We’ll all talk, and see just what can be done.” On screen the convention’s closing ceremonies were beginning. The Democrats had decided their nominees, now they were sending them off to the slaughter.
11:45 A.M. New York City New York, August 14, 1980
“Hornblower…I’m so used to that nickname that I forgot Hubert’s actual surname for a moment. And right in front of the convention hall too…Jesus!” Carter was lamenting, but not entirely seriously. His acceptance speech had gone over pretty well, with the exception of his mangling of Hubert Humphrey’s name, and now the convention was over.
“It’s not a big deal,” Mondale said from across the room, where he was trying to swat a fly that had taken refuge up in one corner of the ceiling, “hell, most of the press already knows that Hubert had that nickname already. It wont be a gaffe…it’ll be a lovable little tribute to a great man.” He swung the rolled up newspaper that he was holding but missed, the fugitive insect buzzing lazily over to the other side of the room.
“You’re probably right Fritz,” Carter said, “in any case, a little slip-up like that wont hurt our polling numbers. If anything we’re set to bounce by a few points. That should be enough for us to be able to outlast Ford.” Mondale took another swing but missed again, the fly doing a series of loop the loops before flying out of the room completely. Mondale sat down, enjoying a dubious victory.
“We might even break three hundred electoral votes,” Mondale said, unrolling the newspaper. On the cover was a picture of Jesse Helms, looking characteristically disgruntled.
“That’s what I told Jerry,” Carter smiled, “and you know…I really am going to feel bad beating him again. We’ve gotten to be good friends over the years.” Mondale shrugged.
“He’ll survive. Hell, give him a spot in the administration if you feel that bad about kicking him to the curb, I doubt anyone would complain…it’s not like he’s Reagan or anything.” That was true, but Carter wasn’t sure of a spot where Ford would be of much use. He liked Ford, but Ford’s politics were sort of a mess and Carter wasn’t sure if he wanted that in his cabinet.
“Perhaps,” he checked his watch, “damn, we have to get going, we have a briefing in an hour.” Mondale hopped up and the two men exited the convention hall together, absorbing as much attention as they could. Despite their victory and renomination, the base was dangerously unmotivated. That would need to change if they wanted to achieve more than a slender victory over Ford.
They were leading at the moment, but if anything in politics was certain, it was that the electorate was prone to not voting at all. And if anything was going to really hurt them, it would probably be that.
1:00 P.M. Fort Collins Colorado, August 16, 1980
“We have the first batch of concepts finished, if you’d like to see them.” Atwater said, a VHS tape in one hand, a slim black folder in the other.
“Of course.” Helms waved Atwater into his office and watched as his campaign executive inserted the tape into a VHS player. Helms had never made much use of television before, only running a few token ads whenever it became necessary to, but Atwater swore by television and Helms mostly allowed him to. The screen spat static for a moment, then snapped into focus, showing a simple blue title screen with the words AFFIRMATIVE INACTION on it in bold white font.
AFFIRMATIVE INACTION [TV AD - HELMS CAMPAIGN]
The ad opens with a white man in blue jeans and a workman’s shirt [the man’s face is never shown] retrieving his mail from his mailbox. It is apparent from the brief glimpse of the man’s house and truck as he walks back inside that the man is very poor. Once inside, the man opens the first piece of mail, a notice showing that his application for work has been denied, with the job being given instead to an under qualified minority. The man tears the rejection notice in half as the screen fades to black.
VOICEOVER: What price are you willing to pay for ‘equality?’
Atwater paused the tape and looked at Helms expectantly, watching as his employer mulled over what he had just seen.
“It’s missing something.” Helms concluded after a few moments had passed.
“And what’s that?” Atwater asked.
“My endorsement.” Atwater smiled contentedly, made a little checkmark on his clipboard and let the tape continue. The rest of the advertisements were more self aggrandizing, emphasizing Helms’ and McDonald’s conservative credentials. Helms smiled like a fed cat through all of them, and when the tape ended he almost looked disappointed.
“I liked those,” he said, “you’re proving to be valuable Lee.” Atwater grinned.
“Thanks Jesse. I have a few more insights if you’d like to hear them…” Helms nodded.
“Go ahead.”
“Reagan isn’t going to just endorse Ford and stay quiet for the rest of the election. His political career is resting upon this election, so the moment he’s able to he will be campaigning for Ford. We need to figure out some way to discredit Reagan.” Helms nodded evenly.
“So you’ve been thinking about what I told you about Patti Reagan?” Atwater nodded, an unpleasant little smile working its way onto his face.
“Yup. But I think that before we start smearing her we ought to give her a closer look. She’s a spectacularly screwed up girl, and something had to have made her that way. I say that we go and find out what that is. Maybe we’ll hit gold.” Helms wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“Okay…and what are you hoping to find?” Atwater shrugged.
“Well…when I was working for Reagan, I did have the opportunity to meet Patti a few times. Patti and her mother don’t get along. At all. I think that if we apply the correct pressure then we might be able to learn some interesting things about Nancy Reagan, and probably Ron too.” Atwater had been slightly concerned that Helms might snap at him for proposing such devious action against his (former) friend, but instead Helms was nodding. Slowly, sure, but nodding all the same.
“Go ahead. Try to figure out what’s going on with that girl, but if you don’t find anything then go ahead and run the pill popping ads that we have stocked up.” Atwater nodded, scribbled a note down and then glanced down at his other plans. There were a lot of them, far more than the campaign’s limited finances could sustain. He would have to pick and choose carefully which ones he wanted to run.
“We still need to find something on Ford outside of the shit that everyone already knows.” Helms sighed.
“Larry said no to this idea but I still think that Betty Ford is a valid target.” Atwater looked conflicted.
“Sure. But the problem is, she’s getting help for her addiction, and in a public way too. We’d look like first class assholes for calling her a drunk. It’s better to go after Ford himself.” Helms groaned.
“Fine. Run the old shit against Ford…that’ll be fine as a stop-gap measure until we can find something that sticks.”
“There is something else that we could run against Reagan,” Atwater said, “but we wouldn’t be able to put our names on it. Or be within a hundred miles of it when it breaks.” That got Helms’ attention.
“Yeah?”
“Claim that he’s brain damaged. Maybe forge some medical reports…it would be risky, but if it works then it would plant some serious seeds of doubt that wouldn’t ever go away.” Helms was silent for a long time.
“Jesus Lee,” he said at last, “that’s fucking twisted,” he flashed a thoroughly unsettling grin at Atwater, “but I like it. Pull that out as soon as you can. That’ll buy us a few weeks…at least.” Atwater nodded and made a final check on his clipboard.
“Wonderful,” he said, “I’ll get to work coordinating these. Reagan wont know what hit him.”
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Nice to see that Nancy Reagan's starchild side is being given it's due. Also, Helms saying that Reagan has brain damage? He's not just burning bridges at this point, he's dropping nukes on them.
Speaking of which, how much of a chance does Atwater (or really, anyone) really think Helms has? He can't be polling too high, is Atwater just taking him for a ride or does he really believe he's got a shot?
Speaking of which, how much of a chance does Atwater (or really, anyone) really think Helms has? He can't be polling too high, is Atwater just taking him for a ride or does he really believe he's got a shot?
And if Helms is the first to come out and rubbish the claims, ("Saying such a thing about a fine conservative is just dispicable"), will help his numbers and deflect attention.
Right up until a reporter digs and finds out where the reports came from - at that point, if the election is still running, Helms's supporters are likely to desert him virtually instantly and gift the Whitehouse to Ford.
Right up until a reporter digs and finds out where the reports came from - at that point, if the election is still running, Helms's supporters are likely to desert him virtually instantly and gift the Whitehouse to Ford.
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I'm loving the timeline so far, but I did have one quibble: this seems like a rather odd conversation for H.W. to be having with his daughter-in-law. Should that be Barbara instead?
Would you have made such a more "boring" timeline as long as the dystopian one?
Orville_third
Banned
Well, I do think that a lot of Right-wing Republicans would be sure to back him. You may want to bring in Phyllis Schlafly and John Stormer, who helped drum up a lot of support for Goldwater. Bring in the Religious Right too. (Helms would certainly make Bob Jones University's denial of tax exempt status an issue.)
And thank you for using my idea! I had forgotten about it!
I am very glad to see this being continued.
And gosh these guys do alot of verbal grooming of each-other!
fasquardon
And gosh these guys do alot of verbal grooming of each-other!
fasquardon
Yup. He's getting sort of desperate at this point and is willing to do anything at all to hurt Ford and Reagan.
A combination of both. Atwater knows deep down that Helms isn't going to do anything but alienate himself, but thinks that if Ford loses badly enough then other conservative candidates will want to hire him in 1984 and beyond. If only because it'll prevent him from attacking them.
Things'll start getting exciting on that front in another two or three updates.
When I was writing that scene I actually looked up Barbara Bush's name just to make sure that I had the correct first lady in mind, then proceeded to name the wrong woman anyways. Political dynasties are the worst.
Maybe. I'm not sure though, I'm having some fun writing Let Us Have Peace, and it's not dystopian. Not very at least.
The Religious Right will be showing up shortly. They're mostly shellshocked and not really willing to do anything that'll let Carter win. Ford is actually very lucky that Carter is leading him right now, because otherwise he would be facing a revolt from Falwell/Robertson/their people.
Thanks, and you are correct, there's lots of verbal grooming. It's part of politics I suppose.
12:02 P.M. Sacramento California, August 17, 1980
Joan Quigley was perhaps the most eye-catching person that Reagan had seen since his accident. Her hair was styled into an extravagant swoop, and the red and black checkered hunting jacket she wore assailed the eyes with splashes of contrasting color. She extended her hand and when Reagan accepted shook vigorously.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you Mr. Reagan,” she gushed, “Nancy has told me so much about you!” Reagan, who had almost no idea who Quigley was outside of a few brief mentions of her by Nancy, had expected a more demure woman. That was what psychics were on television at least. But Quigley was bright and flashy, her charisma shining through already.
“Please,” Reagan said, “call me Ron.” Quigley nodded.
“Of course.” She sat down next to Nancy, who said something to her quietly, Quigley nodded.
“Nancy has told me that you’re an astrologer.” Quigley smiled graciously.
“Yes. I have been blessed with a very unique ability to see how the movements of the cosmos will affect our lives here on Earth. It’s a very important ability, and one that is often unfairly maligned by those who are too frightened by its potential to confront it directly.” The impromptu defense was surprisingly friendly, but Reagan could see already that Quigley had had to defend her alleged abilities many times before.
“And you can use those abilities to guarantee my safety?” Reagan asked. Quigley didn’t hesitate in nodding.
“Of course. I will warn you now that I might not be able to see the exact nature of any danger which seeks to envelope you, but I can make sure that you are able to avoid the area in which misfortune is sure to befall you.” Reagan nodded slowly. Nancy piped up from next to Quigley.
“She’s really something Ron, I think that she would be able to help us.” Reagan was thinking about other things though, potential complications to that plan.
“And how often would you have to check in on my movements?” He asked.
“Not very often,” Quigley said, “I’d want to watch your daily schedule and see what you were doing so that I could be sure that the planets were aligned in a favorable way.” That reassured Reagan, but not too much. He wouldn’t have very much control over his schedule, especially when he served at the pleasure of the President.
“The President will be deciding much of my day to day routine,” he said, “I might not be able to let you know a lot of what I’m doing.” Quigley frowned.
“Well…I’m sure that you’ll be safe inside of the White House,” she said, her voice full of regret, “but outside of it…if you’re accompanying the President on trips abroad, you must let me know about those. Otherwise I might not be able to account for your safety.” Reagan considered that.
“I’ll speak to Jerry, see what he says. Perhaps you could help me out when I’m well enough to actually go out and campaign.” Nancy’s forehead wrinkled with worry, though she had kept quiet about it Reagan could tell that the thought of him going out and doing hard work so soon after his accident scared her. It scared him a little bit too, but there was no sense in putting it off, he would have to dive back into the fray at some point.
“It would be my pleasure to Ron.” Quigley said happily, and a half hour later, over lunch, the three of them finalized their business negotiations. Reagan wasn’t entirely sure what to think of Quigley, but if taking her on made Nancy happy and kept him safe all in one fell swoop, then she was welcome to stick around.
3:30 P.M. Washington D.C., August 20, 1980
“The Soviets are planning an offensive of some sort,” General Jones said, “they’ve been massing armor and air assets near Panjshir for the past few weeks, and if our intelligence is correct then they’re going to use it sometime in September.” Being projected onto the wall was a collage of satellite and SR-71 reconnaissance pictures, Soviet armor formations and new bases highlighted in red and yellow.
“So they’re gonna take on Massoud?” Carter asked. Ahmad Shah Massoud was the closest thing to a supreme commander that the mujahideen in Afghanistan had, and he had demonstrated an impressive understanding of tactics, refusing to bow to a previous Soviet offensive that had come to an inconclusive and bloody end in April.
“Looks like it,” Jones said, “not that they’ll beat him. Massoud’ll most likely put up enough of a fight in the valley to draw the Soviets in, then he’ll vanish up into the rocks and bleed them from there. Then once the Soviets get sick of being ambushed every other day they’ll pull out, put the Afghan National Army in control of Panjshir and promptly lose everything that they fought for when the mujahideen come back down out of the heights.” It was a succinct prediction, and almost exactly what had happened to the previous Soviet incursion into the area.
“These photos seem to indicate higher levels of air support than they got last time,” Carter said, “am I correct in saying that?” Jones nodded.
“Yes. The Soviets have enlarged their force by twenty percent since April. They’re intent on winning this thing.” Jones clicked the projector control he was holding and the aerial reconnaissance flicked away, being replaced by flat white light. The briefing was over.
“Do you think that the mujahideen will be able to hold out through this latest offensive?” Carter asked. Jones nodded without hesitation.
“Sure. They’ll suffer for it…lose ten men for every Soviet that they kill, but they’ll survive and the valley will still be theirs by the end of the year. But, if we were to up the arms funding that we’re sending to our men on the Pakistani border, then we might be able to send Massoud’s boys something extra before the Soviets launch this next offensive. That way maybe only eight or nine mujahideen die for each Soviet that they kill.” Carter smiled grimly.
“Do it. I don’t want the Soviets to take this valley. If they do that then they’ll have Kabul locked off from the north.” Jones grinned like a fed cat.
“Good to hear sir.” The Chairman said, and made a little note. Carter sat back in his seat and stared at the blank square of light on the wall, wondering just how many Afghans were going to have to die before the Soviets withdrew.
9:45 P.M. Richmond Virginia, August 23, 1980
“What’s her name again? Quigley?” Ford asked, brow furrowed with confusion at what Ronald Reagan had just said to him.
“Yes,” Reagan responded patiently from the other end of the line, “Joan Quigley. She’s an astrologist.” Ford glanced over at Betty, trying to communicate his bewilderment through a single look but didn’t think that he quite pulled it off.
“Okay…and you want her to be in charge of your day to day schedule? Why?”
“To be perfectly honest,” Reagan said, somewhat conspiratorially, “it was more Nancy’s idea than mine…but Joan Quigley is quite talented, I do think that she has some sort of ability to see things that ordinary people might not detect.” Ford was unsure of what to say for a moment. He was quite tolerant of other peoples’ beliefs, and had encountered some seriously odd belief systems in his life, but nothing quite like this, at least not from someone who was going to be his Chief of Staff in less than a year.
“Ron. You can do what you want in your own free time, but when you’re working with me I am ultimately going to be deciding your schedule…not Ms. Quigley.” Reagan nodded to himself. Well, it had been worth a shot…
“I understand. I’ll speak to Nancy and Joan…see what they have to say.” Truth be told he had already seen this coming, and knew almost exactly what Quigley would want.
“Talk to you later Ron.” Ford hung up and sighed, trying not to sound confused.
“An astrologist?” Betty asked from next to him, one eyebrow raised.
“Yeah.” Betty laughed.
“Hollywood does weird things to people,” she chuckled, “even if you manage to escape.” Ford found the situation less amusing but still cracked a smile.
“He did say that it was Nancy’s idea. Mostly.” He bit back a wince at the thought of some random lady knowing almost the entirety of Reagan’s schedule…including every time he met with the President. Ms. Quigley would need to be checked out. Intensively.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Betty said, “I don’t mean to be unkind but that woman is seriously strange sometimes.” Ford laughed and threw an arm around Betty. He enjoyed moments like this, when the two of them could just chat and slowly release all of the worries that an ordinary day accumulated.
“I can’t disagree with that.” He said, and Betty giggled as he stroked her hair.
“You still have some energy to burn off?” She asked, her voice sultry. Ford nodded, smiling.
“Well…meeting with donors and speaking to crowds isn’t the best way to work it all out.”
“Oh? And what is?”
“Let me show you.” Ford pounced and a moment later nobody was saying much of anything at all.
12:00 A.M. Washington D.C., August 25, 1980
President Jimmy Carter officially hit the campaign trail at the end of August, haven taken some time to set up campaign infrastructure in key states, and more to figure out just what to do to dig the nation out of its current slump. Volcker had assured him that the current inflation was only months away from undergoing a serious decline, but the incremental decreases weren’t enough to please Carter. Ford was still behind, but with the polling still so elastic almost nobody was sure who was actually leading.
The two week long grace period that Carter had taken after the convention had also allowed him to settle on a campaign strategy. With the nation sunk into a recession and national morale low, the voters seemed understandably apathetic, much as they had been in 1976. Nobody was very excited about the choices at hand and there was some talk that turnout would dip below fifty percent for the first time in American history.
That was a major problem, and one that Carter intended on fixing. The base needed to be fired up, that way they would vote. Ford seemed to be working to fire up his own base already, so Carter knew that he would need to work fast if he wanted to preserve his lead and win the election. It would still be close, he knew that much, but he wasn’t concerned about losing. The nation had learned their lesson about Gerald Ford the first time around, no way they would come back for more.
3:00 P.M. Kansas City Missouri, September 1, 1980
“Ladies and gentlemen, those of you who have been listening to my show have heard me say that there is only one man who is worth voting for this November. You may have also heard me say that I would be breathlessly excited if that man were to come and say hello on air. Right now it is very hard for me to contain my excitement, because today I have the pleasure of welcoming Senator Jesse Helms to the studio. How are you Senator?” Helms sat down and shook the hand of the shock jock sitting opposite him. The jock was younger than him and wore his hair in a messy ponytail. Despite that it was apparent that he wasn’t a hippy; well, if he was then he was the first hippy Helms had ever seen with a Confederate flag tacked up on the wall of his recording room.
“I’m glad to be here. I’ve been tuned into your station ever since I arrived in Missouri.” The jock laughed in delight.
“That’s good to hear. Now, tell me, how has the campaign been so far? I understand that you’ve been touring the west.” Helms nodded.
“I have. And I’ve found a lot of good, hardworking people who are being failed by our government. These are Americans who just want to be left alone, not forced to pay the taxes of the nation’s welfare queens, or lose their jobs to illegal immigrants and other unqualified people who are hoisted beyond their pay grade by misguided government programs.”
“Speaking of which, I saw your latest ad yesterday. The one with the blue collar worker, an ordinary American man, losing his job to some under qualified buck from the inner city. That actually knocked the words out of me for a few moments…in a good way! Finally we have a candidate who gets it!” The jock actually physically punched the air to emphasize his point, eyes wide with mingled excitement and passion. He was completely serious, Helms realized. Not a shred of an ulterior motive besides the usual financial boon that having a large radio audience would provide. Helms had stumbled across a True Believer, and he was starting to like the guy.
“I’m glad to have made such an impression upon you.” Helms said sunnily.
“Not just on me,” the jock said emphatically, “there’s a lot of hype surrounding you. People are sick of the old guard conservatives, they want someone new. Someone who understands them and isn’t willing to beg and scrape at the feet of the corrupt New Dealers who run things right now.”
“Defying the establishment is an important aspect of democracy,” Helms said, “but unfortunately it attracts retaliation from those same old guard traitors who you’ve mentioned. Ronald Reagan is selling his soul to the liberals for a lousy desk job, Paul Laxalt is threatening to purge the Senate of anyone who vocally supports me…it’s a mess. They’re scared of me.”
“You heard it from the man himself, the phonies are running scared!” That made Helms laugh.
“You hit the nail on the head. They’re terrified, and they’ll be even more terrified if we defy the odds and beat them in November. That’ll show Carter for deceiving the American people with his socialist propaganda, and Ford for stealing the nomination from Ronald Reagan.”
“The lines have been blowing up ever since you starting speaking…would you like to take some questions?” Helms had carefully rehearsed this eventuality and nodded with a smile.
“Of course. Put ‘em on.” The jock reached across his little control panel and tapped a button. Immediately there was a crackle of static.
“Hello caller, you’re on the air.” The joke said cheerfully.
“Oh wow, it’s such a rush to be talking to you, even if it’s just over the phone.” The caller was a young man, audibly giddy, probably another True Believer.
“I’m excited to be talking to all y’all as well. What’s your name?”
“Frank.” That was a good, solid name. Helms liked it.
“Well Frank, is there anything that you’d like to ask me about?” There was another burst of static, then Frank’s voice returned.
“I wanna know what you’d do to make sure that the hostages get home okay. It doesn’t look like things are going too good right now.” Helms nodded sagely.
“Yeah, we’re really in a tough spot over there. I’m sure that Jimmy Carter is trying his best and doing what he thinks is right, but ultimately negotiating with the Iranians isn’t gonna work. Iran is a viper, and you don’t negotiate with a viper…you find a shovel or a .410 and you take that thing’s head off before it can bite you.” There was silence for a few moments, then the jock spoke up, his voice as bright and exuberant as ever.
“Now that’s an answer that I can get behind. Rescue the hostages and bomb those rag heads back to the Stone Age! That’s what I say.” Helms laughed.
“We’d have to be very careful to make sure that the hostages left the country safely…but after they’re back home, well, let’s just say that there isn’t anything left in Iran that I wouldn’t feel bad about bombing.” Frank chuckled from the other end of the line.
“I knew that you’d say that. God bless you Senator. I’ll be voting for you, and I hope to see you in the White House next January.” Helms sat back, feeling truly at ease now.
“Hello caller,” the jock said, welcoming a new caller to the program, “you’re on the air.” The new voice was older and had a distinctly southern twang.
“Hello, this is Jesse Helms on the air, right?”
“Yes sir,” Helms said, “Jesse Helms in person. What’s your name caller?”
“Mike. I’m actually calling from just a few blocks away…I live here in Kansas City and I’m just calling to say that I’m a conservative, I’ve voted Republican since 1948…but that trend may be coming to an end this November.”
“Just remember, you aren’t leaving the party so much as the party is leaving you. Conservatism has been abandoned by the current leadership of the GOP wont be restored unless we show the wannabe socialists just what happens when conservative values are abandoned.” Mike sighed.
“I would have been happy voting for Ford, but when he messed with the taxation portion of the party platform…that’s when I knew that the party was heading down the wrong path for sure. This nation isn’t even supposed to have an income tax, that was a Democratic idea. Anything that raises taxes only postpones the day that we eventually abolish the income tax entirely and return to a constitutionally sanctioned vision of government.”
“I, uh, I know what you mean Mike.” Helms said. Mike’s views on taxes were considerably more extreme than his own, but he wasn’t about to say that and possibly alienate a whole swathe of voters.
“Glad to hear it. You have my vote this November Senator. God bless.” Then Mike was gone, leaving Helms idly considering just how far to the right he would have to go in order to encompass the whole vast realm of fanatics that were there, just ready to be taken in, registered and set loose upon the voting stations.
Joan Quigley was perhaps the most eye-catching person that Reagan had seen since his accident. Her hair was styled into an extravagant swoop, and the red and black checkered hunting jacket she wore assailed the eyes with splashes of contrasting color. She extended her hand and when Reagan accepted shook vigorously.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you Mr. Reagan,” she gushed, “Nancy has told me so much about you!” Reagan, who had almost no idea who Quigley was outside of a few brief mentions of her by Nancy, had expected a more demure woman. That was what psychics were on television at least. But Quigley was bright and flashy, her charisma shining through already.
“Please,” Reagan said, “call me Ron.” Quigley nodded.
“Of course.” She sat down next to Nancy, who said something to her quietly, Quigley nodded.
“Nancy has told me that you’re an astrologer.” Quigley smiled graciously.
“Yes. I have been blessed with a very unique ability to see how the movements of the cosmos will affect our lives here on Earth. It’s a very important ability, and one that is often unfairly maligned by those who are too frightened by its potential to confront it directly.” The impromptu defense was surprisingly friendly, but Reagan could see already that Quigley had had to defend her alleged abilities many times before.
“And you can use those abilities to guarantee my safety?” Reagan asked. Quigley didn’t hesitate in nodding.
“Of course. I will warn you now that I might not be able to see the exact nature of any danger which seeks to envelope you, but I can make sure that you are able to avoid the area in which misfortune is sure to befall you.” Reagan nodded slowly. Nancy piped up from next to Quigley.
“She’s really something Ron, I think that she would be able to help us.” Reagan was thinking about other things though, potential complications to that plan.
“And how often would you have to check in on my movements?” He asked.
“Not very often,” Quigley said, “I’d want to watch your daily schedule and see what you were doing so that I could be sure that the planets were aligned in a favorable way.” That reassured Reagan, but not too much. He wouldn’t have very much control over his schedule, especially when he served at the pleasure of the President.
“The President will be deciding much of my day to day routine,” he said, “I might not be able to let you know a lot of what I’m doing.” Quigley frowned.
“Well…I’m sure that you’ll be safe inside of the White House,” she said, her voice full of regret, “but outside of it…if you’re accompanying the President on trips abroad, you must let me know about those. Otherwise I might not be able to account for your safety.” Reagan considered that.
“I’ll speak to Jerry, see what he says. Perhaps you could help me out when I’m well enough to actually go out and campaign.” Nancy’s forehead wrinkled with worry, though she had kept quiet about it Reagan could tell that the thought of him going out and doing hard work so soon after his accident scared her. It scared him a little bit too, but there was no sense in putting it off, he would have to dive back into the fray at some point.
“It would be my pleasure to Ron.” Quigley said happily, and a half hour later, over lunch, the three of them finalized their business negotiations. Reagan wasn’t entirely sure what to think of Quigley, but if taking her on made Nancy happy and kept him safe all in one fell swoop, then she was welcome to stick around.
3:30 P.M. Washington D.C., August 20, 1980
“The Soviets are planning an offensive of some sort,” General Jones said, “they’ve been massing armor and air assets near Panjshir for the past few weeks, and if our intelligence is correct then they’re going to use it sometime in September.” Being projected onto the wall was a collage of satellite and SR-71 reconnaissance pictures, Soviet armor formations and new bases highlighted in red and yellow.
“So they’re gonna take on Massoud?” Carter asked. Ahmad Shah Massoud was the closest thing to a supreme commander that the mujahideen in Afghanistan had, and he had demonstrated an impressive understanding of tactics, refusing to bow to a previous Soviet offensive that had come to an inconclusive and bloody end in April.
“Looks like it,” Jones said, “not that they’ll beat him. Massoud’ll most likely put up enough of a fight in the valley to draw the Soviets in, then he’ll vanish up into the rocks and bleed them from there. Then once the Soviets get sick of being ambushed every other day they’ll pull out, put the Afghan National Army in control of Panjshir and promptly lose everything that they fought for when the mujahideen come back down out of the heights.” It was a succinct prediction, and almost exactly what had happened to the previous Soviet incursion into the area.
“These photos seem to indicate higher levels of air support than they got last time,” Carter said, “am I correct in saying that?” Jones nodded.
“Yes. The Soviets have enlarged their force by twenty percent since April. They’re intent on winning this thing.” Jones clicked the projector control he was holding and the aerial reconnaissance flicked away, being replaced by flat white light. The briefing was over.
“Do you think that the mujahideen will be able to hold out through this latest offensive?” Carter asked. Jones nodded without hesitation.
“Sure. They’ll suffer for it…lose ten men for every Soviet that they kill, but they’ll survive and the valley will still be theirs by the end of the year. But, if we were to up the arms funding that we’re sending to our men on the Pakistani border, then we might be able to send Massoud’s boys something extra before the Soviets launch this next offensive. That way maybe only eight or nine mujahideen die for each Soviet that they kill.” Carter smiled grimly.
“Do it. I don’t want the Soviets to take this valley. If they do that then they’ll have Kabul locked off from the north.” Jones grinned like a fed cat.
“Good to hear sir.” The Chairman said, and made a little note. Carter sat back in his seat and stared at the blank square of light on the wall, wondering just how many Afghans were going to have to die before the Soviets withdrew.
9:45 P.M. Richmond Virginia, August 23, 1980
“What’s her name again? Quigley?” Ford asked, brow furrowed with confusion at what Ronald Reagan had just said to him.
“Yes,” Reagan responded patiently from the other end of the line, “Joan Quigley. She’s an astrologist.” Ford glanced over at Betty, trying to communicate his bewilderment through a single look but didn’t think that he quite pulled it off.
“Okay…and you want her to be in charge of your day to day schedule? Why?”
“To be perfectly honest,” Reagan said, somewhat conspiratorially, “it was more Nancy’s idea than mine…but Joan Quigley is quite talented, I do think that she has some sort of ability to see things that ordinary people might not detect.” Ford was unsure of what to say for a moment. He was quite tolerant of other peoples’ beliefs, and had encountered some seriously odd belief systems in his life, but nothing quite like this, at least not from someone who was going to be his Chief of Staff in less than a year.
“Ron. You can do what you want in your own free time, but when you’re working with me I am ultimately going to be deciding your schedule…not Ms. Quigley.” Reagan nodded to himself. Well, it had been worth a shot…
“I understand. I’ll speak to Nancy and Joan…see what they have to say.” Truth be told he had already seen this coming, and knew almost exactly what Quigley would want.
“Talk to you later Ron.” Ford hung up and sighed, trying not to sound confused.
“An astrologist?” Betty asked from next to him, one eyebrow raised.
“Yeah.” Betty laughed.
“Hollywood does weird things to people,” she chuckled, “even if you manage to escape.” Ford found the situation less amusing but still cracked a smile.
“He did say that it was Nancy’s idea. Mostly.” He bit back a wince at the thought of some random lady knowing almost the entirety of Reagan’s schedule…including every time he met with the President. Ms. Quigley would need to be checked out. Intensively.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Betty said, “I don’t mean to be unkind but that woman is seriously strange sometimes.” Ford laughed and threw an arm around Betty. He enjoyed moments like this, when the two of them could just chat and slowly release all of the worries that an ordinary day accumulated.
“I can’t disagree with that.” He said, and Betty giggled as he stroked her hair.
“You still have some energy to burn off?” She asked, her voice sultry. Ford nodded, smiling.
“Well…meeting with donors and speaking to crowds isn’t the best way to work it all out.”
“Oh? And what is?”
“Let me show you.” Ford pounced and a moment later nobody was saying much of anything at all.
12:00 A.M. Washington D.C., August 25, 1980
President Jimmy Carter officially hit the campaign trail at the end of August, haven taken some time to set up campaign infrastructure in key states, and more to figure out just what to do to dig the nation out of its current slump. Volcker had assured him that the current inflation was only months away from undergoing a serious decline, but the incremental decreases weren’t enough to please Carter. Ford was still behind, but with the polling still so elastic almost nobody was sure who was actually leading.
The two week long grace period that Carter had taken after the convention had also allowed him to settle on a campaign strategy. With the nation sunk into a recession and national morale low, the voters seemed understandably apathetic, much as they had been in 1976. Nobody was very excited about the choices at hand and there was some talk that turnout would dip below fifty percent for the first time in American history.
That was a major problem, and one that Carter intended on fixing. The base needed to be fired up, that way they would vote. Ford seemed to be working to fire up his own base already, so Carter knew that he would need to work fast if he wanted to preserve his lead and win the election. It would still be close, he knew that much, but he wasn’t concerned about losing. The nation had learned their lesson about Gerald Ford the first time around, no way they would come back for more.
3:00 P.M. Kansas City Missouri, September 1, 1980
“Ladies and gentlemen, those of you who have been listening to my show have heard me say that there is only one man who is worth voting for this November. You may have also heard me say that I would be breathlessly excited if that man were to come and say hello on air. Right now it is very hard for me to contain my excitement, because today I have the pleasure of welcoming Senator Jesse Helms to the studio. How are you Senator?” Helms sat down and shook the hand of the shock jock sitting opposite him. The jock was younger than him and wore his hair in a messy ponytail. Despite that it was apparent that he wasn’t a hippy; well, if he was then he was the first hippy Helms had ever seen with a Confederate flag tacked up on the wall of his recording room.
“I’m glad to be here. I’ve been tuned into your station ever since I arrived in Missouri.” The jock laughed in delight.
“That’s good to hear. Now, tell me, how has the campaign been so far? I understand that you’ve been touring the west.” Helms nodded.
“I have. And I’ve found a lot of good, hardworking people who are being failed by our government. These are Americans who just want to be left alone, not forced to pay the taxes of the nation’s welfare queens, or lose their jobs to illegal immigrants and other unqualified people who are hoisted beyond their pay grade by misguided government programs.”
“Speaking of which, I saw your latest ad yesterday. The one with the blue collar worker, an ordinary American man, losing his job to some under qualified buck from the inner city. That actually knocked the words out of me for a few moments…in a good way! Finally we have a candidate who gets it!” The jock actually physically punched the air to emphasize his point, eyes wide with mingled excitement and passion. He was completely serious, Helms realized. Not a shred of an ulterior motive besides the usual financial boon that having a large radio audience would provide. Helms had stumbled across a True Believer, and he was starting to like the guy.
“I’m glad to have made such an impression upon you.” Helms said sunnily.
“Not just on me,” the jock said emphatically, “there’s a lot of hype surrounding you. People are sick of the old guard conservatives, they want someone new. Someone who understands them and isn’t willing to beg and scrape at the feet of the corrupt New Dealers who run things right now.”
“Defying the establishment is an important aspect of democracy,” Helms said, “but unfortunately it attracts retaliation from those same old guard traitors who you’ve mentioned. Ronald Reagan is selling his soul to the liberals for a lousy desk job, Paul Laxalt is threatening to purge the Senate of anyone who vocally supports me…it’s a mess. They’re scared of me.”
“You heard it from the man himself, the phonies are running scared!” That made Helms laugh.
“You hit the nail on the head. They’re terrified, and they’ll be even more terrified if we defy the odds and beat them in November. That’ll show Carter for deceiving the American people with his socialist propaganda, and Ford for stealing the nomination from Ronald Reagan.”
“The lines have been blowing up ever since you starting speaking…would you like to take some questions?” Helms had carefully rehearsed this eventuality and nodded with a smile.
“Of course. Put ‘em on.” The jock reached across his little control panel and tapped a button. Immediately there was a crackle of static.
“Hello caller, you’re on the air.” The joke said cheerfully.
“Oh wow, it’s such a rush to be talking to you, even if it’s just over the phone.” The caller was a young man, audibly giddy, probably another True Believer.
“I’m excited to be talking to all y’all as well. What’s your name?”
“Frank.” That was a good, solid name. Helms liked it.
“Well Frank, is there anything that you’d like to ask me about?” There was another burst of static, then Frank’s voice returned.
“I wanna know what you’d do to make sure that the hostages get home okay. It doesn’t look like things are going too good right now.” Helms nodded sagely.
“Yeah, we’re really in a tough spot over there. I’m sure that Jimmy Carter is trying his best and doing what he thinks is right, but ultimately negotiating with the Iranians isn’t gonna work. Iran is a viper, and you don’t negotiate with a viper…you find a shovel or a .410 and you take that thing’s head off before it can bite you.” There was silence for a few moments, then the jock spoke up, his voice as bright and exuberant as ever.
“Now that’s an answer that I can get behind. Rescue the hostages and bomb those rag heads back to the Stone Age! That’s what I say.” Helms laughed.
“We’d have to be very careful to make sure that the hostages left the country safely…but after they’re back home, well, let’s just say that there isn’t anything left in Iran that I wouldn’t feel bad about bombing.” Frank chuckled from the other end of the line.
“I knew that you’d say that. God bless you Senator. I’ll be voting for you, and I hope to see you in the White House next January.” Helms sat back, feeling truly at ease now.
“Hello caller,” the jock said, welcoming a new caller to the program, “you’re on the air.” The new voice was older and had a distinctly southern twang.
“Hello, this is Jesse Helms on the air, right?”
“Yes sir,” Helms said, “Jesse Helms in person. What’s your name caller?”
“Mike. I’m actually calling from just a few blocks away…I live here in Kansas City and I’m just calling to say that I’m a conservative, I’ve voted Republican since 1948…but that trend may be coming to an end this November.”
“Just remember, you aren’t leaving the party so much as the party is leaving you. Conservatism has been abandoned by the current leadership of the GOP wont be restored unless we show the wannabe socialists just what happens when conservative values are abandoned.” Mike sighed.
“I would have been happy voting for Ford, but when he messed with the taxation portion of the party platform…that’s when I knew that the party was heading down the wrong path for sure. This nation isn’t even supposed to have an income tax, that was a Democratic idea. Anything that raises taxes only postpones the day that we eventually abolish the income tax entirely and return to a constitutionally sanctioned vision of government.”
“I, uh, I know what you mean Mike.” Helms said. Mike’s views on taxes were considerably more extreme than his own, but he wasn’t about to say that and possibly alienate a whole swathe of voters.
“Glad to hear it. You have my vote this November Senator. God bless.” Then Mike was gone, leaving Helms idly considering just how far to the right he would have to go in order to encompass the whole vast realm of fanatics that were there, just ready to be taken in, registered and set loose upon the voting stations.
I'm honestly very surprised that you would have butterflied the Sino Soviet Exchange away. I thought that was the one constant no matter who wins the election because I could definitely see Johnson either take the deal or the war to happen organically due to heightened tensions.
Did you just quote Mike Huckabee? I can't find the speech, but I'm almost certain I heard him say that.
Finally, do we know if Carter adopting Kennedy's economic plan in our timeline helped or hurt his campaign?
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Orville_third
Banned
So Helms will try and get the people who will become the Tea Party.
(I left out the other guy who tried to take on LBJ in 1964, and the only one who lost reputation- J. Everetts Haley, noted Texas historian- and he was still around in 1980.)
(I left out the other guy who tried to take on LBJ in 1964, and the only one who lost reputation- J. Everetts Haley, noted Texas historian- and he was still around in 1980.)
AnywhereButOTL is working in Nepal and fending off writer's block last I heard. Godspeed.
Not sure to be honest. It's been a while since I thought of the Icarus series.
Good catch. I heard that on the radio when I was driving somewhere and just knew, knew that it would be a perfect thing for alt-Jesse Helms to say.
I actually don't know. But I do know that Carter was pretty reluctant to give Ed Kennedy much control over the platform IOTL, and since he more or less curb stomped him ITTL now he doesn't have to.
Yep. Helms = bad.
Yes. It only took me fourteen whole months to get up off my ass and finish the damn thing.
This was part of it, then the rest was me focusing on other projects, periodically forgetting that this existed, and just generally being a lazy schmuck.
Okay. So I'm back now. Read this before you proceed:
I first started this thing more than a year ago, under vastly different circumstances. I ended up abandoning it partway through because I'm a lazy schmuck and I was also going to Nepal for a long period of time.
If you're coming back to this, thinking stuff like: 'hot damn, Anywhere actually finished a writing project? Has Hell frozen over?!' then I'd highly recommend re-reading the entire thing so that you don't get lost and wonder who the fuck half these people are and why they're all playing the American political version of Game of Thrones.
That is all. Enjoy.
2:55 A.M. Washington D.C., September 3, 1980
Two very bad things had happened in quick succession within only twenty four hours of each other. The first was that the Soviets had launched their offensive into Panjshir ahead of the weapons shipments that Carter had wanted Massoud to receive; the second was that congress was launching an official hearing into the Libyan excursions that Billy Carter had taken the previous year.
The second was far worse than the first, and was the primary reason that Carter was staring at the shadowy ceiling of his bedroom, unable to sleep. This was going to be bad for him, no matter how it turned out. Even if Billy was cleared of all potential wrongdoing (like he would be…Carter had faith that his brother had done nothing wrong while in Libya), it would still put a serious dent in his numbers.
The congressional hearing was likely being done in response to allegations flowing from the Helms campaign (not officially of course, but who else would turn out that sort of stuff?) that Billy had, depending on which tabloid outlet you read:
They were all patently ridiculous in Carter’s eyes, but the money that his brother had (legally) received from the Libyans added an element of plausibility to the allegations that otherwise would have not been there. It had caused enough of an uproar in political circles to convince congress to investigate, and that wasn’t a good thing. They wouldn’t find anything, but for as long as the investigators analyzed financial records and interviewed experts and witnesses, it would effectively raise a giant flaming billboard to the heavens, reading JIMMY CARTER’S BROTHER IS A CROOK. Already there were rumors flying that he was concealing vital evidence, which certainly wouldn’t help him in the slightest.
Even if the Republicans in congress had effectively disowned Jesse Helms, they were willing to hold their noses and work tentatively with him in the senate if the goal was to discredit Jimmy Carter.
Carter sighed and shut his eyes, but sleep didn’t come. It rarely did these days.
11:17 A.M. Lynchburg Virginia, September 3, 1980
Pastor Jerry Falwell was agitated, and had been for much of the past month and a half. Gerald Ford was a fine human being as far as he was concerned, but when it came to him being President of the United States…that was a completely different ballgame. Falwell had been expecting Reagan to be nominated, and all of the chaos of the past seventy odd days had taken him completely by surprise.
God had not sent him any indication that Reagan would be struck down like this, so close to the moment that would cement him as the conservative Christian leader that America needed.
Falwell had considered swapping his support to Helms, who was far more conservative and generally more palatable than Ford, but had been warned not to by Reagan, who had spoken to him in an uncharacteristically steely voice. Reagan had explained to him that splitting the party would hand the election to Carter and invite even more moral decay into the nation. Ford was not perfect, Reagan readily admitted this, but he was far better than Carter, and was a better Christian than the bumbling peanut farmer who currently occupied the White House.
“At least Ford agreed to overturn Roe v. Wade.” Falwell muttered to himself. He said stuff like this every now and then, little affirmations that he was on the right path. Still, he was deeply unsatisfied and wanted very badly to start raining hellfire down upon the masses, urging them to vote for someone…anyone who would roll back the tides of sin and wickedness that he saw everywhere he looked. Abortion, pornography, homosexuality…it sickened him to watch it swamp the nation, drowning the good people in seas of abandoned virtues and used needles.
“At least Ford agreed to crack down on the addicts and welfare queens.” Falwell sighed, then fell silent. Ford wasn’t too bad, and in any other year Falwell would have probably been happy to support him, but after the potential that Reagan had shown, and the promises that he had made, Ford was pale and insubstantial, unable to measure up to the man who he was making his Chief of Staff.
And Betty Ford…goddamnit but Falwell just didn’t like that woman. With her casual liberalism, pushing travesties like the Equal Rights Amendment and encouraging the children to go and dope themselves up on marijuana. It was horrifying what Ford let his wife get away with. Falwell shook his head.
“Mr. Falwell, sir?”
Falwell looked up to see that his secretary had poked her head into his office.
“Yes?” He asked, wondering if she had heard his little ‘at least’ statements. He hoped not.
“Pastor Robertson is here, he wishes to speak to you.”
Falwell nodded and straightened up in his chair.
“Oh, uh, send him in.” He pulled a paper in front of him and tried to look busy as Robertson strode in, hair slicked back and suit neatly pressed. Robertson had bags under his eyes and Falwell supposed that the man had been busy with something or other.
“Pat, always a pleasure. What brings you?”
Robertson sat down with a little sigh.
“What are we going to do beyond this election Jerry?” He asked, a tone of raw urgency in his voice.
“You mean ’84?”
Robertson nodded.
“And ’88, and beyond. We need to figure out how to get back on track…I agree with you on backing Ford…I want to support Helms but doing that would just get Carter reelected,” he paused and sighed angrily at the unfairness of it all, then looked back up at Falwell, his gaze intense, “we cant keep on supporting moderates, we need a good Christian conservative, otherwise the nation will fall apart.”
Falwell set down the pen he was holding and nodded slowly.
“I agree with you Pat. But who? Reagan is gonna be too old by ’84,” he said this regretfully but knew that it would be true no matter how he felt about it. The American people just didn’t like electing geriatrics, “and both Baker and Bush are gonna be in strong positions in ’84 if Ford does well.”
Robertson winced at the mention of Baker and Bush, both of whom he considered liberals at best.
“They cant be allowed to win the nomination…I’d really like to avoid another Helms debacle…he had so much promise, and he pissed it all away with this third party run of his.”
Falwell shrugged.
“I’ll talk to Ron and Ford about letting him stay in the party. This isn’t Stalinist Russia, we don’t do purges.”
That seemed to mollify Robertson.
“If that succeeds then we might be able to back Helms. If he wants to run again.” Falwell nodded at this. Political strategy wasn’t his strong suit, but he had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen over the next few years. The hostage crisis would come to an end, possibly bloodily, possibly not, Ford would crack down on drugs, reform the welfare system and hold the line on moral purity…and serve as a placeholder until a better, more conservative candidate could be found.
“There’s Kemp too. He got a lot of votes at the convention.” Falwell liked the thought of Kemp, young, relatively untarnished…but also relatively unknown to the American people, including himself. All he knew about Kemp was that the guy liked supply side economics. Still, he would do if there weren’t any other candidates available.
“I guess we’ll have to see how this election turns out before we start making plans.” Robertson said, and Falwell nodded slowly, lost in thought about the wonders that a conservative Christian President would do for America.
“Ford’ll win,” Falwell said, “he has to. Otherwise we’ll get stuck with Carter for another four years.”
Robertson slicked his hair back and shook his head emphatically.
“That might be enough to cause a revolution.”
Falwell couldn’t say that he disagreed.
5:00 P.M. Nashville Tennessee, September 5, 1980
Baker, though he had been campaigning very hard for the past six weeks, was still energetic as he gazed over the crowd standing before him. He enjoyed being back in his home state, and let his constituents know as much, eliciting a cheer from them. He was popular in the state, having won reelection handily only two years earlier, and was pleased to see that turnout was high. Tennessee was a state that Carter had won in 1976 and Baker was determined to make sure that that didn’t happen again. He had a decent chance at achieving that goal, the polling was close enough (in Tennessee at least) that nobody could make heads or tails of who was supposed to be leading, even with Helms involved.
“Welcome,” he told the crowd, “I’m glad that you’ve all come here today, to the capital of the great state of Tennessee.” The crowd roared. Ford wasn’t with him, he had gone to New York City to appear in a series of interviews, but they were lively nonetheless, excited to see their senator campaigning for an even higher office than his current post.
“I have come to ask you all a single question, and one that almost everyone will answer the same way. Are you better off now than you were four years ago? In this era of skyrocketing inflation and plummeting wages, of rampant foreign aggression and widespread domestic corruption, are you better off now than you were four years ago? I have spoken to men, women and children all across this nation over the past few weeks and have not heard of a single case where President Carter’s economic policies have served to help rather than hinder American job creation and economic growth. I have seen businesses with their windows dark and their doors locked, factories shuttered and their workers unemployed. I have seen prices raised far beyond what any low income family could possibly afford. And despite the powerful words of President Carter on malaise and sacrifice, they remain only words even after all this time.
“But while President Carter may be content to watch as American innovation collects dust, shackled by the cruel bonds of economic stagnation and squalor, I know a man who is not, and that man’s name is Gerald Ford!” Baker was forced to stop speaking as another roar of applause snipped the end of Ford’s name off. Signs were being waved, flags too, and the crowd was splashed with color and excitement. Slowly, surely, the base was being woken up. Though people had been discouraged by Reagan’s lack of presence on the ticket, they were beginning to realize that, hey, they liked Jerry Ford and Howard Baker. Sure they weren’t perfect, but they were relatable and honest in a refreshingly nice way that stood in perfect contrast to the suffocating moral sanctimoniousness that could obscure Jimmy Carter from time to time.
“I have known Gerald Ford for a long time,” Baker continued, “and not only has he always had the nation’s best interests at heart, but he also has the ability and experience to pull this nation out from the slump that it’s in and return us once and for all to the times of prosperity and inner peace that the American people deserve.” Baker went on like this for a few more minutes. The speech was a touch nationalistic for him, but the speechwriter had been almost adorably proud of his creation, and despite the almost fascistic touches of national pride that practically oozed from the document, it was a pretty decent speech. So Baker pontificated, gestured and capered before the crowd, encouraged by the applause that they poured out in response. They were fired up, encouraged by the sunny future that was being promised to them, and eager to do just about anything to get it.
Ford had evidently taken Reagan’s plan for the general election and made his own modifications, and so far it was working out beautifully. Carter on the other hand was running a more subdued campaign, pointing to incremental improvements in the economy as proof that things were getting better. That and continuing to negotiate endlessly with the Iranians, who seemed to enjoy their ability to carry out the diplomatic equivalent of poking the President of the United States with a sharp stick whenever they wanted to.
It was slightly depressing to watch, but while Baker wanted very badly for the hostages to be returned safely home, a small part of him did realize that it was far better for him and Ford that the hostages remained locked up…at least until after the election. That part of him, a remnant of the old survival instincts that had guided his primeval ancestors in their endless scrambles for survival, had been speaking up more often these days. He supposed that it had to, he was running in a national election after all, what higher form of survival was there?
2:00 P.M. Sacramento California, September 7, 1980
“You shouldn’t show that to him,” the doctor pleaded, “it’s not good for him to strain himself, and getting angry counts as strain.”
Reagan had been watching Nancy and the doctor argue for the past several minutes, and his sense of curiosity was almost overpowering now.
“You know that I’m right here, right?” He asked. He had gotten the impression that what Nancy was holding, a piece of paper torn from a magazine, was an attack ad of some sort, but didn’t know what it said exactly. Whatever it was, it had gotten Nancy properly angry, to the point that some of her hair was standing on end, seemingly defying the laws of gravity.
“Ron, you wouldn’t believe what Jesse Helms is saying, it’s monstrous!”
Reagan sighed. So it was Helms, most likely saying something truly heinous about him. That really wasn’t surprising.
“I’m a politician,” he said to the doctor, “I’ve seen far worse than anything that Jesse Helms could cook up.”
The doctor looked uncertain but then took a half step aside, letting Nancy breeze past him, to Reagan’s bedside. She held the page stiffly out, anger making her hand shake.
It was a full page advertisement, showing an x-ray cross-section of a human skull and an excerpt from some medical journal or another detailing that personality changes could result from severe head injuries. Beneath the blurb, in bold yellow letters, was a question:
IS RONALD REAGAN STILL OUR RONALD REAGAN?
Reagan laughed, looked at the ad again and then laughed so hard that he snorted, which set him off again. The ludicrous extremes to which the ad reached, in combination with its base ugliness were all deeply and almost inexplicably hilarious, to the point where tears filled his eyes. Nancy stared, looking more surprised than anything, the doctor gliding concernedly over.
“Sir?” He asked but Reagan just shook his head.
“I’m okay.” He said between gasps of laughter, then fought himself back under control, looking back at the ad again. It had been sponsored by a group called Doctors For America, and that made him laugh again.
“Can’t Helms think of anything better?” He asked, wiping a stray tear from his eye.
Nancy shook her head.
“No Ron, he cant. He’s a disgusting man and I want to…I want to wring his neck!”
Reagan smiled genially in response.
“Don’t be angry darling,” he said, taking ahold of her hand, “that’s what he wants. All we’ve got to do is get the cameras back in here and film another spot. That’ll set these accusations back.” Reagan wasn’t concerned by the ad. So far as he could see there was no way that anyone would take it seriously, after all he had given statements to the press and even given a televised endorsement not too long before…he was undoubtedly still himself.
But outside of the walls of the hospital, away from Ronald Reagan, people were beginning to see the advertisement, and a whole plethora of others. And while most people tossed them away, having already made up their minds who they were voting for, whether it be Ford, Carter or nobody at all, more than a few gazed at the ad with wary eyes, wondering just how much truth it held.
12:00 P.M. New York City New York, September 8, 1980
“Have you seen this before?” Walter Cronkite was asking, and Ford took the sheet of paper that the news anchor was offering. Ford had indeed seen it before, just as Reagan had the previous day. The human skull and accompanying text were already becoming a singularly unwelcome sight.
“Yes. It’s an attack ad, alleging that Ronald Reagan is suffering from brain damage and a fundamental personality change as a result of his injuries.”
Cronkite nodded and adjusted his glasses.
“You have made statements against the usage of attack advertisements like this in the past,” Ford nodded at the anchor’s words, “are you concerned that campaigning of this sort may become more prevalent in the future?”
Ford cleared his throat.
“I am. It appeals to a lower common denominator than any other form of campaigning…it’s certainly easier to attack an opponent for unrelated reasons than it is to debate the issues in a polite and coherent manner. Unfortunately though there’s no real way to regulate against this without stifling the freedoms that we as Americans hold dear. After all, as Voltaire said, ‘I disagree with what you have said, but I will die for your right to say it.’ That applies to all speech in this country, whether it be the Gettysburg Address or this travesty of an attack ad.”
Cronkite nodded soberly.
“That doesn’t leave many options for curbing these types of campaign tactics.”
Ford shrugged.
“I’ve always prided myself on remaining civil with my opponents, President Carter included, and he has done the same with me. We may accuse each other of holding irresponsible policy views, but we wouldn’t dare doubt each other’s inherent fitness as a human being. That goes beyond the realm of acceptability. But as for what can be done to decrease the usage of these unfortunate tactics…I’d have to say that all we can do for now is lead by example, win and then hope that the next generation will follow in our footsteps.”
“Do you foresee Jesse Helms following along?”
Ford chuckled at the question.
“No. Not right away at least. If Senator Helms has a political future beyond this election, which personally I doubt, then he’ll see that while sensationalistic and irresponsible campaigning of the type he’s been doing is great for stirring up hype in the short term…it erodes support for you in the long term, across a wider base of people than those that the attack ads immediately appeal to.”
Cronkite stroked his chin, looking inquisitive.
“Forgive me if I’m asking too many campaigning related questions, but what would you say that the inherent goal of your campaign is exactly?”
“Well, to win for one. But every good campaign has objectives beyond simply winning the election, and mine comes directly from Ronald Reagan, with whom I’ve been working closely ever since I was nominated. The objective of my campaign is to restore American morale, which has dipped precariously over the past few years. We’re stuck in a recession, inflation is rising, hundreds of American men and women are trapped overseas, being held hostage by Islamic radicals…things are not going our way right now. But instead of accepting that as the status quo, I propose that the American people rise up and vote themselves a new tomorrow, where they can be free to enjoy freedom from malaise, freedom from terror, and freedom from inflation. We gain nothing by doing nothing, and in a nation with as many opportunities as ours, anybody can do anything that they set their minds to, if they work hard and make use of the tools that the federal government and the private sector, working in unison, provide them with.” Cronkite smiled, clearly pleased by the substance of the answer. He was having a good time with this, Ford realized, and that made him feel more relaxed. He had been interviewed by the anchor before, and always enjoyed Cronkite’s company.
“The last portion of your response intrigued me,” Cronkite said, “you mention the government and the private sector working together. What exactly do you envision when you say that?”
“I believe that there is a role for the federal government in our society, as do the vast majority of people in this country. The fundamental difference that all of these people have is just how big that role is. I personally believe in less government, less interference in the marketplace and fewer governmental regulations on the individual. Under a Ford administration you could expect to see business regulations relaxed, trade barriers lowered and taxes slashed, leaving the average person in America wealthier and in a better position to take advantage of a revitalized economy.”
“You’ve been described as occupying a middle ground between President Carter and Senator Helms. How accurate would you say that is?”
Ford took a few moments to think.
“Ultimately,” he said, “while I might appeal primarily to conservatives and moderates, I am doing my best to represent the nation as a whole. That’s where I differ from President Carter and Senator Helms. Where the President and Jesse Helms are quite nakedly campaigning only to win specific demographics, liberals and conservatives respectively, I’m running a campaign dedicated to winning over everyone dedicated to the principles of freedom and economic prosperity. The Republican party is a big tent organization after all, and limiting ourselves to one specific demographic will only guarantee continued division and polarization in the future.”
Cronkite shifted in his seat, looking interested.
“Not everybody agrees with your message though.”
Ford nodded.
“Of course not. And I’m not asking that everybody does. Dissent is an important part of democracy, and I encourage criticism and opinions that differ from my own…it goes a long way towards creating a healthier environment for policy making. It might certainly be easier to work in an environment where everybody agrees with you, but if I wanted that sort of endless affirmation of my own beliefs then I’d go found a dictatorship.”
Cronkite smiled.
“There are some who have accused you of authoritarian policies while you were in office, not least of all vetoing H.R. 12471, which amended the Freedom of Information Act.”
That caught Ford by surprise, up until now Cronkite had been lobbing him softballs, easy questions that allowed him to effectively spoon feed the viewers his policy views. Now the interview had taken a more serious turn.
“Yes,” Ford said evenly, “I vetoed those amendments. Congress then proceeded to override my veto and pass the amendments anyway, which I wasn’t very pleased with in 1974, but feel better about now. Back then I was new to the presidency, I had just pardoned Richard Nixon…a very controversial act which still sparks debate today, and I was not certain if allowing the American people access to the dealings of the Nixon administration so soon after the traumas of Watergate was a good idea. Ultimately, though it caused some strife, I have come to realize that congress overriding that veto was a very good thing, because it allowed the American people to see just what their officials had been up to over the past few decades.”
“Do you regret your veto?”
“No. I did what I thought was right, and ultimately I cannot change that, so there’s no point in feeling badly about it.”
“Is that pragmatism or an unwillingness to admit making mistakes?”
Ford smiled grimly.
“I’d like to think pragmatism, but it’s up to everyone to make up their own minds on that.”
Cronkite clearly realized that this was a dodge but went along with it anyway.
“Are there other areas in which your views have changed since you first assumed the presidency?”
Ford nodded.
“Yes. The task of governing the nation is an ever changing task, and what may have worked in 1970 may not necessarily hold true in 1980 or 2000. The times will have changed, new technologies will have been invented, the geopolitical landscape altered. New policies and ideas will always be needed to steer the nation towards the prosperity and peace that it deserves, and a lot of the time that means that you have to change your mind on things…even if it’s embarrassing or politically damaging to do so.”
“Like the Nixon pardon. Many assumed that you would let Richard Nixon be charged, but instead you granted him a full pardon.”
“I did, and I maintain that it was the correct thing to do. I believe that I termed the end of Nixon’s presidency as ‘a long national nightmare’ when I first took office. It could have kept going and going and going…until the American people had lost all faith in their system of government, or it could have been ended right there. Which is what I intended to happen when I offered that pardon deal to Nixon. You see, I have long had a fascination with the law, and when I was mulling over exactly what to do with Richard Nixon, I remembered a specific case that had a great deal of relevance to my current situation. That being Burdick v. United States, in which the Supreme Court ruled that accepting a federal pardon was tantamount to a confession of guilt.”
Cronkite nodded thoughtfully.
“I remember your remarks on the subject during your testimony to congress. You kept a copy of the Burdick ruling in your wallet during all of that.”
“I did. I still have that paper somewhere, in one desk or another…” Ford paused, then considered what to say, “but the point of doing that was to make sure that while justice was done, it was also done in a responsible manner. Regardless of what he might say to the contrary, Richard Nixon was guilty and deserved to leave office, but he didn’t need to take down the entire nation along with him. The American people don’t deserve for that to happen to them.”
“On that note, I’d like to thank you very much for answering my questions, we are unfortunately out of time…”
Ford smiled graciously and extended a hand. Cronkite shook and Ford stood up.
“Thank you very much for having me.” The cameras shut off and Cronkite visibly relaxed, working a kink out of his neck.
“You did well,” the anchor said, “I think that you just might win.” And with that he was off, heading to his other duties. Cronkite was set to retire soon, Ford had heard. That would be a sad day.
1:30 P.M. Washington D.C., September 9, 1980
“Obviously these charges are completely false…I mean, good God!” Carter immediately felt bad for taking the Lord’s name in vain, but even that religious guilt didn’t temper the irritation that he was feeling. Arrayed across his desk were a number of spurious, lurid attack advertisements, accusing him and his brother of everything under the sun. Most were from Helms, others from independent conservative outfits who felt emboldened by Helms.
“The media smells blood Jimmy,” Senate Majority Leader Robert Byrd said from the other end of the line, “they’re starting to call it Billygate for fuck’s sake.”
Carter let a long breath hiss between his teeth. Byrd sounded more bewildered than concerned, but with the ominous plateauing effect that this unfolding crisis was having on his poll numbers, it was a great deal more terrifying for Carter.
“Helms is stirring the water…these ads of his are causing all sorts of chaos.”
Byrd cleared his throat.
“Then get out there and smack him with something. Hell, you and Fritz have been going easy on the son of a bitch. Sic the FEC on him, the IRS…hell, go full Lyndon Johnson and use the FBI.” Byrd was joking, Carter knew that, but he still felt irrationally angry at the man for a moment.
“This isn’t the right issue to be making light of,” he said indignantly, “we need to get this over with as quickly as possible, I’d rather not have congress testifying about possible corruption and coverups in my family on election day.”
Byrd made an affirmative sounding grunt.
“That would be good. I’ll see if I can accelerate the process a little bit. If everything goes correctly then the investigation should be over by late October. That’ll be just the ticket to cement your reelection: a clean bill of financial health for Billy Carter.”
Carter nodded uncertainly to himself.
“Late October…that’s cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”
Byrd sighed.
“I’m Majority Leader Jimmy, not God. I wish that I had the tools of creation itself at my disposal, but unfortunately all I have at the moment is the Senate, and that is a fucking unwieldy tool.”
Carter supposed that he wouldn’t get anything better out of Byrd and leaned back in his chair.
“I understand…just please Robert, get this whole thing over with.”
“I will.” Byrd promised, “goodbye Jimmy.” He hung up the phone.
Carter set his phone down and looked sourly upon the raft of attack ads. While Byrd may have been joking about cracking down on Helms, it really wasn’t sounding like that bad of an idea.
12:00 P.M. The United States, September 10, 1980
The interview of Gerald Ford by Walter Cronkite would become the most widely viewed CBS political special for the entire year of 1980, eclipsing (though barely) even the station’s coverage of the Republican National Convention in July. Ford, who was widely viewed as a retread and a generally uninspiring candidate, captivated many undecided voters with his characteristic and unflinching honesty, improving his polling significantly.
With Baker trawling the south for disaffected moderates and liberals, and Ronald Reagan making vague hints that he would possibly show up on the campaign trail sometime in early October, the tides of the election suddenly seemed to be turning in Ford’s favor.
The only question was, would it all be enough?
2:55 P.M. Washington D.C., September 11, 1980
Jimmy Carter was making his thirtieth call of the day. He had counted. The others had been to an array of diplomats asking if any progress had been made with the Iranians (none whatsoever), some to Lockheed asking how the C-130 project was going (excellently), and now one to Gerald Ford, to make a proposal.
Ford’s secretary picked up on the second ring and was audibly surprised to hear Carter on the other end of the line.
“Could you put me through to Jerry ma’am?” Carter asked amiably.
“Absolutely. Just a moment Mr. President.”
A moment passed and then Ford was on the line.
“Jimmy,” he said fondly, “we haven’t spoken for a while. What’s going on?”
“I think that Helms has crossed a line Jerry. He’s attacking my brother now. I don’t mind if he attacks me…that’s just the price of being President, but I cannot stand him smearing my brother. We need to stop him.”
Ford was silent for a few moments.
“I agree. You’ve seen the ads he’s running against Ron, right?”
Carter nodded to himself.
“Yes. Reprehensible.”
“He’s getting bolder and bolder as time goes on, and he’s starting to mess with my polling. I’d rather that you and me had a fair contest rather than Helms screwing with the both of us.” What Helms was doing was morally unacceptable to Ford, and even if it was hurting Carter worse than it was hurting him, he would rather run a clean election than a dirty one.
“I’d hate to see what he’s running by the time the election rolls around. In any case, how about we agree to a non-aggression pact of sorts…just until the middle of October. Then we can resume campaigning as usual.”
“I’m still going to disparage your policies,” Ford said, “and you’re welcome to do the same to me, but I’ll reduce ad output that’s critical of you and put the difference into stuff against Helms. How does that sound?”
Carter sighed but supposed that that was the best deal he was going to get from Ford.
“That’s good,” he said, somewhat reluctantly, “but let’s powwow later this week, see what we can do about Helms.”
Ford smiled.
“Sure thing Jimmy.”
The two men bid each other farewell and hung up their respective phones, Ford going back to the meeting that he had been interrupted from, Carter placing yet another call, this one to Chairman Jones.
“Mr. President,” Jones said from the other end of the line, “I expect that you want to advance the next briefing?”
“Yes General,” Carter said, “that would be nice.”
Two very bad things had happened in quick succession within only twenty four hours of each other. The first was that the Soviets had launched their offensive into Panjshir ahead of the weapons shipments that Carter had wanted Massoud to receive; the second was that congress was launching an official hearing into the Libyan excursions that Billy Carter had taken the previous year.
The second was far worse than the first, and was the primary reason that Carter was staring at the shadowy ceiling of his bedroom, unable to sleep. This was going to be bad for him, no matter how it turned out. Even if Billy was cleared of all potential wrongdoing (like he would be…Carter had faith that his brother had done nothing wrong while in Libya), it would still put a serious dent in his numbers.
The congressional hearing was likely being done in response to allegations flowing from the Helms campaign (not officially of course, but who else would turn out that sort of stuff?) that Billy had, depending on which tabloid outlet you read:
- Been brainwashed, Manchurian Candidate style, by Gaddafi and even now was wandering around the US; a ticking time bomb that could possibly be used to assassinate his brother or any of the other high ranking government officials he mingled with.
- Received bribe money from the Libyan government to extoll the virtues of Gaddafi’s North African dictatorship to anyone who would listen. This would mostly be his brother Jimmy.
- Made plans to defect to Libya and had to be paid off by Gaddafi himself in an attempt to convince him not to do it. This last theory wasn’t taken seriously even in conspiracy circles.
They were all patently ridiculous in Carter’s eyes, but the money that his brother had (legally) received from the Libyans added an element of plausibility to the allegations that otherwise would have not been there. It had caused enough of an uproar in political circles to convince congress to investigate, and that wasn’t a good thing. They wouldn’t find anything, but for as long as the investigators analyzed financial records and interviewed experts and witnesses, it would effectively raise a giant flaming billboard to the heavens, reading JIMMY CARTER’S BROTHER IS A CROOK. Already there were rumors flying that he was concealing vital evidence, which certainly wouldn’t help him in the slightest.
Even if the Republicans in congress had effectively disowned Jesse Helms, they were willing to hold their noses and work tentatively with him in the senate if the goal was to discredit Jimmy Carter.
Carter sighed and shut his eyes, but sleep didn’t come. It rarely did these days.
11:17 A.M. Lynchburg Virginia, September 3, 1980
Pastor Jerry Falwell was agitated, and had been for much of the past month and a half. Gerald Ford was a fine human being as far as he was concerned, but when it came to him being President of the United States…that was a completely different ballgame. Falwell had been expecting Reagan to be nominated, and all of the chaos of the past seventy odd days had taken him completely by surprise.
God had not sent him any indication that Reagan would be struck down like this, so close to the moment that would cement him as the conservative Christian leader that America needed.
Falwell had considered swapping his support to Helms, who was far more conservative and generally more palatable than Ford, but had been warned not to by Reagan, who had spoken to him in an uncharacteristically steely voice. Reagan had explained to him that splitting the party would hand the election to Carter and invite even more moral decay into the nation. Ford was not perfect, Reagan readily admitted this, but he was far better than Carter, and was a better Christian than the bumbling peanut farmer who currently occupied the White House.
“At least Ford agreed to overturn Roe v. Wade.” Falwell muttered to himself. He said stuff like this every now and then, little affirmations that he was on the right path. Still, he was deeply unsatisfied and wanted very badly to start raining hellfire down upon the masses, urging them to vote for someone…anyone who would roll back the tides of sin and wickedness that he saw everywhere he looked. Abortion, pornography, homosexuality…it sickened him to watch it swamp the nation, drowning the good people in seas of abandoned virtues and used needles.
“At least Ford agreed to crack down on the addicts and welfare queens.” Falwell sighed, then fell silent. Ford wasn’t too bad, and in any other year Falwell would have probably been happy to support him, but after the potential that Reagan had shown, and the promises that he had made, Ford was pale and insubstantial, unable to measure up to the man who he was making his Chief of Staff.
And Betty Ford…goddamnit but Falwell just didn’t like that woman. With her casual liberalism, pushing travesties like the Equal Rights Amendment and encouraging the children to go and dope themselves up on marijuana. It was horrifying what Ford let his wife get away with. Falwell shook his head.
“Mr. Falwell, sir?”
Falwell looked up to see that his secretary had poked her head into his office.
“Yes?” He asked, wondering if she had heard his little ‘at least’ statements. He hoped not.
“Pastor Robertson is here, he wishes to speak to you.”
Falwell nodded and straightened up in his chair.
“Oh, uh, send him in.” He pulled a paper in front of him and tried to look busy as Robertson strode in, hair slicked back and suit neatly pressed. Robertson had bags under his eyes and Falwell supposed that the man had been busy with something or other.
“Pat, always a pleasure. What brings you?”
Robertson sat down with a little sigh.
“What are we going to do beyond this election Jerry?” He asked, a tone of raw urgency in his voice.
“You mean ’84?”
Robertson nodded.
“And ’88, and beyond. We need to figure out how to get back on track…I agree with you on backing Ford…I want to support Helms but doing that would just get Carter reelected,” he paused and sighed angrily at the unfairness of it all, then looked back up at Falwell, his gaze intense, “we cant keep on supporting moderates, we need a good Christian conservative, otherwise the nation will fall apart.”
Falwell set down the pen he was holding and nodded slowly.
“I agree with you Pat. But who? Reagan is gonna be too old by ’84,” he said this regretfully but knew that it would be true no matter how he felt about it. The American people just didn’t like electing geriatrics, “and both Baker and Bush are gonna be in strong positions in ’84 if Ford does well.”
Robertson winced at the mention of Baker and Bush, both of whom he considered liberals at best.
“They cant be allowed to win the nomination…I’d really like to avoid another Helms debacle…he had so much promise, and he pissed it all away with this third party run of his.”
Falwell shrugged.
“I’ll talk to Ron and Ford about letting him stay in the party. This isn’t Stalinist Russia, we don’t do purges.”
That seemed to mollify Robertson.
“If that succeeds then we might be able to back Helms. If he wants to run again.” Falwell nodded at this. Political strategy wasn’t his strong suit, but he had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen over the next few years. The hostage crisis would come to an end, possibly bloodily, possibly not, Ford would crack down on drugs, reform the welfare system and hold the line on moral purity…and serve as a placeholder until a better, more conservative candidate could be found.
“There’s Kemp too. He got a lot of votes at the convention.” Falwell liked the thought of Kemp, young, relatively untarnished…but also relatively unknown to the American people, including himself. All he knew about Kemp was that the guy liked supply side economics. Still, he would do if there weren’t any other candidates available.
“I guess we’ll have to see how this election turns out before we start making plans.” Robertson said, and Falwell nodded slowly, lost in thought about the wonders that a conservative Christian President would do for America.
“Ford’ll win,” Falwell said, “he has to. Otherwise we’ll get stuck with Carter for another four years.”
Robertson slicked his hair back and shook his head emphatically.
“That might be enough to cause a revolution.”
Falwell couldn’t say that he disagreed.
5:00 P.M. Nashville Tennessee, September 5, 1980
Baker, though he had been campaigning very hard for the past six weeks, was still energetic as he gazed over the crowd standing before him. He enjoyed being back in his home state, and let his constituents know as much, eliciting a cheer from them. He was popular in the state, having won reelection handily only two years earlier, and was pleased to see that turnout was high. Tennessee was a state that Carter had won in 1976 and Baker was determined to make sure that that didn’t happen again. He had a decent chance at achieving that goal, the polling was close enough (in Tennessee at least) that nobody could make heads or tails of who was supposed to be leading, even with Helms involved.
“Welcome,” he told the crowd, “I’m glad that you’ve all come here today, to the capital of the great state of Tennessee.” The crowd roared. Ford wasn’t with him, he had gone to New York City to appear in a series of interviews, but they were lively nonetheless, excited to see their senator campaigning for an even higher office than his current post.
“I have come to ask you all a single question, and one that almost everyone will answer the same way. Are you better off now than you were four years ago? In this era of skyrocketing inflation and plummeting wages, of rampant foreign aggression and widespread domestic corruption, are you better off now than you were four years ago? I have spoken to men, women and children all across this nation over the past few weeks and have not heard of a single case where President Carter’s economic policies have served to help rather than hinder American job creation and economic growth. I have seen businesses with their windows dark and their doors locked, factories shuttered and their workers unemployed. I have seen prices raised far beyond what any low income family could possibly afford. And despite the powerful words of President Carter on malaise and sacrifice, they remain only words even after all this time.
“But while President Carter may be content to watch as American innovation collects dust, shackled by the cruel bonds of economic stagnation and squalor, I know a man who is not, and that man’s name is Gerald Ford!” Baker was forced to stop speaking as another roar of applause snipped the end of Ford’s name off. Signs were being waved, flags too, and the crowd was splashed with color and excitement. Slowly, surely, the base was being woken up. Though people had been discouraged by Reagan’s lack of presence on the ticket, they were beginning to realize that, hey, they liked Jerry Ford and Howard Baker. Sure they weren’t perfect, but they were relatable and honest in a refreshingly nice way that stood in perfect contrast to the suffocating moral sanctimoniousness that could obscure Jimmy Carter from time to time.
“I have known Gerald Ford for a long time,” Baker continued, “and not only has he always had the nation’s best interests at heart, but he also has the ability and experience to pull this nation out from the slump that it’s in and return us once and for all to the times of prosperity and inner peace that the American people deserve.” Baker went on like this for a few more minutes. The speech was a touch nationalistic for him, but the speechwriter had been almost adorably proud of his creation, and despite the almost fascistic touches of national pride that practically oozed from the document, it was a pretty decent speech. So Baker pontificated, gestured and capered before the crowd, encouraged by the applause that they poured out in response. They were fired up, encouraged by the sunny future that was being promised to them, and eager to do just about anything to get it.
Ford had evidently taken Reagan’s plan for the general election and made his own modifications, and so far it was working out beautifully. Carter on the other hand was running a more subdued campaign, pointing to incremental improvements in the economy as proof that things were getting better. That and continuing to negotiate endlessly with the Iranians, who seemed to enjoy their ability to carry out the diplomatic equivalent of poking the President of the United States with a sharp stick whenever they wanted to.
It was slightly depressing to watch, but while Baker wanted very badly for the hostages to be returned safely home, a small part of him did realize that it was far better for him and Ford that the hostages remained locked up…at least until after the election. That part of him, a remnant of the old survival instincts that had guided his primeval ancestors in their endless scrambles for survival, had been speaking up more often these days. He supposed that it had to, he was running in a national election after all, what higher form of survival was there?
2:00 P.M. Sacramento California, September 7, 1980
“You shouldn’t show that to him,” the doctor pleaded, “it’s not good for him to strain himself, and getting angry counts as strain.”
Reagan had been watching Nancy and the doctor argue for the past several minutes, and his sense of curiosity was almost overpowering now.
“You know that I’m right here, right?” He asked. He had gotten the impression that what Nancy was holding, a piece of paper torn from a magazine, was an attack ad of some sort, but didn’t know what it said exactly. Whatever it was, it had gotten Nancy properly angry, to the point that some of her hair was standing on end, seemingly defying the laws of gravity.
“Ron, you wouldn’t believe what Jesse Helms is saying, it’s monstrous!”
Reagan sighed. So it was Helms, most likely saying something truly heinous about him. That really wasn’t surprising.
“I’m a politician,” he said to the doctor, “I’ve seen far worse than anything that Jesse Helms could cook up.”
The doctor looked uncertain but then took a half step aside, letting Nancy breeze past him, to Reagan’s bedside. She held the page stiffly out, anger making her hand shake.
It was a full page advertisement, showing an x-ray cross-section of a human skull and an excerpt from some medical journal or another detailing that personality changes could result from severe head injuries. Beneath the blurb, in bold yellow letters, was a question:
IS RONALD REAGAN STILL OUR RONALD REAGAN?
Reagan laughed, looked at the ad again and then laughed so hard that he snorted, which set him off again. The ludicrous extremes to which the ad reached, in combination with its base ugliness were all deeply and almost inexplicably hilarious, to the point where tears filled his eyes. Nancy stared, looking more surprised than anything, the doctor gliding concernedly over.
“Sir?” He asked but Reagan just shook his head.
“I’m okay.” He said between gasps of laughter, then fought himself back under control, looking back at the ad again. It had been sponsored by a group called Doctors For America, and that made him laugh again.
“Can’t Helms think of anything better?” He asked, wiping a stray tear from his eye.
Nancy shook her head.
“No Ron, he cant. He’s a disgusting man and I want to…I want to wring his neck!”
Reagan smiled genially in response.
“Don’t be angry darling,” he said, taking ahold of her hand, “that’s what he wants. All we’ve got to do is get the cameras back in here and film another spot. That’ll set these accusations back.” Reagan wasn’t concerned by the ad. So far as he could see there was no way that anyone would take it seriously, after all he had given statements to the press and even given a televised endorsement not too long before…he was undoubtedly still himself.
But outside of the walls of the hospital, away from Ronald Reagan, people were beginning to see the advertisement, and a whole plethora of others. And while most people tossed them away, having already made up their minds who they were voting for, whether it be Ford, Carter or nobody at all, more than a few gazed at the ad with wary eyes, wondering just how much truth it held.
12:00 P.M. New York City New York, September 8, 1980
“Have you seen this before?” Walter Cronkite was asking, and Ford took the sheet of paper that the news anchor was offering. Ford had indeed seen it before, just as Reagan had the previous day. The human skull and accompanying text were already becoming a singularly unwelcome sight.
“Yes. It’s an attack ad, alleging that Ronald Reagan is suffering from brain damage and a fundamental personality change as a result of his injuries.”
Cronkite nodded and adjusted his glasses.
“You have made statements against the usage of attack advertisements like this in the past,” Ford nodded at the anchor’s words, “are you concerned that campaigning of this sort may become more prevalent in the future?”
Ford cleared his throat.
“I am. It appeals to a lower common denominator than any other form of campaigning…it’s certainly easier to attack an opponent for unrelated reasons than it is to debate the issues in a polite and coherent manner. Unfortunately though there’s no real way to regulate against this without stifling the freedoms that we as Americans hold dear. After all, as Voltaire said, ‘I disagree with what you have said, but I will die for your right to say it.’ That applies to all speech in this country, whether it be the Gettysburg Address or this travesty of an attack ad.”
Cronkite nodded soberly.
“That doesn’t leave many options for curbing these types of campaign tactics.”
Ford shrugged.
“I’ve always prided myself on remaining civil with my opponents, President Carter included, and he has done the same with me. We may accuse each other of holding irresponsible policy views, but we wouldn’t dare doubt each other’s inherent fitness as a human being. That goes beyond the realm of acceptability. But as for what can be done to decrease the usage of these unfortunate tactics…I’d have to say that all we can do for now is lead by example, win and then hope that the next generation will follow in our footsteps.”
“Do you foresee Jesse Helms following along?”
Ford chuckled at the question.
“No. Not right away at least. If Senator Helms has a political future beyond this election, which personally I doubt, then he’ll see that while sensationalistic and irresponsible campaigning of the type he’s been doing is great for stirring up hype in the short term…it erodes support for you in the long term, across a wider base of people than those that the attack ads immediately appeal to.”
Cronkite stroked his chin, looking inquisitive.
“Forgive me if I’m asking too many campaigning related questions, but what would you say that the inherent goal of your campaign is exactly?”
“Well, to win for one. But every good campaign has objectives beyond simply winning the election, and mine comes directly from Ronald Reagan, with whom I’ve been working closely ever since I was nominated. The objective of my campaign is to restore American morale, which has dipped precariously over the past few years. We’re stuck in a recession, inflation is rising, hundreds of American men and women are trapped overseas, being held hostage by Islamic radicals…things are not going our way right now. But instead of accepting that as the status quo, I propose that the American people rise up and vote themselves a new tomorrow, where they can be free to enjoy freedom from malaise, freedom from terror, and freedom from inflation. We gain nothing by doing nothing, and in a nation with as many opportunities as ours, anybody can do anything that they set their minds to, if they work hard and make use of the tools that the federal government and the private sector, working in unison, provide them with.” Cronkite smiled, clearly pleased by the substance of the answer. He was having a good time with this, Ford realized, and that made him feel more relaxed. He had been interviewed by the anchor before, and always enjoyed Cronkite’s company.
“The last portion of your response intrigued me,” Cronkite said, “you mention the government and the private sector working together. What exactly do you envision when you say that?”
“I believe that there is a role for the federal government in our society, as do the vast majority of people in this country. The fundamental difference that all of these people have is just how big that role is. I personally believe in less government, less interference in the marketplace and fewer governmental regulations on the individual. Under a Ford administration you could expect to see business regulations relaxed, trade barriers lowered and taxes slashed, leaving the average person in America wealthier and in a better position to take advantage of a revitalized economy.”
“You’ve been described as occupying a middle ground between President Carter and Senator Helms. How accurate would you say that is?”
Ford took a few moments to think.
“Ultimately,” he said, “while I might appeal primarily to conservatives and moderates, I am doing my best to represent the nation as a whole. That’s where I differ from President Carter and Senator Helms. Where the President and Jesse Helms are quite nakedly campaigning only to win specific demographics, liberals and conservatives respectively, I’m running a campaign dedicated to winning over everyone dedicated to the principles of freedom and economic prosperity. The Republican party is a big tent organization after all, and limiting ourselves to one specific demographic will only guarantee continued division and polarization in the future.”
Cronkite shifted in his seat, looking interested.
“Not everybody agrees with your message though.”
Ford nodded.
“Of course not. And I’m not asking that everybody does. Dissent is an important part of democracy, and I encourage criticism and opinions that differ from my own…it goes a long way towards creating a healthier environment for policy making. It might certainly be easier to work in an environment where everybody agrees with you, but if I wanted that sort of endless affirmation of my own beliefs then I’d go found a dictatorship.”
Cronkite smiled.
“There are some who have accused you of authoritarian policies while you were in office, not least of all vetoing H.R. 12471, which amended the Freedom of Information Act.”
That caught Ford by surprise, up until now Cronkite had been lobbing him softballs, easy questions that allowed him to effectively spoon feed the viewers his policy views. Now the interview had taken a more serious turn.
“Yes,” Ford said evenly, “I vetoed those amendments. Congress then proceeded to override my veto and pass the amendments anyway, which I wasn’t very pleased with in 1974, but feel better about now. Back then I was new to the presidency, I had just pardoned Richard Nixon…a very controversial act which still sparks debate today, and I was not certain if allowing the American people access to the dealings of the Nixon administration so soon after the traumas of Watergate was a good idea. Ultimately, though it caused some strife, I have come to realize that congress overriding that veto was a very good thing, because it allowed the American people to see just what their officials had been up to over the past few decades.”
“Do you regret your veto?”
“No. I did what I thought was right, and ultimately I cannot change that, so there’s no point in feeling badly about it.”
“Is that pragmatism or an unwillingness to admit making mistakes?”
Ford smiled grimly.
“I’d like to think pragmatism, but it’s up to everyone to make up their own minds on that.”
Cronkite clearly realized that this was a dodge but went along with it anyway.
“Are there other areas in which your views have changed since you first assumed the presidency?”
Ford nodded.
“Yes. The task of governing the nation is an ever changing task, and what may have worked in 1970 may not necessarily hold true in 1980 or 2000. The times will have changed, new technologies will have been invented, the geopolitical landscape altered. New policies and ideas will always be needed to steer the nation towards the prosperity and peace that it deserves, and a lot of the time that means that you have to change your mind on things…even if it’s embarrassing or politically damaging to do so.”
“Like the Nixon pardon. Many assumed that you would let Richard Nixon be charged, but instead you granted him a full pardon.”
“I did, and I maintain that it was the correct thing to do. I believe that I termed the end of Nixon’s presidency as ‘a long national nightmare’ when I first took office. It could have kept going and going and going…until the American people had lost all faith in their system of government, or it could have been ended right there. Which is what I intended to happen when I offered that pardon deal to Nixon. You see, I have long had a fascination with the law, and when I was mulling over exactly what to do with Richard Nixon, I remembered a specific case that had a great deal of relevance to my current situation. That being Burdick v. United States, in which the Supreme Court ruled that accepting a federal pardon was tantamount to a confession of guilt.”
Cronkite nodded thoughtfully.
“I remember your remarks on the subject during your testimony to congress. You kept a copy of the Burdick ruling in your wallet during all of that.”
“I did. I still have that paper somewhere, in one desk or another…” Ford paused, then considered what to say, “but the point of doing that was to make sure that while justice was done, it was also done in a responsible manner. Regardless of what he might say to the contrary, Richard Nixon was guilty and deserved to leave office, but he didn’t need to take down the entire nation along with him. The American people don’t deserve for that to happen to them.”
“On that note, I’d like to thank you very much for answering my questions, we are unfortunately out of time…”
Ford smiled graciously and extended a hand. Cronkite shook and Ford stood up.
“Thank you very much for having me.” The cameras shut off and Cronkite visibly relaxed, working a kink out of his neck.
“You did well,” the anchor said, “I think that you just might win.” And with that he was off, heading to his other duties. Cronkite was set to retire soon, Ford had heard. That would be a sad day.
1:30 P.M. Washington D.C., September 9, 1980
“Obviously these charges are completely false…I mean, good God!” Carter immediately felt bad for taking the Lord’s name in vain, but even that religious guilt didn’t temper the irritation that he was feeling. Arrayed across his desk were a number of spurious, lurid attack advertisements, accusing him and his brother of everything under the sun. Most were from Helms, others from independent conservative outfits who felt emboldened by Helms.
“The media smells blood Jimmy,” Senate Majority Leader Robert Byrd said from the other end of the line, “they’re starting to call it Billygate for fuck’s sake.”
Carter let a long breath hiss between his teeth. Byrd sounded more bewildered than concerned, but with the ominous plateauing effect that this unfolding crisis was having on his poll numbers, it was a great deal more terrifying for Carter.
“Helms is stirring the water…these ads of his are causing all sorts of chaos.”
Byrd cleared his throat.
“Then get out there and smack him with something. Hell, you and Fritz have been going easy on the son of a bitch. Sic the FEC on him, the IRS…hell, go full Lyndon Johnson and use the FBI.” Byrd was joking, Carter knew that, but he still felt irrationally angry at the man for a moment.
“This isn’t the right issue to be making light of,” he said indignantly, “we need to get this over with as quickly as possible, I’d rather not have congress testifying about possible corruption and coverups in my family on election day.”
Byrd made an affirmative sounding grunt.
“That would be good. I’ll see if I can accelerate the process a little bit. If everything goes correctly then the investigation should be over by late October. That’ll be just the ticket to cement your reelection: a clean bill of financial health for Billy Carter.”
Carter nodded uncertainly to himself.
“Late October…that’s cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”
Byrd sighed.
“I’m Majority Leader Jimmy, not God. I wish that I had the tools of creation itself at my disposal, but unfortunately all I have at the moment is the Senate, and that is a fucking unwieldy tool.”
Carter supposed that he wouldn’t get anything better out of Byrd and leaned back in his chair.
“I understand…just please Robert, get this whole thing over with.”
“I will.” Byrd promised, “goodbye Jimmy.” He hung up the phone.
Carter set his phone down and looked sourly upon the raft of attack ads. While Byrd may have been joking about cracking down on Helms, it really wasn’t sounding like that bad of an idea.
12:00 P.M. The United States, September 10, 1980
The interview of Gerald Ford by Walter Cronkite would become the most widely viewed CBS political special for the entire year of 1980, eclipsing (though barely) even the station’s coverage of the Republican National Convention in July. Ford, who was widely viewed as a retread and a generally uninspiring candidate, captivated many undecided voters with his characteristic and unflinching honesty, improving his polling significantly.
With Baker trawling the south for disaffected moderates and liberals, and Ronald Reagan making vague hints that he would possibly show up on the campaign trail sometime in early October, the tides of the election suddenly seemed to be turning in Ford’s favor.
The only question was, would it all be enough?
2:55 P.M. Washington D.C., September 11, 1980
Jimmy Carter was making his thirtieth call of the day. He had counted. The others had been to an array of diplomats asking if any progress had been made with the Iranians (none whatsoever), some to Lockheed asking how the C-130 project was going (excellently), and now one to Gerald Ford, to make a proposal.
Ford’s secretary picked up on the second ring and was audibly surprised to hear Carter on the other end of the line.
“Could you put me through to Jerry ma’am?” Carter asked amiably.
“Absolutely. Just a moment Mr. President.”
A moment passed and then Ford was on the line.
“Jimmy,” he said fondly, “we haven’t spoken for a while. What’s going on?”
“I think that Helms has crossed a line Jerry. He’s attacking my brother now. I don’t mind if he attacks me…that’s just the price of being President, but I cannot stand him smearing my brother. We need to stop him.”
Ford was silent for a few moments.
“I agree. You’ve seen the ads he’s running against Ron, right?”
Carter nodded to himself.
“Yes. Reprehensible.”
“He’s getting bolder and bolder as time goes on, and he’s starting to mess with my polling. I’d rather that you and me had a fair contest rather than Helms screwing with the both of us.” What Helms was doing was morally unacceptable to Ford, and even if it was hurting Carter worse than it was hurting him, he would rather run a clean election than a dirty one.
“I’d hate to see what he’s running by the time the election rolls around. In any case, how about we agree to a non-aggression pact of sorts…just until the middle of October. Then we can resume campaigning as usual.”
“I’m still going to disparage your policies,” Ford said, “and you’re welcome to do the same to me, but I’ll reduce ad output that’s critical of you and put the difference into stuff against Helms. How does that sound?”
Carter sighed but supposed that that was the best deal he was going to get from Ford.
“That’s good,” he said, somewhat reluctantly, “but let’s powwow later this week, see what we can do about Helms.”
Ford smiled.
“Sure thing Jimmy.”
The two men bid each other farewell and hung up their respective phones, Ford going back to the meeting that he had been interrupted from, Carter placing yet another call, this one to Chairman Jones.
“Mr. President,” Jones said from the other end of the line, “I expect that you want to advance the next briefing?”
“Yes General,” Carter said, “that would be nice.”
6:50 P.M. Sacramento California, September 12, 1980
“Listen…I haven’t been able to get anything new on Patti Reagan…she’s in full lockdown, thinks that people are out to get her.”
Helms chuckled from the other end of his line. The tone of annoyance coming from his operative was adorable.
“Imagine that…”
“But you’re gonna like what I did find.”
“And what’s that?”
“I saw Joan Quigley leaving the hospital.”
Helms paused, confused.
“Who the hell is that?” He asked.
The operative laughed, sounding delighted with himself all of the sudden.
“An astrologist. Bitch thinks she can predict the future based upon the movements of the cosmos…something like that. I did some asking around and got a nurse to tell me that she was there visiting Reagan.”
Helms smiled, almost uncontrollably. This was golden.
“Please tell me you took photos of her.”
“Of course.”
“Good,” Helms purred, “find out if she’s being employed by the Reagans. If she is, well, that’s a bonus for us.”
The operative laughed.
“It’ll be done.”
He hung up.
4:15 P.M. Concord Massachusetts, September 13, 1980
Ford was halfway through the front door of his state campaign office when his secretary caught him by the elbow, looking vaguely displeased.
“Richard Nixon is on the phone,” she told him quietly, “he wants to discuss the Cronkite interview.”
Ford glanced back, saw that the secretary had the phone clasped to her chest, the cord stretching out way back behind her. He nodded briskly and looked apologetically at the state senator who he was supposed to attend a fundraiser with.
“Give me three minutes, I’ll be right behind you.”
The senator smiled, a little tautly, and Ford took the phone, walking back into his office.
“Dick,” he said, “hello.” He hadn’t spoken to Nixon in nearly a month, but the ex-President still sounded vigorous, and slightly angry too.
“I watched the Cronkite interview on television,” Nixon said, “didn’t know that he even gave interviews.”
Ford chuckled but was slightly alarmed by the unhappiness crackling in Nixon’s voice.
“I asked very nicely.”
“Listen Jerry,” Nixon said, “I am one hundred percent behind you in this campaign, come November I will vote for you with a clear conscience. But with that being said, you have done two things that I really do not like.”
Ford sighed.
“And what are those?” He asked.
“You pronounced me guilty on national television. I resent that Jerry. I fucking resent it.”
Ford clenched his teeth.
“You broke the law Dick,” he said, forcing himself to reman calm, “and by accepting the pardon deal that I organized for you, you made the legal equivalent of a confession. We may disagree on that, but don’t expect me to change my mind to accommodate your views.”
Nixon was silent for a few seconds. Ford watched the big hand of a nearby clock tick slowly away, nearly a minute draining from the day before Nixon spoke again.
“The other thing is that you snubbed John Connolly.”
That took Ford by surprise, Connolly’s was a name that he hadn’t heard for a while.
“Snubbed him how?” He asked.
“He helped you at the convention, quite a lot. I’d appreciate if you found a place for him in your administration.”
Ford raised an eyebrow. This was sort of a strange request coming from Nixon, who was notorious for having few friends, and even fewer who he would do favors for. But at the same time, John Connolly was one of those rare friends who Nixon really seemed to care about.
“And where could I place him? The only conceivable spots are Treasury and maybe Defense…” He didn’t finish the sentence, instead he heard Nixon chuckle.
“And you have no plans for Defense. Go ahead Jerry, you know that he deserves it.”
Ford was quiet for a few moments. He hadn’t even considered that.
“Well…”
“I’m going to humiliate myself and ask you nicely,” Nixon said, “please Jerry, consider him for the position.”
Ford sighed.
“I’ll ask him to come to Washington for an interview once the election has been won.” Ford could practically see Nixon grinning smugly on the other end of the line.
“Thank you Jerry. Now get out there and kick Carter back to Georgia.”
Ford bid Nixon farewell and hung up. Dealing with Nixon never got any easier, but sometimes it did have its unexpected benefits.
He rushed after the state senator, tugging on his coat as he did so. Autumn was beginning to creep across the land, bringing with it an almost unseasonable chill. Hopping into the senator’s car, Ford smiled and shook hands with the people he was going to be endorsing and wondered what exactly the future was to bring for him and John Connolly.
12:44 P.M. Sacramento California, September 14, 1980
“Mrs. Reagan, Mrs. Reagan, is it true that you hired Joan Quigley to provide astrological services for you and your husband?”
Nancy Reagan managed to shut the door to Reagan’s hospital room halfway before one of the reporters crowding the hallway blocked it with his foot.
“No comment.” She snapped and kicked the man’s foot out of the way, slamming the door and muffling the continual flood of questions that poured out from behind it. Reagan watched impassively from his bed.
“So they found out,” he mused, “that was quick.”
Nancy shook her head vigorously.
“This is Helms’ doing,” she growled, “and I despise that he’s trying to make us look like we’re crazy.”
Reagan stood up and walked over to Nancy, taking her gently by the shoulders.
“Darling,” he said, “we are crazy. Why else would I be going back out onto the campaign trail in two weeks? And why else would you let me?”
That made Nancy pause, surprised.
“This is bad Ron,” she said, ignoring his joke, “I hate it when people laugh at us…I hate it!”
Reagan shushed her and guided her to the other side of the room, where they sat on the edge of the bed together.
“Jesse Helms is a thug,” he said, “and a bully who showed his true colors the instant it became clear that I had nothing to offer him. He might have people looking at us right now, but the important thing is that they aren’t looking at Jerry and Howard. They can laugh at us all they want, but it wont matter, because come next January, we’ll all be in the White House,” he kissed her, “and they wont.”
This seemed to mollify Nancy some, but Reagan could still see indignant, helpless fury burning in her eyes.
“You’re right,” she said finally, “but please Ron, talk to Jerry, we need to get this figured out.”
Reagan put an arm around Nancy’s shoulders.
“I will,” he said, “I will.”
1:00 P.M. Concord Massachusetts, September 14, 1980
Ford beat Reagan to the punch, calling him less than a minute after a paper hit his desk, displaying a number of photographs and headlines showing Joan Quigley very prominently. THE REAGAN’S ASTROLOGIST? the first headline blared. The others were less kind.
“Ron,” Ford said, “I think its time we got serious about Helms.”
Reagan chuckled.
“I agree completely. Have you spoken to Carter about arranging something? It looks like he’s getting hit pretty hard too, he might agree to a break in campaigning or something.”
Ford grinned.
“Already ahead of you on that one. We’re having a phone conference tomorrow to discuss what to do. You don’t need to do anything, just rest and don’t talk to the press. I’ll give them something new to talk about soon enough.”
That reassured Reagan quite a bit, even if he had done his best to appear unaffected in front of Nancy, this whole astrology business was beginning to stress him out a little bit. A lot of people out there thought of it as pseudo-science or even pagan idolatry, definitely not the sort of thing that was to be present in the nation’s elected officials.
“I’d like to be included in that conference.” He said, and Ford hesitated for just a fraction of a second before assenting.
“Sure thing.”
Reagan smiled.
“Thanks Jerry.”
Ford gave him a number and a time and wished him well before hanging up. Leaning back in his chair, Ford considered what could be done to destroy Helms. He had a few ideas.
11:00 A.M. Washington D.C., September 15, 1980
The phone conference lasted only a few minutes, which was fine with Carter. He was almost debilitatingly busy between campaign work and other government related errands, and sounded harried even as he spoke.
“Helms has hurt us all in some way or another,” he said, “he’s alleged that my brother is a criminal, that Ron is suffering from a personality disorder, and that Jerry is a socialist hellbent on destroying the nation. These go beyond the realm of acceptability in politics, and have forced us to work together in destroying Helms completely and totally.”
Silence for a few moments, then spirited clapping from Reagan’s end of the line.
“People said that I was going to be the first actor in the White House,” he chuckled, “you ought to come to Hollywood sometime Jimmy, you’d do well there.”
Carter sighed irritably.
“Can we be serious now?” Ford asked gently.
“Sure.” Reagan said.
“Okay,” Carter continued, “we need to decide on a plan of action relating to Helms. That way Jerry and I can finish this election without his interference. Sooner or later he might hit on something that actually sticks, and that’s the last thing that any of us want.”
“Might be too late for that,” Reagan said, “the astrology thing is getting to be pretty big news.” Billygate too, he just barely prevented himself from adding.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Ford said, clearly not wanting to let Carter into his own campaign plans, “this is about Helms.”
“To figure out how to beat him we may have to descend to his level and find flaws. Old policy positions, racist quotations that’ll scare moderates away from his campaign…stuff like that.”
Reagan sighed, clearly disagreeing with Carter’s strategy.
“He has Atwater working for him, that man thrives on race baiting. Besides, his supporters aren’t going to flee just because he’s in the habit of calling his opponents niggers, hippies and communists…that’s what they like about him.”
Carter made an unhappy noise.
“Ron’s right,” Ford said, “the more racist he goes, the more popular he gets. We’ll need to find something else.”
“What about that video of him shoving a delegate into a wall at the convention, and you calling him off?” Reagan asked.
“I’ve put that out there,” Ford said, “it didn’t take.”
But Reagan sounded intrigued now.
“Don’t give up on it…hell, give it a new spin and put it out again. Make sure that everyone knows what a bully Jesse Helms is.”
Ford scribbled a note down.
“Okay. That’s a plan, any ideas on your end Jimmy?”
“I’m set to go down to the south soon and campaign there.”
Ford laughed, bemused.
“So am I. We might just run into each other.”
“I’m going to meet with religious groups down there,” Carter said, “see if I can blunt Helms’ influence on that front.”
“We ought to do the same,” Reagan said, “I can call up Falwell, Robertson and those guys…see if they’d be willing to denounce Helms.”
That was a very good idea, but even considering what they might want in return made Ford shudder.
“Go for it.” He said.
“Alright,” Carter said, “we’re going to cast him as a bully and try to snip away his religious support…that’s a good start.”
It was, and Ford supposed that conversations like this were going to become more commonplace in the near future, especially if Helms refused to collapse.
“If the churches stop supporting Helms then he’ll collapse by the end of October.” Reagan predicted boldly.
“I have to go, duty calls,” Carter said regretfully, “I’ll talk to you guys later.” His line clicked and left Ford and Reagan alone.
“So what do you think I should do about this astrology scandal?” Reagan asked.
“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
“Yes. Don knows,” it took Ford a moment to realize that Reagan was referring to Don Regan rather than Don Rumsfeld, “so does Paul Laxalt, and a few others. Close friends of mine.”
Ford nodded to himself, feeling relieved. Those were good, dependable people to have by one’s side during a crisis.
“Ask them to come to Sacramento. We need to stand alongside you in solidarity. I’m also going to ask you to deny hiring Quigley. Say that she just came for a visit…she did only come by once, right?”
“Yes…”
“Good. Say that she came for a visit but that you did not hire her…goddamn, I hate lying like this, but it’s better than you getting kicked around for having hired an astrologer…”
Reagan let out a confused little laugh.
“I didn’t actually hire her yet…”
Ford stopped, blinked, caught by surprise.
“Oh.”
“No,” Reagan said, “we were still deciding on an appropriate schedule. So nobody is lying here. Not technically.”
Ford sighed in relief.
“That’s good. Call Quigley up too and have her corroborate your story. She’s kept radio silent so far…which is good, but I’m not sure if she’s going to stay quiet. So get to her before she talks. And Ron?”
“Yes Jerry?”
“Please be more careful about inviting strange people to come and see you.”
Reagan laughed.
“I’m in California Jerry,” he said, “that might be out of my control.”
1:30 P.M. Sacramento California, September 17, 1980
By the time the press conference had been arranged, Quigley coached into giving a white lie to the press and Reagan cleared by his doctors for a fairly extensive day battling the press, two days had passed. In that time Laxalt had snarled at a half dozen reporters, a fried egg had been thrown at Don Regan by an elderly patient and two young press interns had been caught attempting to break into Reagan’s hospital room so that they could make off with souvenirs.
The hospital had become a hotbed of press activity and Nancy had ultimately decided that after the conference Reagan was going to be moved home immediately, doctor’s advice be damned.
Reagan himself watched the chaos with all the placid calmness of a Hindu holy cow, smiling and offering relaxed little anecdotes and jokes, quietly urging the reporters to support Ford and do everything in their power to ruin Helms and Carter.
“Welcome to the shindig,” Reagan said amiably as everyone settled into place, “I wish I could offer y’all some beers or something, but I guess that’ll have to wait until my next scandal.” That got a wave of general amusement from the audience of press representatives, and immediately the mood relaxed a little bit.
“In any case,” Reagan continued, “I expect that you’ll want me to tell you all the story of what exactly Mrs. Quigley was doing in this hospital rather than going out and covering actual news, like how eight percent of this country is out of work, or how the national debt is soon going to cross thirty percent of our entire gross national product.” Reagan could see a few of the younger journalists actually cringing under his gentle admonishments.
“But I understand your curiosity, so I can forgive your prying. Mrs. Quigley and my wife met years ago on the Merv Griffin Show, where they were both guests, and have retained some casual correspondence since then, so naturally after hearing that I had been injured, Mrs. Quigley came by to see Nancy and I when she was able to. I did not hire her to carry out astrological predictions.” The battery of journalists was remarkably quiet after this declaration, indeed Reagan’s calm announcement seemed to almost be an understatement.
“Governor, do you believe in astrology?” One of the journalists in the front row blurted out.
Reagan chuckled.
“I’ve never put much thought into it.”
A small forest of hands shot up and Reagan picked a rotund man who represented a local paper.
“Some have claimed that these allegations are just the latest in a series of coordinated attacks on your reputation. What do you have to say about that?”
“Well,” Reagan shrugged, “if the biggest complaint people have about me is who comes to visit me then I guess I’m doing pretty alright for myself. But regarding the smear campaign that this is part of, I have no doubt whatsoever that they are all connected. You see, Jesse Helms has as his campaign executive a man named Lee Atwater. Mr. Atwater used to work for me, but defected during the convention. I believe that these tactics are his work. They certainly seem familiar.” That got a buzz of excited chatter from the journalists.
“Are you saying that Jesse Helms is behind this?”
Reagan nodded.
“Who else could it be?” He asked, eyebrows raised. The press promptly made so much noise that hospital security was forced to swoop in and clear them out, cutting the press conference short. As the room emptied, Laxalt and Regan stared at Reagan.
“We didn’t even say anything,” Laxalt said, a little grumpily, “what was the point of us being here?”
“Solidarity,” Reagan said crisply, “but anyways, I think that went well.”
Regan was smiling.
“You certainly changed the subject. That’ll keep the press busy for a while.”
2:00 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, September 17, 1980
“That son of a bitch,” Atwater said quietly to himself, eyeing the television with quiet horror, “I didn’t even have anything to do with that one.” To be fair, he had organized the rest of the smear campaign, but the astrology one had been Helms and Helms alone. Not that it mattered much, the press would soon be coming to find him, and he wasn’t looking forward to that. Not at all.
2:20 P.M. Baltimore Maryland, September 17, 1980
Somewhere up the coast from where Atwater was quietly panicking, Ford laughed and clinked the beer bottle he was holding against Baker’s. The two men had reunited after their respective campaign loops and now were going to delve into the deep south, straight into Carter territory. And Helms territory as well.
“Ron’s still got it.” Baker said, something akin to admiration in his voice.
“He always was better at handling a crowd than just about anyone,” Ford said, “I guess that’s one of the perks of being an actor.” He was very pleased with how Reagan had handled the press conference, even if the accusations he leveled against Atwater had been somewhat unexpected. They were valuable though, and Ford supposed that a hundred editors and journalists were even now digging up every scrap of information they could find on a certain Lee LeRoy Atwater.
“Now all we need to do is get Falwell and Robertson to denounce Helms.” Baker said, but he didn’t sound very optimistic.
“That might end up being a backup plan,” Ford said, “to tell you the truth, Falwell and his people give me the creeps sometimes.” It was true. Ford considered himself a fairly devout Episcopalian and prayed somewhat regularly, but the almost vicious nature of the Moral Majority’s faith unnerved him. Still, they held a lot of sway in the south and he would need their help if he wanted to completely dismantle Helms.
So long as they didn’t ask him to do anything too crazy…
5:00 P.M. Toledo Ohio, September 17, 1980
“For fuck’s sake. He’s coming after us now! We need to cut ties with those organizations before the press traces them back to us.” Helms was shouting again, his voice shrill with hoarseness, his eyes flashing with anger.
On the other end of the line, Atwater hesitated.
“It’ll cost a lot of money to dissolve them on such short notice…and we’ll have to set up new groups…”
“Do I sound like I fucking care Lee?” Helms demanded, “go do it. Now!” He slammed down the phone and ran his hands through his hair, balling his fists atop his head. This was bad. Reagan had just lied to the press and then promptly turned the whole thing back around on him. And if what he was hearing was true, then both Ford and Carter were coming down to the south soon, to finish him off.
His polling had been frenetic at best ever since Reagan’s endorsement of Ford and he knew that the accusations that Reagan was leveling against him would not help his cause at all.
“Sir…” A staffer poked his head into Helms’ office.
“What?” Helms growled, feeling a momentary surge of satisfaction as the staffer flinched backwards.
“The public opinion polls have come in…for the Reagan thing.”
Helms snatched the paper from the staffer and looked at it. Sure enough, most people seemed pleased with how Reagan had conducted himself. Goddamnit.
“Get out of here.” Helms told the staffer, and the young man obliged with great speed.
Helms sat down, clutching the report in one balled fist, red creeping into the corners of his vision. For once he had no resort that could put him back on the offensive. All he could do now was implement damage control and hope for the best.
11:33 A.M. Jackson Mississippi, September 20, 1980
A series of magazine ads labeling Patti Reagan as a pill addict, Nancy Reagan as an abusive mother and Ronald Reagan as a brain damaged pawn of Gerald Ford had only just come out when the organization that had produced them, a certain Christian Conservatives for America, ceased to exist.
Four other organizations also closed their doors (not that they had any to close) and vanished like smoke in the wind, leaving the small horde of investigative journalists that had come to check out Reagan’s accusations empty handed but incredibly suspicious of the Helms campaign.
Though there was no direct evidence that Helms had sent out the offensive ads, including the infamous Billygate series, it was true that campaign records showed a truly enormous amount of money spent on ‘miscellaneous’ expenses that none of the campaign executives would talk about.
Indeed, Helms and his campaign huddled down in the immediate aftermath of Reagan’s press conference, weathering the storm of journalistic coverage that rained down upon them. Carter attempted to use the controversy to end the brewing congressional investigation of his brother’s finances but was thwarted by a coalition of conservative Republicans and (in a surprising twist) liberal Kennedy Democrats who wanted a chance to rake the President over the coals.
Ford did nothing to stop this, instead campaigning normally, saying nothing about the Billygate scandal, but doing absolutely nothing to defend his friend the President either. He knew that the Billygate thing was contrived and falsely controversial at best, but also knew that it was far too good a chance to make up some ground in the polls to pass up. So he let Carter stumble around in congress while he and Baker campaigned, heading southwards to do battle with Helms.
9:40 A.M. Washington D.C., September 21, 1980
“The first test of the Credible Sport aircraft is to take place on October 3rd at Eglin Air Force Base in Valparaiso Florida. Do you intend to come and watch?” Carter sighed, feeling dejected. He wanted to, if only to escape Washington for a few days, but knew that any absence from the mess in congress would only fuel rumors that he was out covering things up…or something.
“No, I don’t have the time to.”
Chairman Jones nodded understandingly.
“That’s fine, I’ll have a report compiled and sent to you by the 4th.”
“Good.”
Jones looked slightly concerned, eyes flicking over Carter’s features. It was apparent to him that the President was demoralized and frustrated, neither of which boded well for his continued governance over the Credible Sport operation.
Truth be told, Jones had never had the greatest confidence in Carter’s ability to lead effectively on military matters and was glad that the man was mostly letting him and the other Joint Chiefs do their own thing in regards to the rescue operation. That was better than an executive who was determined to micromanage everything that he could find.
9:00 A.M. Lynchburg Virginia, September 24, 1980
Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, Gerald Ford and Howard Baker were all sitting around a table in the staff dining room of Liberty University, where Falwell had asked the candidates to meet him.
Though Falwell was acting slightly irritated, Ford could tell that he was interested to see what he had to offer him.
“Ron still isn’t cleared to leave the hospital, but I’m sure that he’ll be coming down to see you as soon as he’s able, Ford said, “he’s been speaking highly of you.” That wasn’t entirely true, Reagan hadn’t been speaking about Falwell very much at all, but a little flattery certainly couldn’t hurt.
“Well, I can hardly fault Ron for doing his best to heal up,” Falwell said, “it’s just too bad I haven’t been able to get up there and see him in so long,” Falwell’s last visit had been two weeks earlier, “the world hasn’t been the same ever since that fall he took.”
“Demonic influences in that,” Robertson intoned, “Satan was clearly trying to bamboozle us.”
Ford nodded uneasily.
“Sure.”
Baker glanced from Falwell to Robertson but remained silent.
“I spoke to Ron about Helms,” Falwell said, “and I agree, what he’s doing is incredibly unChristian and has made me think less of him.” This wasn’t entirely true, but the allegations raised against Helms, and the fact that Reagan had been the target of many of the offensive ads gave Falwell a convenient point of departure from his Helms sympathizing.
“He released the ads through groups that weren’t directly related to his campaign, so it’s difficult to prove that he was the one who organized them…even if we all know that he did it.” Ford said.
Falwell nodded.
“That being said, I can’t go ahead and denounce the man. A good portion of my congregation supports Jesse Helms, and if I were perceived as…well, bowing down to you, then it wouldn’t reflect well on me.”
Ford blinked.
“Bowing?” He asked incredulously.
“Yes, bowing,” Falwell said, unperturbed by the hard edge in Ford’s voice, “my denomination is full of conservatives, yours with moderates. Oil and water, you see?” Baker cocked his head to one side but said nothing.
“I suppose I don’t,” Ford said, “we have Helms on the defensive now, and if you speak out against him…or even the ads that he’s released, then it’ll destroy him. You’re risking Carter getting reelected.”
Robertson sighed.
“Quite frankly Jerry,” he said, “we’re doing you a favor by not outright supporting Helms. Hell, a second term of Carter would do wonders for improving our business, but we love this nation too much to subject it to that. So we keep our mouths shut and blast Carter when we can.”
Ford wasn’t sure what to say, Falwell was sipping his water now, glancing over at Robertson with a smile on his face.
“Are you threatening me?” Ford asked at last, steel in his voice.
“Do you think that I am?” Falwell asked blandly.
Ford sighed.
“Reverend,” he said, “perhaps it would be best if we just left each other alone then.”
Robertson and Falwell nodded, almost in unison.
“That would probably be best.”
Ford and Baker ended up leaving early, both stiff with anger. But even if both of them were genuinely furious with Falwell and Robertson, they knew that they couldn’t speak out against them, at least not if they wanted to win the election.
“Assholes.” Baker concluded as their car began to drive away, heading to a fundraiser downtown.
“Assholes who are smearing Carter,” Ford said. “But still assholes all the same.” Silence resumed, both men pondering a new way to take out Helms.
“Listen…I haven’t been able to get anything new on Patti Reagan…she’s in full lockdown, thinks that people are out to get her.”
Helms chuckled from the other end of his line. The tone of annoyance coming from his operative was adorable.
“Imagine that…”
“But you’re gonna like what I did find.”
“And what’s that?”
“I saw Joan Quigley leaving the hospital.”
Helms paused, confused.
“Who the hell is that?” He asked.
The operative laughed, sounding delighted with himself all of the sudden.
“An astrologist. Bitch thinks she can predict the future based upon the movements of the cosmos…something like that. I did some asking around and got a nurse to tell me that she was there visiting Reagan.”
Helms smiled, almost uncontrollably. This was golden.
“Please tell me you took photos of her.”
“Of course.”
“Good,” Helms purred, “find out if she’s being employed by the Reagans. If she is, well, that’s a bonus for us.”
The operative laughed.
“It’ll be done.”
He hung up.
4:15 P.M. Concord Massachusetts, September 13, 1980
Ford was halfway through the front door of his state campaign office when his secretary caught him by the elbow, looking vaguely displeased.
“Richard Nixon is on the phone,” she told him quietly, “he wants to discuss the Cronkite interview.”
Ford glanced back, saw that the secretary had the phone clasped to her chest, the cord stretching out way back behind her. He nodded briskly and looked apologetically at the state senator who he was supposed to attend a fundraiser with.
“Give me three minutes, I’ll be right behind you.”
The senator smiled, a little tautly, and Ford took the phone, walking back into his office.
“Dick,” he said, “hello.” He hadn’t spoken to Nixon in nearly a month, but the ex-President still sounded vigorous, and slightly angry too.
“I watched the Cronkite interview on television,” Nixon said, “didn’t know that he even gave interviews.”
Ford chuckled but was slightly alarmed by the unhappiness crackling in Nixon’s voice.
“I asked very nicely.”
“Listen Jerry,” Nixon said, “I am one hundred percent behind you in this campaign, come November I will vote for you with a clear conscience. But with that being said, you have done two things that I really do not like.”
Ford sighed.
“And what are those?” He asked.
“You pronounced me guilty on national television. I resent that Jerry. I fucking resent it.”
Ford clenched his teeth.
“You broke the law Dick,” he said, forcing himself to reman calm, “and by accepting the pardon deal that I organized for you, you made the legal equivalent of a confession. We may disagree on that, but don’t expect me to change my mind to accommodate your views.”
Nixon was silent for a few seconds. Ford watched the big hand of a nearby clock tick slowly away, nearly a minute draining from the day before Nixon spoke again.
“The other thing is that you snubbed John Connolly.”
That took Ford by surprise, Connolly’s was a name that he hadn’t heard for a while.
“Snubbed him how?” He asked.
“He helped you at the convention, quite a lot. I’d appreciate if you found a place for him in your administration.”
Ford raised an eyebrow. This was sort of a strange request coming from Nixon, who was notorious for having few friends, and even fewer who he would do favors for. But at the same time, John Connolly was one of those rare friends who Nixon really seemed to care about.
“And where could I place him? The only conceivable spots are Treasury and maybe Defense…” He didn’t finish the sentence, instead he heard Nixon chuckle.
“And you have no plans for Defense. Go ahead Jerry, you know that he deserves it.”
Ford was quiet for a few moments. He hadn’t even considered that.
“Well…”
“I’m going to humiliate myself and ask you nicely,” Nixon said, “please Jerry, consider him for the position.”
Ford sighed.
“I’ll ask him to come to Washington for an interview once the election has been won.” Ford could practically see Nixon grinning smugly on the other end of the line.
“Thank you Jerry. Now get out there and kick Carter back to Georgia.”
Ford bid Nixon farewell and hung up. Dealing with Nixon never got any easier, but sometimes it did have its unexpected benefits.
He rushed after the state senator, tugging on his coat as he did so. Autumn was beginning to creep across the land, bringing with it an almost unseasonable chill. Hopping into the senator’s car, Ford smiled and shook hands with the people he was going to be endorsing and wondered what exactly the future was to bring for him and John Connolly.
12:44 P.M. Sacramento California, September 14, 1980
“Mrs. Reagan, Mrs. Reagan, is it true that you hired Joan Quigley to provide astrological services for you and your husband?”
Nancy Reagan managed to shut the door to Reagan’s hospital room halfway before one of the reporters crowding the hallway blocked it with his foot.
“No comment.” She snapped and kicked the man’s foot out of the way, slamming the door and muffling the continual flood of questions that poured out from behind it. Reagan watched impassively from his bed.
“So they found out,” he mused, “that was quick.”
Nancy shook her head vigorously.
“This is Helms’ doing,” she growled, “and I despise that he’s trying to make us look like we’re crazy.”
Reagan stood up and walked over to Nancy, taking her gently by the shoulders.
“Darling,” he said, “we are crazy. Why else would I be going back out onto the campaign trail in two weeks? And why else would you let me?”
That made Nancy pause, surprised.
“This is bad Ron,” she said, ignoring his joke, “I hate it when people laugh at us…I hate it!”
Reagan shushed her and guided her to the other side of the room, where they sat on the edge of the bed together.
“Jesse Helms is a thug,” he said, “and a bully who showed his true colors the instant it became clear that I had nothing to offer him. He might have people looking at us right now, but the important thing is that they aren’t looking at Jerry and Howard. They can laugh at us all they want, but it wont matter, because come next January, we’ll all be in the White House,” he kissed her, “and they wont.”
This seemed to mollify Nancy some, but Reagan could still see indignant, helpless fury burning in her eyes.
“You’re right,” she said finally, “but please Ron, talk to Jerry, we need to get this figured out.”
Reagan put an arm around Nancy’s shoulders.
“I will,” he said, “I will.”
1:00 P.M. Concord Massachusetts, September 14, 1980
Ford beat Reagan to the punch, calling him less than a minute after a paper hit his desk, displaying a number of photographs and headlines showing Joan Quigley very prominently. THE REAGAN’S ASTROLOGIST? the first headline blared. The others were less kind.
“Ron,” Ford said, “I think its time we got serious about Helms.”
Reagan chuckled.
“I agree completely. Have you spoken to Carter about arranging something? It looks like he’s getting hit pretty hard too, he might agree to a break in campaigning or something.”
Ford grinned.
“Already ahead of you on that one. We’re having a phone conference tomorrow to discuss what to do. You don’t need to do anything, just rest and don’t talk to the press. I’ll give them something new to talk about soon enough.”
That reassured Reagan quite a bit, even if he had done his best to appear unaffected in front of Nancy, this whole astrology business was beginning to stress him out a little bit. A lot of people out there thought of it as pseudo-science or even pagan idolatry, definitely not the sort of thing that was to be present in the nation’s elected officials.
“I’d like to be included in that conference.” He said, and Ford hesitated for just a fraction of a second before assenting.
“Sure thing.”
Reagan smiled.
“Thanks Jerry.”
Ford gave him a number and a time and wished him well before hanging up. Leaning back in his chair, Ford considered what could be done to destroy Helms. He had a few ideas.
11:00 A.M. Washington D.C., September 15, 1980
The phone conference lasted only a few minutes, which was fine with Carter. He was almost debilitatingly busy between campaign work and other government related errands, and sounded harried even as he spoke.
“Helms has hurt us all in some way or another,” he said, “he’s alleged that my brother is a criminal, that Ron is suffering from a personality disorder, and that Jerry is a socialist hellbent on destroying the nation. These go beyond the realm of acceptability in politics, and have forced us to work together in destroying Helms completely and totally.”
Silence for a few moments, then spirited clapping from Reagan’s end of the line.
“People said that I was going to be the first actor in the White House,” he chuckled, “you ought to come to Hollywood sometime Jimmy, you’d do well there.”
Carter sighed irritably.
“Can we be serious now?” Ford asked gently.
“Sure.” Reagan said.
“Okay,” Carter continued, “we need to decide on a plan of action relating to Helms. That way Jerry and I can finish this election without his interference. Sooner or later he might hit on something that actually sticks, and that’s the last thing that any of us want.”
“Might be too late for that,” Reagan said, “the astrology thing is getting to be pretty big news.” Billygate too, he just barely prevented himself from adding.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Ford said, clearly not wanting to let Carter into his own campaign plans, “this is about Helms.”
“To figure out how to beat him we may have to descend to his level and find flaws. Old policy positions, racist quotations that’ll scare moderates away from his campaign…stuff like that.”
Reagan sighed, clearly disagreeing with Carter’s strategy.
“He has Atwater working for him, that man thrives on race baiting. Besides, his supporters aren’t going to flee just because he’s in the habit of calling his opponents niggers, hippies and communists…that’s what they like about him.”
Carter made an unhappy noise.
“Ron’s right,” Ford said, “the more racist he goes, the more popular he gets. We’ll need to find something else.”
“What about that video of him shoving a delegate into a wall at the convention, and you calling him off?” Reagan asked.
“I’ve put that out there,” Ford said, “it didn’t take.”
But Reagan sounded intrigued now.
“Don’t give up on it…hell, give it a new spin and put it out again. Make sure that everyone knows what a bully Jesse Helms is.”
Ford scribbled a note down.
“Okay. That’s a plan, any ideas on your end Jimmy?”
“I’m set to go down to the south soon and campaign there.”
Ford laughed, bemused.
“So am I. We might just run into each other.”
“I’m going to meet with religious groups down there,” Carter said, “see if I can blunt Helms’ influence on that front.”
“We ought to do the same,” Reagan said, “I can call up Falwell, Robertson and those guys…see if they’d be willing to denounce Helms.”
That was a very good idea, but even considering what they might want in return made Ford shudder.
“Go for it.” He said.
“Alright,” Carter said, “we’re going to cast him as a bully and try to snip away his religious support…that’s a good start.”
It was, and Ford supposed that conversations like this were going to become more commonplace in the near future, especially if Helms refused to collapse.
“If the churches stop supporting Helms then he’ll collapse by the end of October.” Reagan predicted boldly.
“I have to go, duty calls,” Carter said regretfully, “I’ll talk to you guys later.” His line clicked and left Ford and Reagan alone.
“So what do you think I should do about this astrology scandal?” Reagan asked.
“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
“Yes. Don knows,” it took Ford a moment to realize that Reagan was referring to Don Regan rather than Don Rumsfeld, “so does Paul Laxalt, and a few others. Close friends of mine.”
Ford nodded to himself, feeling relieved. Those were good, dependable people to have by one’s side during a crisis.
“Ask them to come to Sacramento. We need to stand alongside you in solidarity. I’m also going to ask you to deny hiring Quigley. Say that she just came for a visit…she did only come by once, right?”
“Yes…”
“Good. Say that she came for a visit but that you did not hire her…goddamn, I hate lying like this, but it’s better than you getting kicked around for having hired an astrologer…”
Reagan let out a confused little laugh.
“I didn’t actually hire her yet…”
Ford stopped, blinked, caught by surprise.
“Oh.”
“No,” Reagan said, “we were still deciding on an appropriate schedule. So nobody is lying here. Not technically.”
Ford sighed in relief.
“That’s good. Call Quigley up too and have her corroborate your story. She’s kept radio silent so far…which is good, but I’m not sure if she’s going to stay quiet. So get to her before she talks. And Ron?”
“Yes Jerry?”
“Please be more careful about inviting strange people to come and see you.”
Reagan laughed.
“I’m in California Jerry,” he said, “that might be out of my control.”
1:30 P.M. Sacramento California, September 17, 1980
By the time the press conference had been arranged, Quigley coached into giving a white lie to the press and Reagan cleared by his doctors for a fairly extensive day battling the press, two days had passed. In that time Laxalt had snarled at a half dozen reporters, a fried egg had been thrown at Don Regan by an elderly patient and two young press interns had been caught attempting to break into Reagan’s hospital room so that they could make off with souvenirs.
The hospital had become a hotbed of press activity and Nancy had ultimately decided that after the conference Reagan was going to be moved home immediately, doctor’s advice be damned.
Reagan himself watched the chaos with all the placid calmness of a Hindu holy cow, smiling and offering relaxed little anecdotes and jokes, quietly urging the reporters to support Ford and do everything in their power to ruin Helms and Carter.
“Welcome to the shindig,” Reagan said amiably as everyone settled into place, “I wish I could offer y’all some beers or something, but I guess that’ll have to wait until my next scandal.” That got a wave of general amusement from the audience of press representatives, and immediately the mood relaxed a little bit.
“In any case,” Reagan continued, “I expect that you’ll want me to tell you all the story of what exactly Mrs. Quigley was doing in this hospital rather than going out and covering actual news, like how eight percent of this country is out of work, or how the national debt is soon going to cross thirty percent of our entire gross national product.” Reagan could see a few of the younger journalists actually cringing under his gentle admonishments.
“But I understand your curiosity, so I can forgive your prying. Mrs. Quigley and my wife met years ago on the Merv Griffin Show, where they were both guests, and have retained some casual correspondence since then, so naturally after hearing that I had been injured, Mrs. Quigley came by to see Nancy and I when she was able to. I did not hire her to carry out astrological predictions.” The battery of journalists was remarkably quiet after this declaration, indeed Reagan’s calm announcement seemed to almost be an understatement.
“Governor, do you believe in astrology?” One of the journalists in the front row blurted out.
Reagan chuckled.
“I’ve never put much thought into it.”
A small forest of hands shot up and Reagan picked a rotund man who represented a local paper.
“Some have claimed that these allegations are just the latest in a series of coordinated attacks on your reputation. What do you have to say about that?”
“Well,” Reagan shrugged, “if the biggest complaint people have about me is who comes to visit me then I guess I’m doing pretty alright for myself. But regarding the smear campaign that this is part of, I have no doubt whatsoever that they are all connected. You see, Jesse Helms has as his campaign executive a man named Lee Atwater. Mr. Atwater used to work for me, but defected during the convention. I believe that these tactics are his work. They certainly seem familiar.” That got a buzz of excited chatter from the journalists.
“Are you saying that Jesse Helms is behind this?”
Reagan nodded.
“Who else could it be?” He asked, eyebrows raised. The press promptly made so much noise that hospital security was forced to swoop in and clear them out, cutting the press conference short. As the room emptied, Laxalt and Regan stared at Reagan.
“We didn’t even say anything,” Laxalt said, a little grumpily, “what was the point of us being here?”
“Solidarity,” Reagan said crisply, “but anyways, I think that went well.”
Regan was smiling.
“You certainly changed the subject. That’ll keep the press busy for a while.”
2:00 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, September 17, 1980
“That son of a bitch,” Atwater said quietly to himself, eyeing the television with quiet horror, “I didn’t even have anything to do with that one.” To be fair, he had organized the rest of the smear campaign, but the astrology one had been Helms and Helms alone. Not that it mattered much, the press would soon be coming to find him, and he wasn’t looking forward to that. Not at all.
2:20 P.M. Baltimore Maryland, September 17, 1980
Somewhere up the coast from where Atwater was quietly panicking, Ford laughed and clinked the beer bottle he was holding against Baker’s. The two men had reunited after their respective campaign loops and now were going to delve into the deep south, straight into Carter territory. And Helms territory as well.
“Ron’s still got it.” Baker said, something akin to admiration in his voice.
“He always was better at handling a crowd than just about anyone,” Ford said, “I guess that’s one of the perks of being an actor.” He was very pleased with how Reagan had handled the press conference, even if the accusations he leveled against Atwater had been somewhat unexpected. They were valuable though, and Ford supposed that a hundred editors and journalists were even now digging up every scrap of information they could find on a certain Lee LeRoy Atwater.
“Now all we need to do is get Falwell and Robertson to denounce Helms.” Baker said, but he didn’t sound very optimistic.
“That might end up being a backup plan,” Ford said, “to tell you the truth, Falwell and his people give me the creeps sometimes.” It was true. Ford considered himself a fairly devout Episcopalian and prayed somewhat regularly, but the almost vicious nature of the Moral Majority’s faith unnerved him. Still, they held a lot of sway in the south and he would need their help if he wanted to completely dismantle Helms.
So long as they didn’t ask him to do anything too crazy…
5:00 P.M. Toledo Ohio, September 17, 1980
“For fuck’s sake. He’s coming after us now! We need to cut ties with those organizations before the press traces them back to us.” Helms was shouting again, his voice shrill with hoarseness, his eyes flashing with anger.
On the other end of the line, Atwater hesitated.
“It’ll cost a lot of money to dissolve them on such short notice…and we’ll have to set up new groups…”
“Do I sound like I fucking care Lee?” Helms demanded, “go do it. Now!” He slammed down the phone and ran his hands through his hair, balling his fists atop his head. This was bad. Reagan had just lied to the press and then promptly turned the whole thing back around on him. And if what he was hearing was true, then both Ford and Carter were coming down to the south soon, to finish him off.
His polling had been frenetic at best ever since Reagan’s endorsement of Ford and he knew that the accusations that Reagan was leveling against him would not help his cause at all.
“Sir…” A staffer poked his head into Helms’ office.
“What?” Helms growled, feeling a momentary surge of satisfaction as the staffer flinched backwards.
“The public opinion polls have come in…for the Reagan thing.”
Helms snatched the paper from the staffer and looked at it. Sure enough, most people seemed pleased with how Reagan had conducted himself. Goddamnit.
“Get out of here.” Helms told the staffer, and the young man obliged with great speed.
Helms sat down, clutching the report in one balled fist, red creeping into the corners of his vision. For once he had no resort that could put him back on the offensive. All he could do now was implement damage control and hope for the best.
11:33 A.M. Jackson Mississippi, September 20, 1980
A series of magazine ads labeling Patti Reagan as a pill addict, Nancy Reagan as an abusive mother and Ronald Reagan as a brain damaged pawn of Gerald Ford had only just come out when the organization that had produced them, a certain Christian Conservatives for America, ceased to exist.
Four other organizations also closed their doors (not that they had any to close) and vanished like smoke in the wind, leaving the small horde of investigative journalists that had come to check out Reagan’s accusations empty handed but incredibly suspicious of the Helms campaign.
Though there was no direct evidence that Helms had sent out the offensive ads, including the infamous Billygate series, it was true that campaign records showed a truly enormous amount of money spent on ‘miscellaneous’ expenses that none of the campaign executives would talk about.
Indeed, Helms and his campaign huddled down in the immediate aftermath of Reagan’s press conference, weathering the storm of journalistic coverage that rained down upon them. Carter attempted to use the controversy to end the brewing congressional investigation of his brother’s finances but was thwarted by a coalition of conservative Republicans and (in a surprising twist) liberal Kennedy Democrats who wanted a chance to rake the President over the coals.
Ford did nothing to stop this, instead campaigning normally, saying nothing about the Billygate scandal, but doing absolutely nothing to defend his friend the President either. He knew that the Billygate thing was contrived and falsely controversial at best, but also knew that it was far too good a chance to make up some ground in the polls to pass up. So he let Carter stumble around in congress while he and Baker campaigned, heading southwards to do battle with Helms.
9:40 A.M. Washington D.C., September 21, 1980
“The first test of the Credible Sport aircraft is to take place on October 3rd at Eglin Air Force Base in Valparaiso Florida. Do you intend to come and watch?” Carter sighed, feeling dejected. He wanted to, if only to escape Washington for a few days, but knew that any absence from the mess in congress would only fuel rumors that he was out covering things up…or something.
“No, I don’t have the time to.”
Chairman Jones nodded understandingly.
“That’s fine, I’ll have a report compiled and sent to you by the 4th.”
“Good.”
Jones looked slightly concerned, eyes flicking over Carter’s features. It was apparent to him that the President was demoralized and frustrated, neither of which boded well for his continued governance over the Credible Sport operation.
Truth be told, Jones had never had the greatest confidence in Carter’s ability to lead effectively on military matters and was glad that the man was mostly letting him and the other Joint Chiefs do their own thing in regards to the rescue operation. That was better than an executive who was determined to micromanage everything that he could find.
9:00 A.M. Lynchburg Virginia, September 24, 1980
Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, Gerald Ford and Howard Baker were all sitting around a table in the staff dining room of Liberty University, where Falwell had asked the candidates to meet him.
Though Falwell was acting slightly irritated, Ford could tell that he was interested to see what he had to offer him.
“Ron still isn’t cleared to leave the hospital, but I’m sure that he’ll be coming down to see you as soon as he’s able, Ford said, “he’s been speaking highly of you.” That wasn’t entirely true, Reagan hadn’t been speaking about Falwell very much at all, but a little flattery certainly couldn’t hurt.
“Well, I can hardly fault Ron for doing his best to heal up,” Falwell said, “it’s just too bad I haven’t been able to get up there and see him in so long,” Falwell’s last visit had been two weeks earlier, “the world hasn’t been the same ever since that fall he took.”
“Demonic influences in that,” Robertson intoned, “Satan was clearly trying to bamboozle us.”
Ford nodded uneasily.
“Sure.”
Baker glanced from Falwell to Robertson but remained silent.
“I spoke to Ron about Helms,” Falwell said, “and I agree, what he’s doing is incredibly unChristian and has made me think less of him.” This wasn’t entirely true, but the allegations raised against Helms, and the fact that Reagan had been the target of many of the offensive ads gave Falwell a convenient point of departure from his Helms sympathizing.
“He released the ads through groups that weren’t directly related to his campaign, so it’s difficult to prove that he was the one who organized them…even if we all know that he did it.” Ford said.
Falwell nodded.
“That being said, I can’t go ahead and denounce the man. A good portion of my congregation supports Jesse Helms, and if I were perceived as…well, bowing down to you, then it wouldn’t reflect well on me.”
Ford blinked.
“Bowing?” He asked incredulously.
“Yes, bowing,” Falwell said, unperturbed by the hard edge in Ford’s voice, “my denomination is full of conservatives, yours with moderates. Oil and water, you see?” Baker cocked his head to one side but said nothing.
“I suppose I don’t,” Ford said, “we have Helms on the defensive now, and if you speak out against him…or even the ads that he’s released, then it’ll destroy him. You’re risking Carter getting reelected.”
Robertson sighed.
“Quite frankly Jerry,” he said, “we’re doing you a favor by not outright supporting Helms. Hell, a second term of Carter would do wonders for improving our business, but we love this nation too much to subject it to that. So we keep our mouths shut and blast Carter when we can.”
Ford wasn’t sure what to say, Falwell was sipping his water now, glancing over at Robertson with a smile on his face.
“Are you threatening me?” Ford asked at last, steel in his voice.
“Do you think that I am?” Falwell asked blandly.
Ford sighed.
“Reverend,” he said, “perhaps it would be best if we just left each other alone then.”
Robertson and Falwell nodded, almost in unison.
“That would probably be best.”
Ford and Baker ended up leaving early, both stiff with anger. But even if both of them were genuinely furious with Falwell and Robertson, they knew that they couldn’t speak out against them, at least not if they wanted to win the election.
“Assholes.” Baker concluded as their car began to drive away, heading to a fundraiser downtown.
“Assholes who are smearing Carter,” Ford said. “But still assholes all the same.” Silence resumed, both men pondering a new way to take out Helms.
3:00 P.M. Sacramento California, September 24, 1980
Lying back in bed, blanket tucked up to his chest, Reagan was halfway through his afternoon nap when the phone rang. Groping for it, he swore quietly, contemplating how many naps had been ruined by campaign business recently. It was enough to drive a man to madness.
“Hello,” he groaned groggily, “Jerry?”
It was indeed Gerald Ford on the other end of the line.
“Falwell and Robertson rebuffed us. They refuse to go against Helms.” Ford did not sound like he was having a very good day.
Sitting up, blankets puddling around him, Reagan groaned and blinked in the light. It seemed far too bright and his head was throbbing. Had been ever since the stress of the whole Quigley thing. And this definitely wasn't helping.
“I had a sneaking suspicion…” he paused to glance over at the time, he’d been asleep for a little over an hour, “I’m gonna guess he’s afraid of angering the Helms stalwarts in the ranks of his flock.”
“Precisely. He even went so far as to say that a second Carter term would be, and I quote, ‘good for business’. Who the fuck do they think they are Ron?” Ford sounded genuinely furious, even more so since he couldn't really hit back against the people that had snubbed him.
“Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson are…uh, complicated people. I wont pretend that they’re easy to deal with, but they wield a whole lot of power over conservative politics in the south. I’ll talk to them, try to make them see reason, but don’t expect any major changes. They want to keep their flock intact Jerry. And don’t worry, you’re going to win. I know it.”
Ford was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke his voice was a little more relaxed. Happier even.
“Thank you Ron.”
Reagan hung up and began to place another call, stabbing unhappily at the buttons. So Robertson and Falwell had turned his people away. That either meant that they wanted concessions that he, in good faith, could not make, or they were just genuinely uninterested. As he listened to the phone ring Reagan began to fear more and more with each tone that it was the second option.
10:45 A.M. Raleigh North Carolina, September 26, 1980
“So they turned Reagan away…” Baker said, quietly horrified.
Ford nodded unhappily, putting his dress shoes on, flexing his toes inside of them to make sure they fit right.
“Yep. Falwell and Robertson do not like me very much.”
Baker sighed.
“At least Helms is down in the dust. If they’d pulled this shit when he was doing better in the polls then Reagan would have chewed their heads off and they might have jumped ship entirely.”
Ford smiled gamely.
“From what I heard there were some choice words exchanged. Ron’s been confined to bedrest for a while because of that, but he did maintain to me on the phone that it was worth it.”
That made Baker laugh, and he was still smiling when he looked at his watch.
“Alright. Time for us to go kick some ass.”
That was perhaps too harsh a term for Ford, but he nodded gamely and together they walked off the campaign bus, broad smiles planted firmly on their faces as they greeted the crowd that had gathered to watch them walk to the little stage that had been erected on the edge of Hampton Park. Quite a few of the faces looking back at Ford were brown and he smiled, that was an encouraging sign in a Republican party that had been having increasing trouble harnessing the minority vote. He shook hands, exchanged brief little pleasantries and then they were up on the stage. There were probably eight thousand people gathered in Pullen Park, overflowing onto the baseball diamond and merging around flowerbeds. They looked expectant and Ford was glad to see that the crowds were better than he had expected. He was still gong to lose the state to Carter, he knew that, but he could hopefully make it close if he rallied enough support.
“What a great welcome to Raleigh, and North Carolina as a whole, and a great example of the people who help make America great every day,” Ford said brightly, a safe but hopefully inspiring opening, “it says a great deal that so many of you showed up to offer your support for a brighter future. Right now we have eight percent of our nation out of work, an economy that has stagnated and atrophied and more than four hundred Americans trapped overseas at the tender mercies of a rogue, theocratic nation. America has seen brighter days, but it is not impossible for us to reverse the trend of apathy and defeatism that had plagued us for so long. It is not impossible, but it will be hard, and every last one of you will need to give your all if we want a new dawn to bathe America in the golden light of prosperity and plenty.
In the glow of that new day I can see an America where the people do not suffer under increased taxes and don’t need to fear enemies both at home and abroad. I can see an America where hatred and division is replaced by tolerance and understanding, and where everyone has both the opportunity and the tools to do anything that they set their minds to.
In these kinds of races people like to talk about the great hardships that they endured, but as a man I can tell you that I wish, every day, for an America where nobody has to suffer, whether from poverty, violence, addiction or abuse. Where everyone can enjoy the fruits of their labors in a way of their choosing. I am a conservative, that is true, but I offer a compassionate alternative to the callous, vengeful brutality of Jesse Helms, and the disinterested big government bureaucracy of President Carter. A middle way, so to speak, and a genuine path towards that rebirth of prosperity and peace that America needs. Thank you and God bless you all.”
11:32 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, September 29, 1980
“The journalists are starting to give up,” Atwater said, “but theres still a lot of them trying to get people to talk. There’s also word of an FEC investigation but I’m not sure if Carter has the balls to order one. It would look an awful lot like he’s trying to shut us up…and that would piss a lot of people off.”
Helms grunted, he was sitting, slumped, in his office chair, simmering. It had been an absolutely disastrous week, and he had just gotten back from an unsatisfactory tour of the state, where he had had eggs thrown at him on two separate occasions. His perceived involvement in the negative campaign ads (nothing had been proven, not that some of the more zealous liberal P.C. types cared, Helms thought bitterly) had rankled a lot of moderates and even disaffected some of the conservatives, who saw flashes of Nixon in him and decided that they didn't like that.
“And sink us,” Helms spat, “we’d probably be looking at libel charges from Nancy Reagan over the whole ‘she beats her kids’ thing that we put out a few weeks back.” Atwater actually smiled at the thought of that ad, which made Helms want to strangle him even more than usual. He didn’t like Atwater’s enthusiasm in this, he seemed to treat the campaign like a game, which didn't sit right with Helms. This was the last chance for conservatism in America before the godless liberals flushed the whole goddamn country down the crapper, and yet here Atwater was, looking for all the world like he was practicing for something bigger.
“Don’t be so pessimistic. Pretty soon we’ll be up and running again, especially with Billygate burning Carter’s polls down.”
Helms seethed.
“But not Ford’s. Ford’s have been going up! I don’t fucking want that! He’ll win, and then Paul fucking Laxalt will do his best to ruin me. I’ll be fucked if that man gets into the White House, fucked if Carter wins…” He trailed off, face red, eyes bloodshot, furious but unable to articulate that fury any longer.
“Listen,” Atwater said, aware that Helms had burned himself out, for now at least, “you might want to stay off the trail for a few more days, but you’ve got McDonald. Send him out, make use of him. And in a week or so then you can start kicking ass again. I’ll work on some new stuff, see if I can get Ford down in the muck with Carter. That sound good?”
Helms nodded stiffly and Atwater excused himself. He sighed, slightly irritated with Helms. The man was giving up, frustrated and unhappy, perhaps wondering internally if the campaign was even worth it when the answer was so obviously yes. For Lee Atwater at least.
12:54 P.M. Washington D.C., September 31, 1980
“Jerry can’t be too happy about this…” Carter mused, looking at the paper he had just been handed by a grim faced campaign aide. It showed a simply black white photo of a list of signatures, Ford’s helpfully underlined in red, and an explanation that the signatures were for a petition to keep America out of World War Two. CAN WE TRUST GERALD FORD’S PATRIOTISM? The ad asked in bold letters.
“I wouldn’t imagine so Mr. President,” the aide said, “and it probably wont go anywhere…but all the same, it means that Helms, or at least some of his allies are up and throwing punches again.”
That was not good. At all. Him and Ford had colluded to absolutely destroy Helms, and instead they had knocked him down for barely two weeks. Two weeks in the scheme of a presidential election was nothing, there were still five more to go until election day, and so far Helms had sustained merely superficial damage to his campaign. Ford’s attempt to recruit the conservative evangelicals had failed, even with Reagan’s backing Carter had heard, which made him feel uneasy about his own religious backers, who had remained steadfast, but were unhappy with him about a whole variety of things and clearly emboldened by Helms.
The whole thing was a goddamn mess, and topping it, like the cherry on a sundae filled with razor blades, were the hearings. Oh the goddamn hearings. On and on they stretched, a bare majority of Republicans and Kennedy Democrats raking him and Billy over the coals, forcing him to effectively prostrate himself before the entire nation. Like he was the whipping boy instead of the leader of the whole godforsaken free world. The Soviets had to be pissing themselves laughing right now.
The Iranians too.
At least Credible Sport was well ahead of schedule and ready for a test on the third, only a few days away. And then there would be further tests, and a finalizing of logistics in the Mideast. And then the operation would begin. Not before the election, which had disappointed Carter, but two weeks after. There was simply no way to get the rocket plane and the logistical situation sorted out in a mere five weeks, it simply wouldn’t be fair to the soldiers and airmen involved, and most definitely not to the hostages either. Carter couldn’t imagine putting all those lives at risk just for a chance to practically guarantee his reelection.
He would win without it anyway, he was certain. His polling, while battered by all the shit he had taken during the campaign, was still above Ford’s. Barely, but it would remain there. He was certain of it.
1:20 P.M. Sacramento California, October 1, 1980
“That is some Grade A, grass fed bullshit right there.” Reagan said and let the paper fall from his fingers. He was in bed again, phone held up to his ears, feeling tired and just generally sick of life. First it had been Falwell and Robertson cheerfully telling him to piss up a rope (politely…oh so politely, but the sentiment was still there), and now it was the paper that Ford had faxed to him. A copy of the old college petition that a much younger Gerald Ford had signed back in 1939, complete with a furious ultraconservative screed decrying him for doing it.
“I know. But that’s not the point, nobody’s going to take this seriously besides people who support Helms already. The point is that he’s up and swinging again. Already.”
Reagan sighed, shut his eyes. His headache still hadn’t gone away, even with the pills that the doctor had given him. They had talked about taking him back to the hospital, but ultimately Nancy had overruled the doctor and Reagan had gone along with her. He preferred being home anyway.
“And what should we do?” Reagan asked, “we already tried cutting the evangelicals out from under him, and that didn’t take…so what?”
Ford didn’t sound dissuaded. Instead he just sounded angry, in a focused kind of way that made Reagan not want to be Jesse Helms or Lee Atwater…or really anyone close to them.
“What really hurt him was the negative ad blowback. If we can prove definitively that he’s behind this then we’ll ruin him. Completely this time.”
Reagan nodded, then winced at the pain it caused him.
“That would definitely get him off our backs. I think that we’d need to do more though. Any other weak spots in his campaign?” Reagan hadn’t been paying much attention to politics ever since the Quigley thing, he’d simply been hurting too much. That burst of activity had set him back a ways in his recovery, he feared, and had even caused him to rethink his planned tour of the midwest, which was full of states that Ford needed to win, especially Ohio. He still intended to make it…just later than he had expected to.
“I don’t know Ron,” Ford said, “Helms has run his campaign in such an erratic way it’s hard to figure out just about anything about it. Right now we’ve got a whole bunch of suspicious campaign records, but nothing more than that. Nothing definitive.” Reagan considered the problem, wondered what Atwater would do next, who he would go after. Right now he seemed fixated on Ford, who had floated through the whole shit storm without so much as a scratch while Carter and him were pasted. But that couldn’t last, already he was scraping the bottom of the barrel if the petition ad indicated anything, he would have to find a juicier target.
“He’s gonna have to go after Betty pretty soon. She’s the only one that they haven't smeared yet.”
Ford was strangely quiet for a long time.
“They better not,” he said grimly, “I’d ruin Helms if he did that. And I’m not one to ruin people Ron. But if that man comes after my wife then you’d better believe that that’s the last mistake he’ll ever make.”
Reagan believed him. If there was ever a man who did not make idle threats then that was Gerald Ford.
“Get ready to strike back if they do. When their attacks on you fizzle…because they will, then they’re going to go after Betty. I know how Atwater works, he wants you to get angry and try to come after Helms. He wants you to break your image as an optimistic reformer…a happy warrior if I can borrow one of McGovern’s phrases. Don’t give him the pleasure. Just let Betty speak for herself, she’ll do all that needs to be done.”
9:12 A.M. Washington D.C., October 3, 1980
“These hearings are killing me Robert,” Carter groaned, running a hand through his hair, “and there’s still so many of them. Can you please work faster on breaking the Kennedy stalwarts so that we can bring this whole circus to an end.”
On the other end of the line Majority Leader Byrd sounded testy, busy with something that was not his phone call with the President.
“I’m trying to sir, but they’re set. They don’t think that this is hurting you too badly in the polls so I cant threaten them with the idea of a President Ford…Kennedy has them firmly in his grasp.”
Carter let a frustrated beat hiss out from between clenched teeth.
“At least Billy’s holding up. He hasn't said anything stupid…”
“No sir,” Byrd agreed, “he’s sticking to the script. He knows that this is serious, he’s not an idiot.”
Carter could tell that Byrd was being charitable with that last line but said nothing about it.
“Do you have an estimated end date on this?”
Byrd hemmed and hawed for a moment, Carter’s heart sinking further with each moment that the Majority Leader stalled.
“It’ll be close. I might have been being optimistic with my assessment of mid to late October.”
“Just tell me, are they going to run through the election or not?” Carter hoped that he didn't sound nervous.
“I don’t know. It’ll be close. I’ll do all that I can sir, I promise.”
Carter let the phone drop back into its cradle and buried his head in his hands. This was bad. Bad bad bad. If he went into the election with the hearings still going then it would hurt him a lot. And not just him, but a whole bunch of down ballot elections as well.
“Fritz,” he asked, and from the other side of the room Vice President Mondale looked up from the ledger he’s been reading, “could you please go visit Byrd and help him figure this hearing situation out? You know more about the Senate than I do.”
Mondale agreed and headed out, leaving Carter completely alone.
4:30 P.M. Eglin Air Force Base Florida, October 3, 1980
The weather was clear, and in the glow of a gathering sunset, preparations were complete, the engines of a C-130 (serial #74-2065) growling, their noise growing into a full throated roar as they warmed up. A safe distance away a panel of men watched from behind mirrored aviator glasses, faces expressionless. They all wanted very badly for this to work, but at the same time had seen far too many failures on other projects to place blind optimism in anything.
“Commencing short takeoff test number one. Test one is a go, repeat, test one is a go.” One of them said into a walkie talkie, and shortly afterwards the plane began to move. Ponderously at first, but gaining a curious sort of grace as it trundled down the runway. A dozen heads turned to watch it, a hundred eyes from all around the runway watching, scientists and aviator alike taking notes on its progress.
“Firing rockets now.” A cool voice from the plane told the observers, and a moment later a wall of lights popped on, blasting the brightness of the sunset away. Barely a second later a wall of noise hit the observers, forcing many to cover their ears, even over the mufflers they were wearing. The plane jerked forward, none too gracefully, but with that movement it was suddenly, impossibly airborne, lifting away from the tarmac. It shot up at a frightening angle and twisted. To the untrained eye it may have appeared that the pilot had lost control, but instead of crashing back down to earth the C-130 sliced down, leveling out as its rockets winked out, leaving it once more a normal plane. At least to the casual observer.
A moment of stunned silence passed, then applause. The takeoff had set all sorts of records it would be found later, and had apparently given the flight engineer a severe nosebleed as well. But that was acceptable, because the first element of Credible Sport had proven to be very possible. Now it was time to see if landing was possible.
The plane circled and went on a short flight, testing carious aspects of itself, the double slotted flaps proving especially useful for slowing the plane down as it approached the runway once more. Partial tests had been undertaken before, but this was the first full test that had been attempted, and even if the takeoff had been successful, the military men watching were still on edge.
“Firing upper deceleration set…don’t look out the window Bill, Jesus.” The pilot apologized for leaving the radio on, and with that the lights reappeared and the plane did a curious thing, virtually stopping in midair with a jolt that had to have thrown the entire crew forward with rib cracking force. All the same the C-130 was moving, floating down toward the runway. It touched down with a puff of smoke from the tires, bounced and settled. The line it would have to stop by was indicated by a bold orange line two hundred yards down the runway. It suddenly looked impossibly small against the bulk of the C-130.
“Firing lower deceleration set.” The pilot said and once again the observers were treated to a deafening roar as the rockets fired, blinding lights flaring from the plane in an almost hellish display. And when it died down, the rockets whispering to a stop, completely drained, the C-130 was still upright, the propellers on its main engines whirring to a stop, its nose still ten yards from the orange line.
“Gentlemen,” Chairman Jones said, removing his headphones and tinted glasses, “I believe that we can rule this flight a success.”
8:50 A.M. Washington D.C., October 4, 1980
Amidst the spiral of ever thickening dread that Carter had now begun to feel whenever he thought of dealing with the Iranians, the success of the modified C-130 had proven to be a bright and indelible spot of light. Jones had been practically glowing, and even if he was an infantry general it was clear that he respected American airpower immensely.
“Can we settle on a final date for the operation now that preliminary testing is completed and we know that it is possible for this to work?” He asked. It made him feel nervous to say that, like he was rushing. But there really weren't any other options, every additional day the hostages spent in the embassy, at the mercy of a bunch of anti-western religious zealots, the better the chances that someone’s trigger finger would get itchy, and the better the chances that a massacre would take place.
That was the worst case scenario. Absolute worst. Ford would win in a landslide reminiscent of one of Eisenhower’s better performances, and he, Jimmy Carter, would be swept aside and absolutely loathed for roughly the rest of eternity. That was not a desirable outcome by any stretch of the imagination.
The median case scenario would be more painful negotiations and an anticlimactic release of the hostages sometime in his second term. That would satisfy nobody and the Iranians would have just demonstrated to the world that they were very able to humiliate a superpower more or less at will. Also not totally desirable from a geopolitical standpoint, but at least the hostages would make it out alive.
Best case scenario would be Credible Sport going as planned, with no Eagle Claw style mechanical failures and no oversights regarding logistics. Taking the hostages would make heroes out of a great many men, and Carter would be regarded very warmly by the nation. Sure it would be after the election, but having approval ratings in the upper stratosphere never hurt when one was trying to pass a comprehensive agenda for his second term.
“Of course sir,” Chairman Jones said, “we were thinking about mid to late December. That would give us time to double and triple check mechanics, stock up and everything that we could possibly need, stack the teams going in with the best possible men and small unit commanders. We’re going to need everything to work out perfectly, and to guarantee that then we need time.”
“If we were raiding a Christian nation then I’d suggest going in on Christmas, but that might be a little sacrilegious.” Brzezinski said, which got a few chuckles.
“Consult with our meteorologists,” Carter said, “send me a list of days that are the most likely to be completely clear, and uh, good work everyone.”
The Joint Chiefs and Carter’s security staff nodded and smiled lightly, showing their appreciation. Carter broke the meeting up and trudged out of the Situation Room, once more to check up on the hearings.
12:00 P.M. Cary North Carolina, October 4, 1980
“They were in my fucking state,” Helms growled, “I still cant believe that they dared do that.” Sitting in the campaign bus with a noticeably unhappy looking McDonald, Helms was grousing. As he had been doing for the past several weeks, ever since Reagan had so nearly sunk him and his entire campaign.
“The Ford campaign is free to go where it pleases,” McDonald sighed, he was getting tired of dealing with Helms. Tired of the controversy. Of everything really.
“Raleigh was one thing,” Helms shook his head, “goddamn place is full of liberals anyways…but the fucking tour through the state was just slapping me in the face. And I couldn't even go out and face him because we’re still fucking toxic in all of the places Ford went to.”
No, McDonald thought, not we. Just you. But he didn't correct Helms, instead he was looking over his notes, the words there looking less than inspiring.
He had been out on his own a lot lately, what with Helms in hiding from the press. Only now was he feeling brave enough to come back out, and only then to the more conservative parts of the state.
“Don’t worry about it.” McDonald said curtly, and the bus drove on.
1:23 P.M. Grand Rapids Michigan, October 5, 1980
Inserting the tape into a VCR, the communications director for the Ford campaign stood aside and pressed the play button. Immediately the screen, which had been bright blue, interspaced with the occasional band of static, flickered into color, the Ford campaign emblem on a while background, the bright light illuminating the little group of campaign executives who had come to see the newest attack ad.
The ad opened with an outline of North Carolina, famous figures from that state slowly appearing and fading into the background, Andrew Jackson, James K. Polk, Hiram Revels, Cecil B. DeMille, a parade of historical figures who had all made some great impact upon the United States.
“North Carolina is an extraordinary place, in an extraordinary nation,” a narrator began, as the outlines of other states came into view, linking up with North Carolina and forming a complete map of the country, “the home of inventors, entrepreneurs, leaders and talented individuals from every field.” A pause.
“So does it deserve this?” The narrator asked in a pointed tone, a television clip showing Jesse Helms pushing a delegate against the wall at the 1980 Republican National Convention being played, the clip smash cutting slightly closer to the action, the delegate’s impact against the wall feeling all the harder because of it.
“Does this beautiful place deserve to be represented by this man?” The narrator asked, though it was clear from his tone that he, and potentially the audience, already knew the answer. Several further clips played, Helms making racist statements, allegations of misconduct in office, interspaced with quick cuts of images of Klansmen, almost too quick for the eye to see. The intern who made the ad had read a book on subliminal imagery, and wanted to try it out.
“Does this nation deserve to be led by Jesse Helms?” And with that images of the negative campaign ads directed against Ronald and Nancy Reagan and Gerald Ford flashed onto the screen, lingering before cutting to an unflattering photograph of a menacing Jesse Helms. And with that the ad cut to black.
“This is good,” one of the executives said, “I want it trimmed down to thirty seconds and polished by this time tomorrow. We’re putting this one out.”
1:12 P.M. Sacramento California, October 7, 1980
“Jesus Jerry, breaking out the big guns I see.” Reagan marveled, watching the screen of his television swim with static in the aftermath of the ad that Ford had sent him. It was going to be released the very next day, and Ford wanted Reagan’s opinion.
“That’s the idea,” Ford said grimly, “we’re focusing hard on the negative campaigning he’s done. If it sinks him, which I hope it will, then hopefully it’ll curb this type of thing in the future.”
Reagan didn’t nod to himself, his head was still tender, and he had had trouble sleeping for the past few days because of it. Still he had not gone back to the hospital, mostly because he was feeling stronger, his vitals were normal and nothing was coming up in his blood work. It was just the headaches.
“You’ll never get rid of it Jerry,” he said, “it’s just too easy. But if Helms implodes in a sufficiently exciting way then maybe it’ll discourage third party runs for a while. Hopefully.”
Ford chuckled, then was quiet for a few moments.
“You alright Ron?” He asked, “you sound kinda out of it.” Reagan furrowed his brow. Did he?
“Guess it’s just my noggin acting up again, but don’t worry, I’m alright.”
“You sure Ron? I could come by and let Howard hold down the fort for a little bit…he’s more in his element down south than I am if I’m gonna be honest.”
Reagan chuckled wearily.
“No, seriously Jerry, I’m alright. I’ve got Nancy to care for me, all that you need to care about right now is winning the election. Besides my doctor drops by every day to see how I’m doing. He’d let me know if there was something wrong with me.”
Ford sounded mollified by that.
“Alright Ron. But when we’re finished with campaigning then I’m flying back to California to see the election results with you and whoever else wants to come.”
“Nonsense Jerry,” Reagan said, “California is safe Republican, if anything you want to be watching from a swing state, like Ohio or Mississippi. Go over there, try to clamp down as many electoral votes as you possibly can.”
Ford considered that Reagan would likely fly over to join him, come hell or high water, and decided not to debate him.
“Alright Ron, I’ll talk to you later, I’m attending a fundraiser with Governor Treen later and I’ve got to get ready.”
Reagan smiled wanly.
“Alright. See you later Jerry.” He hung up, stared up at the ceiling, wondered when his head would ever feel normal again.
6:00 P.M. Baton Rouge Louisiana, October 7, 1980
“Holy shit.” Just behind the closed back doors of Ford’s shindig with Governor Treen, a pair of campaign executives were staring at a sheet of paper that had just come through the fax machine. It was black and white, robbed of color, but that was perhaps a mercy. A doctored photograph of Betty Ford stared up at the executives, her pupils edited to make them appear dilated, bags under her eyes and a web of broken veins in her nose. She looked like a caricature of an alcoholic, like a sadist had painted a cruel mockery of the former First Lady over her real picture. The worst thing was that it was well done, concerning photo editing at least.
“This goes beyond the pale,” the other executive breathed, lips pressed together into a thin, colorless line of barely contained anger, “even for Atwater and Helms.” Below Betty Ford’s altered photo was a blurb warning the nation that she was an alcoholic and had broken her rehabilitation multiple times due to the stresses of the campaign trail. IF GERALD FORD WOULD DO THIS TO HIS WIFE, the bold print at the bottom of the page asked, THEN WHAT WOULD HE DO TO THE NATION?
“Who’d this come from?” The first executive asked, smoothing his tie down.
“One of our people in Nashville sent it in. The Helms campaign is starting to spread out a little bit and hit us in swing states.”
That was bad news. The second executive licked dry lips, suddenly very frightened about what this might mean.
“Should we show this to Jerry?” He asked, hesitantly. Putting Ford through something like this in the middle of a fundraiser might be bad, it would throw him off balance.
“He has to know,” the first executive said, “show Governor Treen too, let them know that Helms and Atwater are back at work.”
The second executive nodded and opened the door. Hesitated for a moment, then marched out, bearing his cargo of unwelcome news.
7:44 P.M. Baton Rouge Louisiana, October 7, 1980
“It was very kind of you to come out and support us,” Baker was saying, shaking Governor David Treen’s hand. Him, Ford and Treen were sitting in a back room, only a few minutes removed from the fundraiser, which had raised a pretty fair amount, “we thank you for helping us in our effort to deliver the south.”
Treen nodded and sat back, regarding the men he had thrown his support behind. He was more on the conservative end of the spectrum, but Helms’ racism rubbed him the wrong way. Treen had campaigned on a platform of helping the black community and had been indirectly attacked by Helms more than once in the past as a result. So while he didn’t like Ford and Baker all that much, Helms was a personal enemy and Carter was…worse. The shocking photo ad that had come in right in the middle of the fundraiser only added to that feeling. Helms was filth.
“Of course Senator, Mr. President,” Treen said, being sure to be courteous, “I’d be happy to let you use a great deal of my leftover campaign infrastructure as well. If we can add Louisiana, Mississippi and Tennessee to our column come next month then we should be able to defeat Carter and Helms even if things go completely to hell in the north.”
Ford nodded respectfully at Treen’s analysis, it seemed fair, though the election would be very close no matter what happened. Just like the last one.
“I don’t know about Carter, but we’ll make sure that Helms is absolutely destroyed,” Ford said quietly, “he wont be elected so much as dogcatcher in this country when we’re done with him.”
The quiet intensity in Ford’s voice sent a shiver up Treen’s spine. When he looked at Ford he saw a man who was very obviously furious, but at the same time wasn’t lashing out. He had a plan, Treen saw, and was going to use it to get revenge. Absolute and total revenge.
9:00 P.M. Baton Rouge Louisiana, October 7, 1980
When Ford got back to the hotel room, where Betty was resting, the first thing he saw was a very familiar, ugly sheet of paper lying on the front table. Face down. He glanced at it, confirmed that it was indeed the same ugly and libelous ad that had smeared her so…so viciously, and then crumpled it. Ford had always prided himself on being a conciliatory man, a mediator. Mild mannered and level headed, not prone to outbursts, not rash or impulsive at all. And yet he wanted to break something, punch a hole in the wall, shatter the vase of roses and rake his hands up and down over the thorns. Because Betty was being attacked, and he could do so precious little to help her. He felt trapped and helpless, disgusted at himself for his intoxication on the sweet perfume of rage, yet hopelessly addicted already.
“Darling?” He asked quietly, and threw the piece of paper away. There was only silence in response and Ford let out a deep breath. Terrible scenarios flitted through his mind, Betty lying in bed, crying, unhappy being the foremost one. That sparked new urgency in him and he walked briskly, shakily down to where the suite’s bedroom was. The lights were off.
“Betty?” He asked, but once again there was no answer. He opened the door, and was greeted by…the blanket cloaked form of his wife. Fast asleep, face peaceful and unstained by tears, untroubled by strife. Ford stared for a moment and before he could stop himself he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, a shuddering sigh of relief tearing through him. In bed Betty’s eyelids fluttered and she woke up, blinking groggily at Ford.
“Jerry,” she asked, sudden concern tinging her voice, “are you alright?”
Ford blinked, surprised by the question, then realized that he must have looked pretty haggard. He laughed, relief brightening his voice.
“Yes Betty, I’m alright now.” He suddenly felt worn out and laid his forehead against the sheets, unwilling to move so much an another inch, the ragged edges of a stress headache raking sharp claws of pain somewhere behind his eyes. The sense of relief he felt wiped that away though, momentarily.
“It was those ads wasn’t it?” Betty asked, stroking Ford’s hair with a gentle hand.
“Ron warned me about those…said that you’d be targeted…but I still panicked. I almost gave Helms what he wanted.” Ford felt sick at the thought of his manipulation, but Betty just shushed him, gently.
“And I knew that Jerry, I knew that it was only a matter of time. Did you think that I’d melt like the Wicked Witch of the West when that day came?”
Ford raised his head, saw Betty raise an inquiring eyebrow.
“Of course not Betty. It was just…” He couldn’t finish, couldn’t bring himself to share the awful fear that had pumped through his veins, numbed him entirely, except for a sense of dread that simply wouldn’t go away. Like a tumor.
“Everything is alright Jerry,” Betty said, “now come to bed or else you’re going to fall asleep like that.” Despite himself that made Ford smile and he snuggled in close, feeling the last bits of fear and anxiety vanish as he drifted off to sleep.
Lying back in bed, blanket tucked up to his chest, Reagan was halfway through his afternoon nap when the phone rang. Groping for it, he swore quietly, contemplating how many naps had been ruined by campaign business recently. It was enough to drive a man to madness.
“Hello,” he groaned groggily, “Jerry?”
It was indeed Gerald Ford on the other end of the line.
“Falwell and Robertson rebuffed us. They refuse to go against Helms.” Ford did not sound like he was having a very good day.
Sitting up, blankets puddling around him, Reagan groaned and blinked in the light. It seemed far too bright and his head was throbbing. Had been ever since the stress of the whole Quigley thing. And this definitely wasn't helping.
“I had a sneaking suspicion…” he paused to glance over at the time, he’d been asleep for a little over an hour, “I’m gonna guess he’s afraid of angering the Helms stalwarts in the ranks of his flock.”
“Precisely. He even went so far as to say that a second Carter term would be, and I quote, ‘good for business’. Who the fuck do they think they are Ron?” Ford sounded genuinely furious, even more so since he couldn't really hit back against the people that had snubbed him.
“Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson are…uh, complicated people. I wont pretend that they’re easy to deal with, but they wield a whole lot of power over conservative politics in the south. I’ll talk to them, try to make them see reason, but don’t expect any major changes. They want to keep their flock intact Jerry. And don’t worry, you’re going to win. I know it.”
Ford was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke his voice was a little more relaxed. Happier even.
“Thank you Ron.”
Reagan hung up and began to place another call, stabbing unhappily at the buttons. So Robertson and Falwell had turned his people away. That either meant that they wanted concessions that he, in good faith, could not make, or they were just genuinely uninterested. As he listened to the phone ring Reagan began to fear more and more with each tone that it was the second option.
10:45 A.M. Raleigh North Carolina, September 26, 1980
“So they turned Reagan away…” Baker said, quietly horrified.
Ford nodded unhappily, putting his dress shoes on, flexing his toes inside of them to make sure they fit right.
“Yep. Falwell and Robertson do not like me very much.”
Baker sighed.
“At least Helms is down in the dust. If they’d pulled this shit when he was doing better in the polls then Reagan would have chewed their heads off and they might have jumped ship entirely.”
Ford smiled gamely.
“From what I heard there were some choice words exchanged. Ron’s been confined to bedrest for a while because of that, but he did maintain to me on the phone that it was worth it.”
That made Baker laugh, and he was still smiling when he looked at his watch.
“Alright. Time for us to go kick some ass.”
That was perhaps too harsh a term for Ford, but he nodded gamely and together they walked off the campaign bus, broad smiles planted firmly on their faces as they greeted the crowd that had gathered to watch them walk to the little stage that had been erected on the edge of Hampton Park. Quite a few of the faces looking back at Ford were brown and he smiled, that was an encouraging sign in a Republican party that had been having increasing trouble harnessing the minority vote. He shook hands, exchanged brief little pleasantries and then they were up on the stage. There were probably eight thousand people gathered in Pullen Park, overflowing onto the baseball diamond and merging around flowerbeds. They looked expectant and Ford was glad to see that the crowds were better than he had expected. He was still gong to lose the state to Carter, he knew that, but he could hopefully make it close if he rallied enough support.
“What a great welcome to Raleigh, and North Carolina as a whole, and a great example of the people who help make America great every day,” Ford said brightly, a safe but hopefully inspiring opening, “it says a great deal that so many of you showed up to offer your support for a brighter future. Right now we have eight percent of our nation out of work, an economy that has stagnated and atrophied and more than four hundred Americans trapped overseas at the tender mercies of a rogue, theocratic nation. America has seen brighter days, but it is not impossible for us to reverse the trend of apathy and defeatism that had plagued us for so long. It is not impossible, but it will be hard, and every last one of you will need to give your all if we want a new dawn to bathe America in the golden light of prosperity and plenty.
In the glow of that new day I can see an America where the people do not suffer under increased taxes and don’t need to fear enemies both at home and abroad. I can see an America where hatred and division is replaced by tolerance and understanding, and where everyone has both the opportunity and the tools to do anything that they set their minds to.
In these kinds of races people like to talk about the great hardships that they endured, but as a man I can tell you that I wish, every day, for an America where nobody has to suffer, whether from poverty, violence, addiction or abuse. Where everyone can enjoy the fruits of their labors in a way of their choosing. I am a conservative, that is true, but I offer a compassionate alternative to the callous, vengeful brutality of Jesse Helms, and the disinterested big government bureaucracy of President Carter. A middle way, so to speak, and a genuine path towards that rebirth of prosperity and peace that America needs. Thank you and God bless you all.”
11:32 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, September 29, 1980
“The journalists are starting to give up,” Atwater said, “but theres still a lot of them trying to get people to talk. There’s also word of an FEC investigation but I’m not sure if Carter has the balls to order one. It would look an awful lot like he’s trying to shut us up…and that would piss a lot of people off.”
Helms grunted, he was sitting, slumped, in his office chair, simmering. It had been an absolutely disastrous week, and he had just gotten back from an unsatisfactory tour of the state, where he had had eggs thrown at him on two separate occasions. His perceived involvement in the negative campaign ads (nothing had been proven, not that some of the more zealous liberal P.C. types cared, Helms thought bitterly) had rankled a lot of moderates and even disaffected some of the conservatives, who saw flashes of Nixon in him and decided that they didn't like that.
“And sink us,” Helms spat, “we’d probably be looking at libel charges from Nancy Reagan over the whole ‘she beats her kids’ thing that we put out a few weeks back.” Atwater actually smiled at the thought of that ad, which made Helms want to strangle him even more than usual. He didn’t like Atwater’s enthusiasm in this, he seemed to treat the campaign like a game, which didn't sit right with Helms. This was the last chance for conservatism in America before the godless liberals flushed the whole goddamn country down the crapper, and yet here Atwater was, looking for all the world like he was practicing for something bigger.
“Don’t be so pessimistic. Pretty soon we’ll be up and running again, especially with Billygate burning Carter’s polls down.”
Helms seethed.
“But not Ford’s. Ford’s have been going up! I don’t fucking want that! He’ll win, and then Paul fucking Laxalt will do his best to ruin me. I’ll be fucked if that man gets into the White House, fucked if Carter wins…” He trailed off, face red, eyes bloodshot, furious but unable to articulate that fury any longer.
“Listen,” Atwater said, aware that Helms had burned himself out, for now at least, “you might want to stay off the trail for a few more days, but you’ve got McDonald. Send him out, make use of him. And in a week or so then you can start kicking ass again. I’ll work on some new stuff, see if I can get Ford down in the muck with Carter. That sound good?”
Helms nodded stiffly and Atwater excused himself. He sighed, slightly irritated with Helms. The man was giving up, frustrated and unhappy, perhaps wondering internally if the campaign was even worth it when the answer was so obviously yes. For Lee Atwater at least.
12:54 P.M. Washington D.C., September 31, 1980
“Jerry can’t be too happy about this…” Carter mused, looking at the paper he had just been handed by a grim faced campaign aide. It showed a simply black white photo of a list of signatures, Ford’s helpfully underlined in red, and an explanation that the signatures were for a petition to keep America out of World War Two. CAN WE TRUST GERALD FORD’S PATRIOTISM? The ad asked in bold letters.
“I wouldn’t imagine so Mr. President,” the aide said, “and it probably wont go anywhere…but all the same, it means that Helms, or at least some of his allies are up and throwing punches again.”
That was not good. At all. Him and Ford had colluded to absolutely destroy Helms, and instead they had knocked him down for barely two weeks. Two weeks in the scheme of a presidential election was nothing, there were still five more to go until election day, and so far Helms had sustained merely superficial damage to his campaign. Ford’s attempt to recruit the conservative evangelicals had failed, even with Reagan’s backing Carter had heard, which made him feel uneasy about his own religious backers, who had remained steadfast, but were unhappy with him about a whole variety of things and clearly emboldened by Helms.
The whole thing was a goddamn mess, and topping it, like the cherry on a sundae filled with razor blades, were the hearings. Oh the goddamn hearings. On and on they stretched, a bare majority of Republicans and Kennedy Democrats raking him and Billy over the coals, forcing him to effectively prostrate himself before the entire nation. Like he was the whipping boy instead of the leader of the whole godforsaken free world. The Soviets had to be pissing themselves laughing right now.
The Iranians too.
At least Credible Sport was well ahead of schedule and ready for a test on the third, only a few days away. And then there would be further tests, and a finalizing of logistics in the Mideast. And then the operation would begin. Not before the election, which had disappointed Carter, but two weeks after. There was simply no way to get the rocket plane and the logistical situation sorted out in a mere five weeks, it simply wouldn’t be fair to the soldiers and airmen involved, and most definitely not to the hostages either. Carter couldn’t imagine putting all those lives at risk just for a chance to practically guarantee his reelection.
He would win without it anyway, he was certain. His polling, while battered by all the shit he had taken during the campaign, was still above Ford’s. Barely, but it would remain there. He was certain of it.
1:20 P.M. Sacramento California, October 1, 1980
“That is some Grade A, grass fed bullshit right there.” Reagan said and let the paper fall from his fingers. He was in bed again, phone held up to his ears, feeling tired and just generally sick of life. First it had been Falwell and Robertson cheerfully telling him to piss up a rope (politely…oh so politely, but the sentiment was still there), and now it was the paper that Ford had faxed to him. A copy of the old college petition that a much younger Gerald Ford had signed back in 1939, complete with a furious ultraconservative screed decrying him for doing it.
“I know. But that’s not the point, nobody’s going to take this seriously besides people who support Helms already. The point is that he’s up and swinging again. Already.”
Reagan sighed, shut his eyes. His headache still hadn’t gone away, even with the pills that the doctor had given him. They had talked about taking him back to the hospital, but ultimately Nancy had overruled the doctor and Reagan had gone along with her. He preferred being home anyway.
“And what should we do?” Reagan asked, “we already tried cutting the evangelicals out from under him, and that didn’t take…so what?”
Ford didn’t sound dissuaded. Instead he just sounded angry, in a focused kind of way that made Reagan not want to be Jesse Helms or Lee Atwater…or really anyone close to them.
“What really hurt him was the negative ad blowback. If we can prove definitively that he’s behind this then we’ll ruin him. Completely this time.”
Reagan nodded, then winced at the pain it caused him.
“That would definitely get him off our backs. I think that we’d need to do more though. Any other weak spots in his campaign?” Reagan hadn’t been paying much attention to politics ever since the Quigley thing, he’d simply been hurting too much. That burst of activity had set him back a ways in his recovery, he feared, and had even caused him to rethink his planned tour of the midwest, which was full of states that Ford needed to win, especially Ohio. He still intended to make it…just later than he had expected to.
“I don’t know Ron,” Ford said, “Helms has run his campaign in such an erratic way it’s hard to figure out just about anything about it. Right now we’ve got a whole bunch of suspicious campaign records, but nothing more than that. Nothing definitive.” Reagan considered the problem, wondered what Atwater would do next, who he would go after. Right now he seemed fixated on Ford, who had floated through the whole shit storm without so much as a scratch while Carter and him were pasted. But that couldn’t last, already he was scraping the bottom of the barrel if the petition ad indicated anything, he would have to find a juicier target.
“He’s gonna have to go after Betty pretty soon. She’s the only one that they haven't smeared yet.”
Ford was strangely quiet for a long time.
“They better not,” he said grimly, “I’d ruin Helms if he did that. And I’m not one to ruin people Ron. But if that man comes after my wife then you’d better believe that that’s the last mistake he’ll ever make.”
Reagan believed him. If there was ever a man who did not make idle threats then that was Gerald Ford.
“Get ready to strike back if they do. When their attacks on you fizzle…because they will, then they’re going to go after Betty. I know how Atwater works, he wants you to get angry and try to come after Helms. He wants you to break your image as an optimistic reformer…a happy warrior if I can borrow one of McGovern’s phrases. Don’t give him the pleasure. Just let Betty speak for herself, she’ll do all that needs to be done.”
9:12 A.M. Washington D.C., October 3, 1980
“These hearings are killing me Robert,” Carter groaned, running a hand through his hair, “and there’s still so many of them. Can you please work faster on breaking the Kennedy stalwarts so that we can bring this whole circus to an end.”
On the other end of the line Majority Leader Byrd sounded testy, busy with something that was not his phone call with the President.
“I’m trying to sir, but they’re set. They don’t think that this is hurting you too badly in the polls so I cant threaten them with the idea of a President Ford…Kennedy has them firmly in his grasp.”
Carter let a frustrated beat hiss out from between clenched teeth.
“At least Billy’s holding up. He hasn't said anything stupid…”
“No sir,” Byrd agreed, “he’s sticking to the script. He knows that this is serious, he’s not an idiot.”
Carter could tell that Byrd was being charitable with that last line but said nothing about it.
“Do you have an estimated end date on this?”
Byrd hemmed and hawed for a moment, Carter’s heart sinking further with each moment that the Majority Leader stalled.
“It’ll be close. I might have been being optimistic with my assessment of mid to late October.”
“Just tell me, are they going to run through the election or not?” Carter hoped that he didn't sound nervous.
“I don’t know. It’ll be close. I’ll do all that I can sir, I promise.”
Carter let the phone drop back into its cradle and buried his head in his hands. This was bad. Bad bad bad. If he went into the election with the hearings still going then it would hurt him a lot. And not just him, but a whole bunch of down ballot elections as well.
“Fritz,” he asked, and from the other side of the room Vice President Mondale looked up from the ledger he’s been reading, “could you please go visit Byrd and help him figure this hearing situation out? You know more about the Senate than I do.”
Mondale agreed and headed out, leaving Carter completely alone.
4:30 P.M. Eglin Air Force Base Florida, October 3, 1980
The weather was clear, and in the glow of a gathering sunset, preparations were complete, the engines of a C-130 (serial #74-2065) growling, their noise growing into a full throated roar as they warmed up. A safe distance away a panel of men watched from behind mirrored aviator glasses, faces expressionless. They all wanted very badly for this to work, but at the same time had seen far too many failures on other projects to place blind optimism in anything.
“Commencing short takeoff test number one. Test one is a go, repeat, test one is a go.” One of them said into a walkie talkie, and shortly afterwards the plane began to move. Ponderously at first, but gaining a curious sort of grace as it trundled down the runway. A dozen heads turned to watch it, a hundred eyes from all around the runway watching, scientists and aviator alike taking notes on its progress.
“Firing rockets now.” A cool voice from the plane told the observers, and a moment later a wall of lights popped on, blasting the brightness of the sunset away. Barely a second later a wall of noise hit the observers, forcing many to cover their ears, even over the mufflers they were wearing. The plane jerked forward, none too gracefully, but with that movement it was suddenly, impossibly airborne, lifting away from the tarmac. It shot up at a frightening angle and twisted. To the untrained eye it may have appeared that the pilot had lost control, but instead of crashing back down to earth the C-130 sliced down, leveling out as its rockets winked out, leaving it once more a normal plane. At least to the casual observer.
A moment of stunned silence passed, then applause. The takeoff had set all sorts of records it would be found later, and had apparently given the flight engineer a severe nosebleed as well. But that was acceptable, because the first element of Credible Sport had proven to be very possible. Now it was time to see if landing was possible.
The plane circled and went on a short flight, testing carious aspects of itself, the double slotted flaps proving especially useful for slowing the plane down as it approached the runway once more. Partial tests had been undertaken before, but this was the first full test that had been attempted, and even if the takeoff had been successful, the military men watching were still on edge.
“Firing upper deceleration set…don’t look out the window Bill, Jesus.” The pilot apologized for leaving the radio on, and with that the lights reappeared and the plane did a curious thing, virtually stopping in midair with a jolt that had to have thrown the entire crew forward with rib cracking force. All the same the C-130 was moving, floating down toward the runway. It touched down with a puff of smoke from the tires, bounced and settled. The line it would have to stop by was indicated by a bold orange line two hundred yards down the runway. It suddenly looked impossibly small against the bulk of the C-130.
“Firing lower deceleration set.” The pilot said and once again the observers were treated to a deafening roar as the rockets fired, blinding lights flaring from the plane in an almost hellish display. And when it died down, the rockets whispering to a stop, completely drained, the C-130 was still upright, the propellers on its main engines whirring to a stop, its nose still ten yards from the orange line.
“Gentlemen,” Chairman Jones said, removing his headphones and tinted glasses, “I believe that we can rule this flight a success.”
8:50 A.M. Washington D.C., October 4, 1980
Amidst the spiral of ever thickening dread that Carter had now begun to feel whenever he thought of dealing with the Iranians, the success of the modified C-130 had proven to be a bright and indelible spot of light. Jones had been practically glowing, and even if he was an infantry general it was clear that he respected American airpower immensely.
“Can we settle on a final date for the operation now that preliminary testing is completed and we know that it is possible for this to work?” He asked. It made him feel nervous to say that, like he was rushing. But there really weren't any other options, every additional day the hostages spent in the embassy, at the mercy of a bunch of anti-western religious zealots, the better the chances that someone’s trigger finger would get itchy, and the better the chances that a massacre would take place.
That was the worst case scenario. Absolute worst. Ford would win in a landslide reminiscent of one of Eisenhower’s better performances, and he, Jimmy Carter, would be swept aside and absolutely loathed for roughly the rest of eternity. That was not a desirable outcome by any stretch of the imagination.
The median case scenario would be more painful negotiations and an anticlimactic release of the hostages sometime in his second term. That would satisfy nobody and the Iranians would have just demonstrated to the world that they were very able to humiliate a superpower more or less at will. Also not totally desirable from a geopolitical standpoint, but at least the hostages would make it out alive.
Best case scenario would be Credible Sport going as planned, with no Eagle Claw style mechanical failures and no oversights regarding logistics. Taking the hostages would make heroes out of a great many men, and Carter would be regarded very warmly by the nation. Sure it would be after the election, but having approval ratings in the upper stratosphere never hurt when one was trying to pass a comprehensive agenda for his second term.
“Of course sir,” Chairman Jones said, “we were thinking about mid to late December. That would give us time to double and triple check mechanics, stock up and everything that we could possibly need, stack the teams going in with the best possible men and small unit commanders. We’re going to need everything to work out perfectly, and to guarantee that then we need time.”
“If we were raiding a Christian nation then I’d suggest going in on Christmas, but that might be a little sacrilegious.” Brzezinski said, which got a few chuckles.
“Consult with our meteorologists,” Carter said, “send me a list of days that are the most likely to be completely clear, and uh, good work everyone.”
The Joint Chiefs and Carter’s security staff nodded and smiled lightly, showing their appreciation. Carter broke the meeting up and trudged out of the Situation Room, once more to check up on the hearings.
12:00 P.M. Cary North Carolina, October 4, 1980
“They were in my fucking state,” Helms growled, “I still cant believe that they dared do that.” Sitting in the campaign bus with a noticeably unhappy looking McDonald, Helms was grousing. As he had been doing for the past several weeks, ever since Reagan had so nearly sunk him and his entire campaign.
“The Ford campaign is free to go where it pleases,” McDonald sighed, he was getting tired of dealing with Helms. Tired of the controversy. Of everything really.
“Raleigh was one thing,” Helms shook his head, “goddamn place is full of liberals anyways…but the fucking tour through the state was just slapping me in the face. And I couldn't even go out and face him because we’re still fucking toxic in all of the places Ford went to.”
No, McDonald thought, not we. Just you. But he didn't correct Helms, instead he was looking over his notes, the words there looking less than inspiring.
He had been out on his own a lot lately, what with Helms in hiding from the press. Only now was he feeling brave enough to come back out, and only then to the more conservative parts of the state.
“Don’t worry about it.” McDonald said curtly, and the bus drove on.
1:23 P.M. Grand Rapids Michigan, October 5, 1980
Inserting the tape into a VCR, the communications director for the Ford campaign stood aside and pressed the play button. Immediately the screen, which had been bright blue, interspaced with the occasional band of static, flickered into color, the Ford campaign emblem on a while background, the bright light illuminating the little group of campaign executives who had come to see the newest attack ad.
The ad opened with an outline of North Carolina, famous figures from that state slowly appearing and fading into the background, Andrew Jackson, James K. Polk, Hiram Revels, Cecil B. DeMille, a parade of historical figures who had all made some great impact upon the United States.
“North Carolina is an extraordinary place, in an extraordinary nation,” a narrator began, as the outlines of other states came into view, linking up with North Carolina and forming a complete map of the country, “the home of inventors, entrepreneurs, leaders and talented individuals from every field.” A pause.
“So does it deserve this?” The narrator asked in a pointed tone, a television clip showing Jesse Helms pushing a delegate against the wall at the 1980 Republican National Convention being played, the clip smash cutting slightly closer to the action, the delegate’s impact against the wall feeling all the harder because of it.
“Does this beautiful place deserve to be represented by this man?” The narrator asked, though it was clear from his tone that he, and potentially the audience, already knew the answer. Several further clips played, Helms making racist statements, allegations of misconduct in office, interspaced with quick cuts of images of Klansmen, almost too quick for the eye to see. The intern who made the ad had read a book on subliminal imagery, and wanted to try it out.
“Does this nation deserve to be led by Jesse Helms?” And with that images of the negative campaign ads directed against Ronald and Nancy Reagan and Gerald Ford flashed onto the screen, lingering before cutting to an unflattering photograph of a menacing Jesse Helms. And with that the ad cut to black.
“This is good,” one of the executives said, “I want it trimmed down to thirty seconds and polished by this time tomorrow. We’re putting this one out.”
1:12 P.M. Sacramento California, October 7, 1980
“Jesus Jerry, breaking out the big guns I see.” Reagan marveled, watching the screen of his television swim with static in the aftermath of the ad that Ford had sent him. It was going to be released the very next day, and Ford wanted Reagan’s opinion.
“That’s the idea,” Ford said grimly, “we’re focusing hard on the negative campaigning he’s done. If it sinks him, which I hope it will, then hopefully it’ll curb this type of thing in the future.”
Reagan didn’t nod to himself, his head was still tender, and he had had trouble sleeping for the past few days because of it. Still he had not gone back to the hospital, mostly because he was feeling stronger, his vitals were normal and nothing was coming up in his blood work. It was just the headaches.
“You’ll never get rid of it Jerry,” he said, “it’s just too easy. But if Helms implodes in a sufficiently exciting way then maybe it’ll discourage third party runs for a while. Hopefully.”
Ford chuckled, then was quiet for a few moments.
“You alright Ron?” He asked, “you sound kinda out of it.” Reagan furrowed his brow. Did he?
“Guess it’s just my noggin acting up again, but don’t worry, I’m alright.”
“You sure Ron? I could come by and let Howard hold down the fort for a little bit…he’s more in his element down south than I am if I’m gonna be honest.”
Reagan chuckled wearily.
“No, seriously Jerry, I’m alright. I’ve got Nancy to care for me, all that you need to care about right now is winning the election. Besides my doctor drops by every day to see how I’m doing. He’d let me know if there was something wrong with me.”
Ford sounded mollified by that.
“Alright Ron. But when we’re finished with campaigning then I’m flying back to California to see the election results with you and whoever else wants to come.”
“Nonsense Jerry,” Reagan said, “California is safe Republican, if anything you want to be watching from a swing state, like Ohio or Mississippi. Go over there, try to clamp down as many electoral votes as you possibly can.”
Ford considered that Reagan would likely fly over to join him, come hell or high water, and decided not to debate him.
“Alright Ron, I’ll talk to you later, I’m attending a fundraiser with Governor Treen later and I’ve got to get ready.”
Reagan smiled wanly.
“Alright. See you later Jerry.” He hung up, stared up at the ceiling, wondered when his head would ever feel normal again.
6:00 P.M. Baton Rouge Louisiana, October 7, 1980
“Holy shit.” Just behind the closed back doors of Ford’s shindig with Governor Treen, a pair of campaign executives were staring at a sheet of paper that had just come through the fax machine. It was black and white, robbed of color, but that was perhaps a mercy. A doctored photograph of Betty Ford stared up at the executives, her pupils edited to make them appear dilated, bags under her eyes and a web of broken veins in her nose. She looked like a caricature of an alcoholic, like a sadist had painted a cruel mockery of the former First Lady over her real picture. The worst thing was that it was well done, concerning photo editing at least.
“This goes beyond the pale,” the other executive breathed, lips pressed together into a thin, colorless line of barely contained anger, “even for Atwater and Helms.” Below Betty Ford’s altered photo was a blurb warning the nation that she was an alcoholic and had broken her rehabilitation multiple times due to the stresses of the campaign trail. IF GERALD FORD WOULD DO THIS TO HIS WIFE, the bold print at the bottom of the page asked, THEN WHAT WOULD HE DO TO THE NATION?
“Who’d this come from?” The first executive asked, smoothing his tie down.
“One of our people in Nashville sent it in. The Helms campaign is starting to spread out a little bit and hit us in swing states.”
That was bad news. The second executive licked dry lips, suddenly very frightened about what this might mean.
“Should we show this to Jerry?” He asked, hesitantly. Putting Ford through something like this in the middle of a fundraiser might be bad, it would throw him off balance.
“He has to know,” the first executive said, “show Governor Treen too, let them know that Helms and Atwater are back at work.”
The second executive nodded and opened the door. Hesitated for a moment, then marched out, bearing his cargo of unwelcome news.
7:44 P.M. Baton Rouge Louisiana, October 7, 1980
“It was very kind of you to come out and support us,” Baker was saying, shaking Governor David Treen’s hand. Him, Ford and Treen were sitting in a back room, only a few minutes removed from the fundraiser, which had raised a pretty fair amount, “we thank you for helping us in our effort to deliver the south.”
Treen nodded and sat back, regarding the men he had thrown his support behind. He was more on the conservative end of the spectrum, but Helms’ racism rubbed him the wrong way. Treen had campaigned on a platform of helping the black community and had been indirectly attacked by Helms more than once in the past as a result. So while he didn’t like Ford and Baker all that much, Helms was a personal enemy and Carter was…worse. The shocking photo ad that had come in right in the middle of the fundraiser only added to that feeling. Helms was filth.
“Of course Senator, Mr. President,” Treen said, being sure to be courteous, “I’d be happy to let you use a great deal of my leftover campaign infrastructure as well. If we can add Louisiana, Mississippi and Tennessee to our column come next month then we should be able to defeat Carter and Helms even if things go completely to hell in the north.”
Ford nodded respectfully at Treen’s analysis, it seemed fair, though the election would be very close no matter what happened. Just like the last one.
“I don’t know about Carter, but we’ll make sure that Helms is absolutely destroyed,” Ford said quietly, “he wont be elected so much as dogcatcher in this country when we’re done with him.”
The quiet intensity in Ford’s voice sent a shiver up Treen’s spine. When he looked at Ford he saw a man who was very obviously furious, but at the same time wasn’t lashing out. He had a plan, Treen saw, and was going to use it to get revenge. Absolute and total revenge.
9:00 P.M. Baton Rouge Louisiana, October 7, 1980
When Ford got back to the hotel room, where Betty was resting, the first thing he saw was a very familiar, ugly sheet of paper lying on the front table. Face down. He glanced at it, confirmed that it was indeed the same ugly and libelous ad that had smeared her so…so viciously, and then crumpled it. Ford had always prided himself on being a conciliatory man, a mediator. Mild mannered and level headed, not prone to outbursts, not rash or impulsive at all. And yet he wanted to break something, punch a hole in the wall, shatter the vase of roses and rake his hands up and down over the thorns. Because Betty was being attacked, and he could do so precious little to help her. He felt trapped and helpless, disgusted at himself for his intoxication on the sweet perfume of rage, yet hopelessly addicted already.
“Darling?” He asked quietly, and threw the piece of paper away. There was only silence in response and Ford let out a deep breath. Terrible scenarios flitted through his mind, Betty lying in bed, crying, unhappy being the foremost one. That sparked new urgency in him and he walked briskly, shakily down to where the suite’s bedroom was. The lights were off.
“Betty?” He asked, but once again there was no answer. He opened the door, and was greeted by…the blanket cloaked form of his wife. Fast asleep, face peaceful and unstained by tears, untroubled by strife. Ford stared for a moment and before he could stop himself he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, a shuddering sigh of relief tearing through him. In bed Betty’s eyelids fluttered and she woke up, blinking groggily at Ford.
“Jerry,” she asked, sudden concern tinging her voice, “are you alright?”
Ford blinked, surprised by the question, then realized that he must have looked pretty haggard. He laughed, relief brightening his voice.
“Yes Betty, I’m alright now.” He suddenly felt worn out and laid his forehead against the sheets, unwilling to move so much an another inch, the ragged edges of a stress headache raking sharp claws of pain somewhere behind his eyes. The sense of relief he felt wiped that away though, momentarily.
“It was those ads wasn’t it?” Betty asked, stroking Ford’s hair with a gentle hand.
“Ron warned me about those…said that you’d be targeted…but I still panicked. I almost gave Helms what he wanted.” Ford felt sick at the thought of his manipulation, but Betty just shushed him, gently.
“And I knew that Jerry, I knew that it was only a matter of time. Did you think that I’d melt like the Wicked Witch of the West when that day came?”
Ford raised his head, saw Betty raise an inquiring eyebrow.
“Of course not Betty. It was just…” He couldn’t finish, couldn’t bring himself to share the awful fear that had pumped through his veins, numbed him entirely, except for a sense of dread that simply wouldn’t go away. Like a tumor.
“Everything is alright Jerry,” Betty said, “now come to bed or else you’re going to fall asleep like that.” Despite himself that made Ford smile and he snuggled in close, feeling the last bits of fear and anxiety vanish as he drifted off to sleep.
12:01 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 8, 1980
When news arrived that Ford had released a bombshell of an attack ad, aimed directly at Helms, the aides immediately scattered in all directions, heading away from Jesse Helms’ office. It was a wise move, for a moment later Helms began issuing strings of profanity, the likes of which had not been uttered by mortal man for quite a long time.
In the aftermath, with silence having reigned for several minutes, Atwater hesitantly opened Helms’ door.
“I had no idea that they were going to release this sir.” He said meekly, and had barely managed to get his head out of the door frame before Helms practically lunged at him, caught him by the tie and dragged him inside of the office, pinning him to the far wall with a fiery, wrathful gaze.
“This is very bad timing Lee,” Helms said, retreating back behind his desk, voice husky from the earlier shouting, “very bad. Because everyone will be looking for negative campaign ads now…and look what the fuck we just put out onto the streets! By the goddamn thousands!” He lifted two crumpled fistfuls of paper and let them rain down onto the floor of his office, Betty Ford’s altered face staring up for a few of the papers, a further expose on Nancy Reagan’s alleged pill addiction on the others.
“To be fair sir, this was your idea.” Atwater said defensively, suddenly looking very nervous, and far too focused on self preservation for Helms’ liking.
“Fuck you Lee.” Helms said flatly, and at that moment Atwater realized that Helms was slurring his words just a little bit, and shifting weight from one foot to another just a little too much. The man was drunk.
“You’ve completely given up.” Atwater said, suddenly disgusted, and shook his head reproachfully.
Helms slammed his fist down upon the desk and a small silver flask that Atwater hadn’t noticed before toppled over, drizzling a little trickle of amber liquid onto Betty Ford’s disfigured visage.
“No I fucking haven’t!” Helms shouted, eyes suddenly full of terror, “I’m on track to save this goddamn party, you’re the one fucking around with these ads that haven't done jack shit besides get me in trouble!”
Inside Atwater something suddenly came together, like a lost puzzle piece had finally been found.
“Yeah, fuck you Jesse,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand, “looks like you can save the party without a campaign executive.” Turning on his heels, Atwater walked smartly from the office.
“Lee! Get back here right now! You cocksucker! You fucking faggot!” Helms shrieked from behind him, but Atwater didn’t even glance back. Passing a small group of workers, he stared down at them coldly.
“Go home,” he said, “this whole thing is over.” And with that Lee Atwater walked out into the world. One that would soon be changing very quickly.
12:35 P.M. New Orleans Louisiana, October 8, 1980
Ford was in disbelief. Ten minutes ago he had been under the impression that the Ford and Helms campaigns were engaged in total war…but now, according to his communications director, Lee Atwater had called…and asked for a truce. Ford reached out and took the phone, suspicion coursing through him.
“This had better be good.” Ford snarled, and in the silence that followed Atwater sighed.
“Listen Mr. Ford,” the down and out campaign executive said, “I know that you don’t like me very much so I wont waste your time, but I think that I could be of great help to you if you listen to what I have to say.”
Part of Ford wanted to hang up the phone, all the ugly emotion from the previous night flooding back in an instant. But instead he forced himself to take a deep breath, and consider Atwater’s offer.
“If this is some kind of ploy from the Helms campaign then you can hang up now.”
Atwater sounded slightly rattled now, unhappy. That made Ford glad, a little sadistic thrill running through him. Atwater had either gotten himself into some deep shit or was a splendid actor. Ford leaned towards the second option; he knew better than most that Lee Atwater was spectacularly good at being a slimy little shit when it suited him.
“No. Not at all. I promise. Now please Mr. Ford-“
Ford cut him off.
“Mr. President if you will.” He said. Just to rub it in.
“…Mr. President,” Atwater said unhappily, “I have just quit the Helms campaign. I am a free agent, and I carry all of the inner workings of the campaign in my mind. I could sink them all with just one guarantee from you.”
Ford paused, stunned. What? Atwater had defected? Holy shit.
“Let me get this straight,” Ford said slowly, “you walked away from Helms, probably just a few minutes ago, and want me to spare you from the libel and fraud charges that are going to rain down upon your organization like hellfire as soon as the reporters get a lock on where all those nasty ads are coming from. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Atwater said quietly.
“Yes…?”
“Yes Mr. President.”
Ford was quiet for a moment.
“I’ll have to get back to you on this. Perhaps I’ll consult with Nancy and Ronald Reagan first, see how they liked those ads you made about them. Brain damage and pill addiction…you have a sick mind Atwater.”
Atwater was suddenly furious and before he could stop himself he snapped.
“You cannot talk to me that way,” he pouted, but only heard Ford’s derisive laughter on the phone.
“Yes I can Atwater,” something about being called solely by his last name felt oddly demeaning to Atwater, “because I am the only thing that could possibly save you right now. You think Carter would save you? You think anyone would give a shit about you? Paul Laxalt would skin you alive, Carter wants Helms down but not out so he still drains votes from me…and that leaves you in one hell of a bad position from where I’m standing. So please Atwater,” Ford’s voice became menacing, “I’d be more careful about what I say in the future.” He hung up and sat back in his chair, looking visibly shaken.
“Wow,” Baker said mildly, “you just put the fear of God into him.”
Ford let out a long, slow breath.
“That wasn’t fun,” he said, “I don’t like having to be scary,” he smiled weakly, “I’m no good at it.”
Next to him Betty laughed cheerfully.
“You’re great at being scary…it just has to be someone you hate on the other end of the line.”
Ford’s smile vanished.
“That’s definitely the case with Lee Atwater.” He sighed.
“You are not alone on that one,” Baker said, “now come on, let’s get this news to Ron right now.”
12:50 P.M. Sacramento California, October 8, 1980
“That…is an interesting situation.” Reagan said carefully, from behind the ice mask he was wearing over his eyes and forehead, another headache cure that was supposed to relieve even the worst of his head pains.
“We have no idea if we can trust him,” Ford said, “it could be a trap by the Helms campaign, designed to catch me offering to cover up the crimes of Atwater if he gives me information to bring down his boss.”
Reagan winced at the thought of that possibility.
“Put him through to me the next time he calls. I’ll figure him out, and take the fall if anything happens. Okay Jerry?” There was a sort of sternness in his answer that made Ford realize that there was no arguing with it. When Reagan was set on a subject then trying to dislodge him was like boxing with a brick wall.
“Alright Ron. Be sure to rest.”
“I will. Goodbye Jerry.” Reagan set the phone down and stared up through half opened eyes at the pale bluish liquid inside of the ice mask. It felt good, he’d have to try this more often. Just freeze the headaches into submission.
5:44 P.M. New York City New York, October 8, 1980
“This is absolutely disgusting,” John Chancellor said, unable to keep himself from wrinkling his nose in revulsion at the sight of the Betty Ford ad, “I know we’re supposed to be impartial but this is a step too far. What do I even say about this?”
Next to him, Tom Brokaw glanced at the anchor and shrugged.
“Negative advertising is on the rise, and so are speculations that these might be from the Helms campaign. Focus on the speculations if you want, maybe we’ll get lucky and get to cover those in more detail if our reporters find something.”
Chancellor flicked through his notes, asked the cameraman if he was ready and then listened attentively to a little message from the control room.
Word had come from the Ford campaign that Betty Ford was going to give a statement the next morning, which was fairly exciting.
“She’s gonna rip him a new one.” The cameraman said, almost gleefully.
Distracted, Chancellor looked up.
“Helms?” He asked.
“Nah. Lee Atwater.”
Chancellor supposed that the cameraman was right.
1:44 A.M. Washington D.C., October 9, 1980
When Presidents couldn’t sleep, which was fairly often (it was just that kind of job), they all had their own little things to do. Abraham Lincoln had been fond of wandering the White House, Teddy Roosevelt went into the gym and fought a punching bag, and Jimmy Carter sat and observed a portrait of Harry Truman. Truman had always been Carter’s favorite President, even more so than his semi-deified predecessor. There was something inherently honest about Truman that Carter admired and often sought to emulate; and when he faced a crisis sometimes he found himself sitting before the portrait, stirring the problem over and over in his mind.
And ever since the election…ever since the hearings had begun, those visits were growing more frequent. He had never questioned his choice to run for reelection, but had sometimes gone so far as to say that he hated his job…or at least what it had turned into. Before he had been dealing with either abstract concepts like the ailing economy, or foreign enemies like the Iranians. Now he was facing down against his own countrymen, and like it or not he was getting pummeled.
The worst thing was that the polls were uncertain. In more optimistic days he had been able to easily assume that he was well ahead of Ford, even with the margin of error taken into account. But now, with Helms sputtering, rumors of Democratic splinter tickets abounding (but never materializing…the right seemed to be better at mobilizing doomed splinter ticket runs than the left), the Iranians only escalating their diplomatic stonewalling and the economy stubbornly refusing to improve more than incrementally, the polls had gone haywire.
The Betty Ford ad had had the biggest effect, with virtually everyone decrying it as slander and perhaps the ugliest thing that any of the campaigns had put forth so far. That had given Ford some sympathy, and knocked Helms down a peg. Even his most loyal supporters were getting nervous now, and apparently several of Helms’ offices outside of North Carolina had shut their doors in the wake of the ad’s release.
Carter wondered briefly why Helms had even authorized the release of something like that. Had he honestly thought that people would agree with it, was he really that deluded that he hadn’t seen the outrage that it would generate? He shook his head, and sighed deeply.
He had been given a tentative list of dates for Credible Sport to take place on earlier in the day and he took it from his front pocket as he thought, unfolding it and running over the neat little list. They had been generated through careful study of Tehran’s average weather patterns in December over the past twenty years. And so far December 20th seemed to be most consistently calm. It was supposed to be a cold, dry winter in Iran, storms were unlikely.
Unlikely, but possible, and after the embarrassing disaster that had been Eagle Claw Carter was taking no chances. He circled December 20th loosely with a pen, thought about it for a little bit, then decided that it worked. They would have only one shot at this. And if they failed then every single American left alive in Tehran would die. Slow and on live television.
1:25 P.M. New Orleans Louisiana, October 9, 1980
“My fellow Americans,” Betty Ford paused, looked down at the teleprompter and frowned, “Joe, it’s doing that weird flickery thing again…”
Ambling forward, Ford’s chief technician looked at the screen of the prompter, which was indeed flickering erratically, bands of blue and white static clouding the screen.
“Well shit,” he said and unplugged the prompter with a grimace before looking back at his crew, “we got any spares that we could hook up within the next few minutes or so?” The answer that trickled back a few moments later came in the form of a cardboard box. A new prompter that would have to be set up pretty much from scratch.
“Might take a little bit to get this ready,” Joe said with an apologetic lift and fall of his shoulders, “we’ll have to get your remarks hooked up to it…”
Betty waved away his concerns.
“It’s perfectly alright, I’ll just practice on paper for now.” She wandered away from the podium, and the small crowd of technicians fiddling with the broken prompter. Backstage was a couch, which she let herself fall down onto with a sigh. She was tired and for a moment craved a drink with an intensity that would have put the flare of an acetylene torch to shame.
It never quite went away, the desire for a drink, or the warm fuzzy relief of a couple of pills. But she had learned to deal with it, in a painful but ultimately successful fashion. It hurt, the cravings did, they made her feel so…weak, but she never let them take control. Like she had in the bad old days, in such a complete fashion that she hadn’t even realized the control that alcohol and painkillers had over her life until her children and husband had cornered her in her very own living room and staged an intervention.
She had been so angry at first…but in the days that followed, that anger had faded, been replaced by horror as she came to realize just what she had sunk herself into. She had gone to rehab, had spoken to others of her struggles and heard similar stories. Nobody was immune to addiction, she had learned, no matter your station in life, your accomplishments…you could still fall victim to drugs, or alcohol, anything that could be abused really. And that knowledge had helped. It had cut through the loneliness and inner turmoil that had allowed her to fall so far. And instead of the slippery sides of a pit of internal darkness, she found the support that she needed to recover.
That was another thing that she had learned. Recovery was never complete, at best you were always a recovering alcoholic, a recovering painkiller addict. Though the mind could be conditioned to realize that the impulses to take a drink or swallow a pill were bad, the body still craved them.
But she had never relapsed. Not once. And she was intensely proud of herself for that, finding an inner glow of satisfaction that drowned out even the clamors for alcohol and painkillers that clouded her thoughts on bad nights.
It was still a rocky road though, haunted by the ever present danger of relapse. But that danger had been fading lately, and oddly enough, the horrible attack that Helms or Atwater or whoever had planned the infamous ad featuring her distorted visage had only steeled her resolve. She wouldn’t give those vultures the satisfaction of seeing her fall. She would cut them open and expose their lies, completing the dismemberment that virtually every source of fair media had begun to subject the Helms campaign to. Not openly of course, but everyone knew who had put it out, and they were not pleased.
“My fellow Americans,” she began quietly, “it’s so nice to see all of you again. I’ve come today to speak about a very important subject that has been all too frequently overlooked in our society. That being addiction.
“I myself am an addict. There is no other way to put that, and indeed that was the first thing that I had to admit to myself when I checked myself into rehab. Without that admission I could have never started the healing process, for without a careful examination of the problems that forced me into that position then they would have been ultimately unsolvable.
“I am also a mother, a wife, and both a past and future First Lady of the United States. I have spoken to all of you before, on one medium or another, about issues ranging from feminism to psychiatry to my struggles with cancer, and I have always been open with you. That will not change.
“It is important to note before I continue that all of us probably know an addict, a person who abuses alcohol or painkillers or hard drugs. And it is also important to know, within our hearts, that this does not make them bad people. Falling into the pit of addiction does not condemn a person before society but rather means that they need help. Disparaging people who struggle with addiction as weak or a burden upon society is to only reinforce the issues that drive these poor souls into drug and alcohol abuse in the first place.
“The struggle to recover from addiction is a constant one and never ends for most people. I have not taken a drink for two years now, have not abused painkillers for just as long, and yet I still feel dark urges to go back to the old ways that came so close to destroying me. This is no different for the countless others who live in this country and struggle with addiction.
“And while this may sound frightening and bleak to some of you, I urge you to act with compassion and try to understand the people in your life who struggle with addiction. They are people like you and me, and a hand held out in solidarity and kindness is always better than indifference.
“It is this indifference and lack of understanding that I hope to solve once my husband returns to the White House. If we put more resources into providing rehabilitation programs for addicts then we can help end the plague of drugs that currently flood our streets, and we can become a kinder, more tolerant nation as well.
“There will be those who look at addiction as a sign of moral failing, or of personal weakness. There will be those who cynically look upon those who abuse drugs and alcohol as inferiors who deserve what has happened to them, and it is them that we must overcome if we wish to fix this problem.
“This cynicism and disregard for one’s fellow man is all too easy to fall into. It’s easy to turn away from those who are different, those who struggle in a society that is all too often blind or even hostile to their needs. We often turn a blind eye to those in need because it is easier to assume that somebody else will help them, or that they don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. And that thinking is counterproductive to the ideal of America, that promised land held so high by the Founders and all of those who have worked, struggled, fought and even died to guarantee that we remain free.
“President John F. Kennedy said in 1961 that we did not choose to go to the moon because it is easy, but rather that it is hard, and I offer the same words here. But rather than scientific endeavor, I promise a greater understanding of one’s fellow man, and a more peaceful, cohesive society as a result.
“If we could take the time to understand the struggles of our countrymen then I firmly believe that it would breed a stronger, more beautiful nation, not one that runs off of willful ignorance and disregard for those not fortunate enough to have their voices heard.
“Thank you, and God bless you all.”
4:50 P.M. Sacramento California, October 9, 1980
“Let’s get this straight,” Reagan said, “how much evidence is there of your involvement in the…bad stuff?” He could hear Atwater fidgeting on the other end of the line. Apparently Ford had put the fear of God into the guy, made him malleable. That was good, it would make things easier.
“It’s all pretty covered up. I could just give some of the other stuff to the media and that would sink Helms.”
Reagan nodded slightly, blinking away a few random spots that were pulsing in the corner of his vision. His head still hurt, but not nearly as bad now, which was a good sign.
“But not you. Which would be good for our arrangement. But I’m warning you right now, get rid of the stuff that incriminates you, and if you ever back a candidate who is hostile to Ford or anybody that I throw my support behind, I will bury you.”
Atwater had never heard Reagan sound so menacing before, and he nodded meekly on his end of the line.
“It’ll be taken care of, I promise. And don’t worry, I’m taking a break from politics for now.”
Reagan let out a little chuckle and then winced.
“Have fun Lee, and lay low.” He hung up, and sat back, blinking again. The spots didn’t go away this time. That was concerning, but the thought of Helms finally going down in flames for good was intoxicating enough that it took his mind off of the discomfort.
“Nancy,” he called, “I have good news.” He stood up as he listened to his wife approach and suddenly the world seemed to have turned to an in-between station. He was hearing the same things but they seemed to have lost context, the light suddenly seemed far too dim for the late afternoon, and he could feel something that felt sharp, hot, cold and soft all at once sliding down the left side of his face. He tried to reach up and touch it but his left arm refused to respond. His heart lurched in his chest and he stared up as Nancy entered the room, confused.
“What’s happening?” He tried to ask, but only produced a weak gasp. Then his legs failed and he slumped, seemingly in slow motion, vision fading as he approached the floor. He never felt himself hit it.
5:22 P.M. New Orleans Louisiana, October 9, 1980
Gerald Ford was in good spirits when he picked up the call. Betty had just given her speech to an entranced studio audience, and even now anchors all across the country were talking about it. He expected Reagan, calling to talk about Betty’s tour de force, but instead he got a young man, shock slipping into his tone.
“Sir, Ronald Reagan has suffered a stroke…he’s being taken to the hospital now, we’re still unsure of his condition.”
Ford quietly thanked the man for informing him and hung up, feeling suddenly numb. The world seemed to be working away in slow motion, his heart lurching uncomfortably in his chest as he tried to process the news.
Jesus. A stroke? How? He picked up his phone, started to punch in Reagan’s home number before asking for the hospital that Reagan was being taken to. He needed to go right now and see how his friend was doing. A moment later he thought of Nancy Reagan and considered her reaction. He felt intensely sorry for the poor woman. Nobody should have go through all of this again.
The Night New York City New York, October 9, 1980
“…This just in, former California governor and presidential candidate Ronald Reagan has been taken into intensive care…”
“…We can only offer our prayers for the governor and his family now…”
“…The White House is expected to make a statement shortly, as is the Ford campaign…”
“…Gerald Ford has reportedly canceled the remainder of his tour through the south…”
“…We can now observe black cars and security personnel around the intensive care ward, where governor Reagan is now undergoing emergency surgery…”
“…A heartfelt statement from a visibly shaken Gerald Ford as he boarded a flight that appears to be going to Sacramento…”
“…Senator Baker has confirmed that he will be remaining on the campaign trail for the time being, and will be attending a prayer vigil in New Orleans that has been planned in support of governor Reagan…”
“…President Carter gave a statement in the Rose Garden, offering his prayers to governor Reagan and his family…”
“…What effect this will have on the state of the race remains unknown…”
“…Governor Reagan is still in surgery, nearly six hours after first being brought into intensive care, concern is growing as to his condition both inside and outside of the hospital…”
“…A statement from Senator Helms, who played up his friendship with governor Reagan and offered his prayers…”
“…We can now confirm, as of 11:34 P.M., October 9, 1980…that Ronald Reagan is dead.”
When news arrived that Ford had released a bombshell of an attack ad, aimed directly at Helms, the aides immediately scattered in all directions, heading away from Jesse Helms’ office. It was a wise move, for a moment later Helms began issuing strings of profanity, the likes of which had not been uttered by mortal man for quite a long time.
In the aftermath, with silence having reigned for several minutes, Atwater hesitantly opened Helms’ door.
“I had no idea that they were going to release this sir.” He said meekly, and had barely managed to get his head out of the door frame before Helms practically lunged at him, caught him by the tie and dragged him inside of the office, pinning him to the far wall with a fiery, wrathful gaze.
“This is very bad timing Lee,” Helms said, retreating back behind his desk, voice husky from the earlier shouting, “very bad. Because everyone will be looking for negative campaign ads now…and look what the fuck we just put out onto the streets! By the goddamn thousands!” He lifted two crumpled fistfuls of paper and let them rain down onto the floor of his office, Betty Ford’s altered face staring up for a few of the papers, a further expose on Nancy Reagan’s alleged pill addiction on the others.
“To be fair sir, this was your idea.” Atwater said defensively, suddenly looking very nervous, and far too focused on self preservation for Helms’ liking.
“Fuck you Lee.” Helms said flatly, and at that moment Atwater realized that Helms was slurring his words just a little bit, and shifting weight from one foot to another just a little too much. The man was drunk.
“You’ve completely given up.” Atwater said, suddenly disgusted, and shook his head reproachfully.
Helms slammed his fist down upon the desk and a small silver flask that Atwater hadn’t noticed before toppled over, drizzling a little trickle of amber liquid onto Betty Ford’s disfigured visage.
“No I fucking haven’t!” Helms shouted, eyes suddenly full of terror, “I’m on track to save this goddamn party, you’re the one fucking around with these ads that haven't done jack shit besides get me in trouble!”
Inside Atwater something suddenly came together, like a lost puzzle piece had finally been found.
“Yeah, fuck you Jesse,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand, “looks like you can save the party without a campaign executive.” Turning on his heels, Atwater walked smartly from the office.
“Lee! Get back here right now! You cocksucker! You fucking faggot!” Helms shrieked from behind him, but Atwater didn’t even glance back. Passing a small group of workers, he stared down at them coldly.
“Go home,” he said, “this whole thing is over.” And with that Lee Atwater walked out into the world. One that would soon be changing very quickly.
12:35 P.M. New Orleans Louisiana, October 8, 1980
Ford was in disbelief. Ten minutes ago he had been under the impression that the Ford and Helms campaigns were engaged in total war…but now, according to his communications director, Lee Atwater had called…and asked for a truce. Ford reached out and took the phone, suspicion coursing through him.
“This had better be good.” Ford snarled, and in the silence that followed Atwater sighed.
“Listen Mr. Ford,” the down and out campaign executive said, “I know that you don’t like me very much so I wont waste your time, but I think that I could be of great help to you if you listen to what I have to say.”
Part of Ford wanted to hang up the phone, all the ugly emotion from the previous night flooding back in an instant. But instead he forced himself to take a deep breath, and consider Atwater’s offer.
“If this is some kind of ploy from the Helms campaign then you can hang up now.”
Atwater sounded slightly rattled now, unhappy. That made Ford glad, a little sadistic thrill running through him. Atwater had either gotten himself into some deep shit or was a splendid actor. Ford leaned towards the second option; he knew better than most that Lee Atwater was spectacularly good at being a slimy little shit when it suited him.
“No. Not at all. I promise. Now please Mr. Ford-“
Ford cut him off.
“Mr. President if you will.” He said. Just to rub it in.
“…Mr. President,” Atwater said unhappily, “I have just quit the Helms campaign. I am a free agent, and I carry all of the inner workings of the campaign in my mind. I could sink them all with just one guarantee from you.”
Ford paused, stunned. What? Atwater had defected? Holy shit.
“Let me get this straight,” Ford said slowly, “you walked away from Helms, probably just a few minutes ago, and want me to spare you from the libel and fraud charges that are going to rain down upon your organization like hellfire as soon as the reporters get a lock on where all those nasty ads are coming from. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Atwater said quietly.
“Yes…?”
“Yes Mr. President.”
Ford was quiet for a moment.
“I’ll have to get back to you on this. Perhaps I’ll consult with Nancy and Ronald Reagan first, see how they liked those ads you made about them. Brain damage and pill addiction…you have a sick mind Atwater.”
Atwater was suddenly furious and before he could stop himself he snapped.
“You cannot talk to me that way,” he pouted, but only heard Ford’s derisive laughter on the phone.
“Yes I can Atwater,” something about being called solely by his last name felt oddly demeaning to Atwater, “because I am the only thing that could possibly save you right now. You think Carter would save you? You think anyone would give a shit about you? Paul Laxalt would skin you alive, Carter wants Helms down but not out so he still drains votes from me…and that leaves you in one hell of a bad position from where I’m standing. So please Atwater,” Ford’s voice became menacing, “I’d be more careful about what I say in the future.” He hung up and sat back in his chair, looking visibly shaken.
“Wow,” Baker said mildly, “you just put the fear of God into him.”
Ford let out a long, slow breath.
“That wasn’t fun,” he said, “I don’t like having to be scary,” he smiled weakly, “I’m no good at it.”
Next to him Betty laughed cheerfully.
“You’re great at being scary…it just has to be someone you hate on the other end of the line.”
Ford’s smile vanished.
“That’s definitely the case with Lee Atwater.” He sighed.
“You are not alone on that one,” Baker said, “now come on, let’s get this news to Ron right now.”
12:50 P.M. Sacramento California, October 8, 1980
“That…is an interesting situation.” Reagan said carefully, from behind the ice mask he was wearing over his eyes and forehead, another headache cure that was supposed to relieve even the worst of his head pains.
“We have no idea if we can trust him,” Ford said, “it could be a trap by the Helms campaign, designed to catch me offering to cover up the crimes of Atwater if he gives me information to bring down his boss.”
Reagan winced at the thought of that possibility.
“Put him through to me the next time he calls. I’ll figure him out, and take the fall if anything happens. Okay Jerry?” There was a sort of sternness in his answer that made Ford realize that there was no arguing with it. When Reagan was set on a subject then trying to dislodge him was like boxing with a brick wall.
“Alright Ron. Be sure to rest.”
“I will. Goodbye Jerry.” Reagan set the phone down and stared up through half opened eyes at the pale bluish liquid inside of the ice mask. It felt good, he’d have to try this more often. Just freeze the headaches into submission.
5:44 P.M. New York City New York, October 8, 1980
“This is absolutely disgusting,” John Chancellor said, unable to keep himself from wrinkling his nose in revulsion at the sight of the Betty Ford ad, “I know we’re supposed to be impartial but this is a step too far. What do I even say about this?”
Next to him, Tom Brokaw glanced at the anchor and shrugged.
“Negative advertising is on the rise, and so are speculations that these might be from the Helms campaign. Focus on the speculations if you want, maybe we’ll get lucky and get to cover those in more detail if our reporters find something.”
Chancellor flicked through his notes, asked the cameraman if he was ready and then listened attentively to a little message from the control room.
Word had come from the Ford campaign that Betty Ford was going to give a statement the next morning, which was fairly exciting.
“She’s gonna rip him a new one.” The cameraman said, almost gleefully.
Distracted, Chancellor looked up.
“Helms?” He asked.
“Nah. Lee Atwater.”
Chancellor supposed that the cameraman was right.
1:44 A.M. Washington D.C., October 9, 1980
When Presidents couldn’t sleep, which was fairly often (it was just that kind of job), they all had their own little things to do. Abraham Lincoln had been fond of wandering the White House, Teddy Roosevelt went into the gym and fought a punching bag, and Jimmy Carter sat and observed a portrait of Harry Truman. Truman had always been Carter’s favorite President, even more so than his semi-deified predecessor. There was something inherently honest about Truman that Carter admired and often sought to emulate; and when he faced a crisis sometimes he found himself sitting before the portrait, stirring the problem over and over in his mind.
And ever since the election…ever since the hearings had begun, those visits were growing more frequent. He had never questioned his choice to run for reelection, but had sometimes gone so far as to say that he hated his job…or at least what it had turned into. Before he had been dealing with either abstract concepts like the ailing economy, or foreign enemies like the Iranians. Now he was facing down against his own countrymen, and like it or not he was getting pummeled.
The worst thing was that the polls were uncertain. In more optimistic days he had been able to easily assume that he was well ahead of Ford, even with the margin of error taken into account. But now, with Helms sputtering, rumors of Democratic splinter tickets abounding (but never materializing…the right seemed to be better at mobilizing doomed splinter ticket runs than the left), the Iranians only escalating their diplomatic stonewalling and the economy stubbornly refusing to improve more than incrementally, the polls had gone haywire.
The Betty Ford ad had had the biggest effect, with virtually everyone decrying it as slander and perhaps the ugliest thing that any of the campaigns had put forth so far. That had given Ford some sympathy, and knocked Helms down a peg. Even his most loyal supporters were getting nervous now, and apparently several of Helms’ offices outside of North Carolina had shut their doors in the wake of the ad’s release.
Carter wondered briefly why Helms had even authorized the release of something like that. Had he honestly thought that people would agree with it, was he really that deluded that he hadn’t seen the outrage that it would generate? He shook his head, and sighed deeply.
He had been given a tentative list of dates for Credible Sport to take place on earlier in the day and he took it from his front pocket as he thought, unfolding it and running over the neat little list. They had been generated through careful study of Tehran’s average weather patterns in December over the past twenty years. And so far December 20th seemed to be most consistently calm. It was supposed to be a cold, dry winter in Iran, storms were unlikely.
Unlikely, but possible, and after the embarrassing disaster that had been Eagle Claw Carter was taking no chances. He circled December 20th loosely with a pen, thought about it for a little bit, then decided that it worked. They would have only one shot at this. And if they failed then every single American left alive in Tehran would die. Slow and on live television.
1:25 P.M. New Orleans Louisiana, October 9, 1980
“My fellow Americans,” Betty Ford paused, looked down at the teleprompter and frowned, “Joe, it’s doing that weird flickery thing again…”
Ambling forward, Ford’s chief technician looked at the screen of the prompter, which was indeed flickering erratically, bands of blue and white static clouding the screen.
“Well shit,” he said and unplugged the prompter with a grimace before looking back at his crew, “we got any spares that we could hook up within the next few minutes or so?” The answer that trickled back a few moments later came in the form of a cardboard box. A new prompter that would have to be set up pretty much from scratch.
“Might take a little bit to get this ready,” Joe said with an apologetic lift and fall of his shoulders, “we’ll have to get your remarks hooked up to it…”
Betty waved away his concerns.
“It’s perfectly alright, I’ll just practice on paper for now.” She wandered away from the podium, and the small crowd of technicians fiddling with the broken prompter. Backstage was a couch, which she let herself fall down onto with a sigh. She was tired and for a moment craved a drink with an intensity that would have put the flare of an acetylene torch to shame.
It never quite went away, the desire for a drink, or the warm fuzzy relief of a couple of pills. But she had learned to deal with it, in a painful but ultimately successful fashion. It hurt, the cravings did, they made her feel so…weak, but she never let them take control. Like she had in the bad old days, in such a complete fashion that she hadn’t even realized the control that alcohol and painkillers had over her life until her children and husband had cornered her in her very own living room and staged an intervention.
She had been so angry at first…but in the days that followed, that anger had faded, been replaced by horror as she came to realize just what she had sunk herself into. She had gone to rehab, had spoken to others of her struggles and heard similar stories. Nobody was immune to addiction, she had learned, no matter your station in life, your accomplishments…you could still fall victim to drugs, or alcohol, anything that could be abused really. And that knowledge had helped. It had cut through the loneliness and inner turmoil that had allowed her to fall so far. And instead of the slippery sides of a pit of internal darkness, she found the support that she needed to recover.
That was another thing that she had learned. Recovery was never complete, at best you were always a recovering alcoholic, a recovering painkiller addict. Though the mind could be conditioned to realize that the impulses to take a drink or swallow a pill were bad, the body still craved them.
But she had never relapsed. Not once. And she was intensely proud of herself for that, finding an inner glow of satisfaction that drowned out even the clamors for alcohol and painkillers that clouded her thoughts on bad nights.
It was still a rocky road though, haunted by the ever present danger of relapse. But that danger had been fading lately, and oddly enough, the horrible attack that Helms or Atwater or whoever had planned the infamous ad featuring her distorted visage had only steeled her resolve. She wouldn’t give those vultures the satisfaction of seeing her fall. She would cut them open and expose their lies, completing the dismemberment that virtually every source of fair media had begun to subject the Helms campaign to. Not openly of course, but everyone knew who had put it out, and they were not pleased.
“My fellow Americans,” she began quietly, “it’s so nice to see all of you again. I’ve come today to speak about a very important subject that has been all too frequently overlooked in our society. That being addiction.
“I myself am an addict. There is no other way to put that, and indeed that was the first thing that I had to admit to myself when I checked myself into rehab. Without that admission I could have never started the healing process, for without a careful examination of the problems that forced me into that position then they would have been ultimately unsolvable.
“I am also a mother, a wife, and both a past and future First Lady of the United States. I have spoken to all of you before, on one medium or another, about issues ranging from feminism to psychiatry to my struggles with cancer, and I have always been open with you. That will not change.
“It is important to note before I continue that all of us probably know an addict, a person who abuses alcohol or painkillers or hard drugs. And it is also important to know, within our hearts, that this does not make them bad people. Falling into the pit of addiction does not condemn a person before society but rather means that they need help. Disparaging people who struggle with addiction as weak or a burden upon society is to only reinforce the issues that drive these poor souls into drug and alcohol abuse in the first place.
“The struggle to recover from addiction is a constant one and never ends for most people. I have not taken a drink for two years now, have not abused painkillers for just as long, and yet I still feel dark urges to go back to the old ways that came so close to destroying me. This is no different for the countless others who live in this country and struggle with addiction.
“And while this may sound frightening and bleak to some of you, I urge you to act with compassion and try to understand the people in your life who struggle with addiction. They are people like you and me, and a hand held out in solidarity and kindness is always better than indifference.
“It is this indifference and lack of understanding that I hope to solve once my husband returns to the White House. If we put more resources into providing rehabilitation programs for addicts then we can help end the plague of drugs that currently flood our streets, and we can become a kinder, more tolerant nation as well.
“There will be those who look at addiction as a sign of moral failing, or of personal weakness. There will be those who cynically look upon those who abuse drugs and alcohol as inferiors who deserve what has happened to them, and it is them that we must overcome if we wish to fix this problem.
“This cynicism and disregard for one’s fellow man is all too easy to fall into. It’s easy to turn away from those who are different, those who struggle in a society that is all too often blind or even hostile to their needs. We often turn a blind eye to those in need because it is easier to assume that somebody else will help them, or that they don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. And that thinking is counterproductive to the ideal of America, that promised land held so high by the Founders and all of those who have worked, struggled, fought and even died to guarantee that we remain free.
“President John F. Kennedy said in 1961 that we did not choose to go to the moon because it is easy, but rather that it is hard, and I offer the same words here. But rather than scientific endeavor, I promise a greater understanding of one’s fellow man, and a more peaceful, cohesive society as a result.
“If we could take the time to understand the struggles of our countrymen then I firmly believe that it would breed a stronger, more beautiful nation, not one that runs off of willful ignorance and disregard for those not fortunate enough to have their voices heard.
“Thank you, and God bless you all.”
4:50 P.M. Sacramento California, October 9, 1980
“Let’s get this straight,” Reagan said, “how much evidence is there of your involvement in the…bad stuff?” He could hear Atwater fidgeting on the other end of the line. Apparently Ford had put the fear of God into the guy, made him malleable. That was good, it would make things easier.
“It’s all pretty covered up. I could just give some of the other stuff to the media and that would sink Helms.”
Reagan nodded slightly, blinking away a few random spots that were pulsing in the corner of his vision. His head still hurt, but not nearly as bad now, which was a good sign.
“But not you. Which would be good for our arrangement. But I’m warning you right now, get rid of the stuff that incriminates you, and if you ever back a candidate who is hostile to Ford or anybody that I throw my support behind, I will bury you.”
Atwater had never heard Reagan sound so menacing before, and he nodded meekly on his end of the line.
“It’ll be taken care of, I promise. And don’t worry, I’m taking a break from politics for now.”
Reagan let out a little chuckle and then winced.
“Have fun Lee, and lay low.” He hung up, and sat back, blinking again. The spots didn’t go away this time. That was concerning, but the thought of Helms finally going down in flames for good was intoxicating enough that it took his mind off of the discomfort.
“Nancy,” he called, “I have good news.” He stood up as he listened to his wife approach and suddenly the world seemed to have turned to an in-between station. He was hearing the same things but they seemed to have lost context, the light suddenly seemed far too dim for the late afternoon, and he could feel something that felt sharp, hot, cold and soft all at once sliding down the left side of his face. He tried to reach up and touch it but his left arm refused to respond. His heart lurched in his chest and he stared up as Nancy entered the room, confused.
“What’s happening?” He tried to ask, but only produced a weak gasp. Then his legs failed and he slumped, seemingly in slow motion, vision fading as he approached the floor. He never felt himself hit it.
5:22 P.M. New Orleans Louisiana, October 9, 1980
Gerald Ford was in good spirits when he picked up the call. Betty had just given her speech to an entranced studio audience, and even now anchors all across the country were talking about it. He expected Reagan, calling to talk about Betty’s tour de force, but instead he got a young man, shock slipping into his tone.
“Sir, Ronald Reagan has suffered a stroke…he’s being taken to the hospital now, we’re still unsure of his condition.”
Ford quietly thanked the man for informing him and hung up, feeling suddenly numb. The world seemed to be working away in slow motion, his heart lurching uncomfortably in his chest as he tried to process the news.
Jesus. A stroke? How? He picked up his phone, started to punch in Reagan’s home number before asking for the hospital that Reagan was being taken to. He needed to go right now and see how his friend was doing. A moment later he thought of Nancy Reagan and considered her reaction. He felt intensely sorry for the poor woman. Nobody should have go through all of this again.
The Night New York City New York, October 9, 1980
“…This just in, former California governor and presidential candidate Ronald Reagan has been taken into intensive care…”
“…We can only offer our prayers for the governor and his family now…”
“…The White House is expected to make a statement shortly, as is the Ford campaign…”
“…Gerald Ford has reportedly canceled the remainder of his tour through the south…”
“…We can now observe black cars and security personnel around the intensive care ward, where governor Reagan is now undergoing emergency surgery…”
“…A heartfelt statement from a visibly shaken Gerald Ford as he boarded a flight that appears to be going to Sacramento…”
“…Senator Baker has confirmed that he will be remaining on the campaign trail for the time being, and will be attending a prayer vigil in New Orleans that has been planned in support of governor Reagan…”
“…President Carter gave a statement in the Rose Garden, offering his prayers to governor Reagan and his family…”
“…What effect this will have on the state of the race remains unknown…”
“…Governor Reagan is still in surgery, nearly six hours after first being brought into intensive care, concern is growing as to his condition both inside and outside of the hospital…”
“…A statement from Senator Helms, who played up his friendship with governor Reagan and offered his prayers…”
“…We can now confirm, as of 11:34 P.M., October 9, 1980…that Ronald Reagan is dead.”
11:35 P.M. Sacramento California, October 9, 1980
Ford reached out and put one gentle hand on Nancy Reagan’s shoulder. She seemed frozen, her face empty of everything but shock and a terrible, growing grief. Next to Ford Betty sat down next to Nancy and tried not to look at the white doors that led to the operating room. There, only minutes before, Ronald Reagan, conservative icon, husband and father, had died.
“He just fell over,” Nancy said quietly, her voice surprisingly even, “that was all. Ron was fine just a few minutes before that…how could it all happen so fast?” There was no real answer to the terrible question. Inside of the operating room the final bit of news had been relayed out, and even now Ford could heard the muffled murmur of the press, trying to get answers and reactions. Vultures, he suddenly thought with uncharacteristic ugliness, picking the carrion for stories that might sell more copies, get more viewers…it was all so soulless and horrible that he felt lost for a moment.
“I am so sorry Nancy.” He said, but Nancy said nothing in response. Instead she just sat and stared, face nightmarishly blank. How terrible this all was. How unexpected too. Reagan had sounded fairly hearty when Ford had last spoken to him, how could he go from recovery to a body bag in the space of only a few awful hours? How did that happen?
“It was the campaign,” Nancy said finally, voice so low it was almost inaudible, “this goddamn campaign killed him. If he hadn’t been working then he would have recovered.”
Ford wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“It’s your fault,” Nancy continued, an exhausted sort of venom entering her voice, like she wanted to be furious but just couldn’t quite muster up the energy, “you, Betty, Jesse Helms, Lee Atwater…me too. I didn’t stop him when I could have. We’re all damned. We did this.” She gestured vaguely at the operating room door, and then, for the first time since the news of her husband’s death had arrived, she broke down into hoarse little sobs.
Gerald and Betty Ford stayed with her for the next two hours, until she was gently shepherded back home, to an oddly empty house. They had offered to stay with her but she refused.
“Go win your election,” she had said emptily to them, “and once the funeral is over don’t ever talk to me again.”
2:02 A.M. Sacramento California, October 10, 1980
“I’m still in shock,” Ford sighed as he settled back into bed, “I cant imagine what Nancy is going through right now.”
On the other end of the line Baker sounded anxious.
“I wish I could have been there.” He said.
“Nancy doesn’t want any more contact with us…so I’m going to give her some time to grieve.”
“That’s rough,” Baker sighed, “this is just an all around bad situation for everyone.”
Ford nodded slowly to himself. That about summed it up.
“I’ll call you tomorrow Howard, try to get some sleep.”
“Goodnight Jerry.”
“Goodnight.” Ford hung up the phone and sighed, looking over at Betty.
“What an awful night.” Was her only comment, and in unhappy silence the two of them tried, with mixed success, to get some sleep.
9:19 A.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 10, 1980
Guy Starr had, aside from a name that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of Playgirl, a level of journalistic desperation that drew Atwater immediately. Starr worked for the Raleigh Review as a muckraker and lately hadn’t been finding a whole lot of muck. At least not of the sort that the Review was interested in. They did, after all, have a six digit long list of people who read their rag, and feeding the interest of that many people necessitated a lot of news.
“Mr. Starr,” Atwater said, using a dishtowel to muffle his voice, “what if I told you that I had evidence that could bring down the Helms campaign?” Starr had jumped at that, and hadn’t asked questions either. He was already on the verge of being fired, the possibility of the whole evidence thing being a lie didn’t seem to factor into his decision making.
In the end Atwater had left a manila envelope full of documents on top of a dumpster in an alleyway and then waited across the street to make sure that Starr picked it up. He was a gawky, awkward looking man, Guy Starr was, and thanks to Lee Atwater, he would soon be quite well known.
12:30 P.M. Washington D.C., October 10, 1980
“I’m so sorry Jerry,” Carter said, “I really am.”
Ford nodded unhappily at the President’s words.
“Have you called Nancy?” He asked.
“Yes. She’s going through hell right now.” Carter stared across his office and sighed heavily. His conversation with Nancy Reagan had left him shaken, and he felt intense sadness for her situation but wasn’t sure what he could do. He was already going to her husband’s funeral, rather discreetly, but he wasn’t sure that that would do much to help.
Time would have to be taken for her to heal from her loss. That was probably the only real answer to the quandary at hand.
4:00 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 11, 1980
“These…look pretty legitimate.” The editor said, almost grudgingly, setting the sheaf of documents down onto his desk, toppling a crooked column of files. Stepping back from the little flood of papers Guy Starr nodded, trying not to betray his own relief. He hadn’t exactly taken the time to determine that by himself, and for a moment was supremely pleased with himself. He had gotten something pretty neat for the Review to report on.
“Well, uh,” Starr smoothed back his hair, the Travolta hairdo that he had been attempting recently wasn’t really working out too well for him, “thank you sir.” He smiled, the editor nodded slowly, picked up an early draft of the infamous Betty Ford ad, and then flicked it away.
“We’ll run this right after our big piece on Ronnie Reagan. And don’t think that this makes you hot shit Guy,” the editor growled, “just stay sharp when the national outfits drop by to watch Senator No implode…and get rid of that fucking haircut, would you?”
Starr nodded giddily and practically skipped from the office.
“I am Carl Bernstein.” He said out loud, smoothing back his hair once more. As he hopped into his car and headed home he wondered vaguely how many more presidential campaigns he would destroy by the time he retired.
2:18 P.M. Los Angeles California, October 13, 1980
Ronald Reagan’s funeral was a quiet, unhappy affair. Ford felt remarkably deflated as he stood in the bright California sunshine and watched the final few wreaths being set into place atop the grave. Several people had given speeches, including him, but there wasn’t much applause or goodwill. Instead everyone just seemed shellshocked and deeply exhausted.
A part of Ford hated the day for being so cheerful and nice when his friend had just died an untimely death. It was cloudless and cool, a light breeze ruffling the petals of the flowers being laid against Reagan’s tombstone.
“It’s not fair.” He said quietly. Next to him Betty sighed but said nothing in reply. Nancy wasn’t too far away but so far hadn’t said a word to him. She was dressed brightly compared to most of the others, clad in scarlet from head to toe. Despite that the look on her face told Ford everything that he needed to know about her mental state.
She looked lost. Like a part of her had suddenly and irreversibly been removed. And perhaps it had. She and Ron had loved each other with a zealous, almost religious fervor. And to have that torn away so very suddenly…God. Ford couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to lose Betty, or for Betty to lose him.
On Ford’s other side Baker was staring down at the ground, thumbs hooked into his pockets, looking unhappy. He looked to be chewing the inside of his cheek.
“Sir,” a quiet voice said from behind him and Ford turned halfway around, “when you’re ready, there’s news concerning the Helms campaign.”
Ford nodded and the staffer slipped discreetly away. For a moment Ford was curious as to what the news could be, then decided that he didn’t care.
Everything felt very arbitrary now, almost out of control. The presidency, the campaign? What were those even? Just concepts, powers tied to other nebulous concepts that governed absolutely nothing.
Ford blinked heavily, forced himself to snap out of that nihilistic train of thought, and turned. He would go hear what the news about Helms was, then he would go and say goodbye to Nancy. That was the plan.
Walking slowly, he said hello to a few fellow attendees, shared a scrap of conversation here and there, then stepped over to where his staffers were waiting, on the periphery of the funeral, out of the way.
“You mentioned Helms.” Ford said, and one of them nodded.
“We cant verify its authenticity, but a paper in North Carolina is claiming to possess proof that Helms was behind the ad that…uh, targeted Betty.”
Ford nodded slowly. So Atwater had released the papers. Okay.
“Good.” He said, and smiled grimly. Helms was going down. And would probably drag Atwater down with him.
The suddenness of this shocked him. He had been sparring with Helms for months now, and the thought of no longer having the man as an enemy was somehow incomprehensible. But amongst that surprise was a spark of satisfaction. Helms would crash and burn, and his collapse would avenge everyone that he had ever hurt.
Hopefully, wherever Ronald Reagan was, he was smiling.
9:44 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 13, 1980
Representative Larry McDonald’s first words to Helms upon entering the campaign headquarters were ugly. Helms’ retort was even uglier, and for a moment the two men stood at an impasse, bristling with anger.
“This isn’t okay.” McDonald said after a few seconds had ticked by.
Helms sneered.
“Atwater took off,” he snarled, “fucking coward.”
McDonald dropped the newspaper that he had been carrying. It flopped open, the headline bold and ugly. HELMS CAMPAIGN BEHIND SLANDEROUS ADS. Authored by a certain Guy Starr.
“I tried to turn a blind eye you know,” McDonald said, “but you’ve gone beyond the pale. You’ve been way too reckless with all of this shit Jesse.” Helms shook his head balefully, glaring at his running mate.
“That was all Lee fucking Atwater,” he said, baring his teeth for a moment, like a cornered animal, “and if you think that a little thing like this is gonna be a good excuse for you to cut and run then you’ve got another thing coming Larry.”
McDonald kicked the paper at Helms, the pages fluttering apart, raining down across the office.
“That doesn’t fucking matter!” He shouted, “what does is that the world has found out. Do you have any idea how people are going to react to this?”
Helms ducked his head, refused to meet McDonald’s eyes. For several seconds the two men stood like that, not speaking, then McDonald shook his head slowly, disgusted.
“You know what Jesse,” he said, “fuck you. I quit.”
That seemed to snap Helms from the angry little stupor that he had been stuck in. Stepping forward, he reached out for McDonald’s arm but the representative jerked it out of reach.
“You little cocksucker,” Helms snarled, stomping after McDonald as he retreated down the hall, “come back here!” He caught onto McDonald’s arm and tried to yank his running mate back towards him. But before he could make any meaningful progress the left side of his vision dissolved into a great big flash of white, and the next thing that he knew he was sitting on the floor, stunned, face throbbing. Above him McDonald was looking over his shirtsleeve, which had been torn almost completely off. A white circlet of fingerprints ringed his arm where Helms had grabbed him and for a moment Helms had no idea what had happened. Then it clicked.
“You fucking hit me.” He said thickly and tried to get up, but McDonald shoved him back with his foot, toppling Helms to the floor. This time Helms stayed there, breathing heavily, grinding his teeth, face throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
“You get up again and I will lay you out,” McDonald said dangerously, and Helms became suddenly aware that several of his interns and volunteers had seen what had just happened to him, “now, I’ll repeat, for your benefit. I quit.” And with that McDonald turned sharply on his heels and marched from the Helms headquarters, ignoring the first few journalists who had shown up to cover the collapse of the Helms campaign.
7:03 A.M. Austin Texas, October 14, 1980
“Jesus, nice shiner. Where do you think he got it?” Ford and Baker were watching Helms’ first appearance before the press, and even if it was just him escaping his besieged headquarters, it made Ford smile. Helms looked haggard, and seemed to have taken a shot to the face at some point in the last twenty four hours.
“I’d like to think that Reagan came back from beyond the grave just to sock him in the eye,” Baker said, “but sadly we will probably never know.”
Ford nodded at this and sipped his coffee. This was probably the last bit of free time that he was going to get before the day really began. In ten minutes he had a fundraiser, then a stretch making phone calls, then door to door through the city, then another fundraiser. And on and on it went.
In the wake of Reagan’s death the campaign had ground to a halt for few days, but now seemed to be picking itself back up. Nancy had gone into seclusion, and virtually everyone was still shocked and dispirited, but ultimately one reality shone through the grim news: Carter wasn’t stopping. The President was trudging grimly through what had to be the worst autumn of his life…and was still going strong. The economy seemed to be growing, and even if the Billygate thing was an absolute nightmare for him, he was weathering it without major incident.
The news wasn’t all bad though. In a turn of grisly benefit Ford had seen his poll numbers rise in the days after Reagan’s death. Not too much, but there was a definite boost that made him feel oddly guilty even thinking about. And some pundits had even begun to call the election a genuine tossup, which was always good.
Others compared it to 1976, which was always worrying, but Ford tried not to obsess over it. The important thing was that he had a genuine chance to win this outright. It wouldn’t be a landslide, that was beyond possibility, but even if Carter won then it would be by a tiny margin that wouldn’t harm too many Republican races down ballot.
And Helms’ campaign was collapsing.
That was the icing on the cake. Hopefully it would be the last gasp of rebellion from the Helms people. Baker had been briefly concerned about McDonald picking up the torch, but so far the Georgian had not made an appearance. Indeed he seemed to have vanished entirely.
2:45 P.M. P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 14, 1980
“Be honest,” Helms said, folding his hands on the table before him, “what’s gonna happen here?”
The pair of lawyers on the other side of the table glanced briefly at each other. Helms didn’t much like that little look, so full of conspiratorial sentiments, but was too tired to say anything about it.
“Quite frankly senator,” the first lawyer said, his voice was crisp and professional, “the evidence that they have is very broad…” He trailed off.
Helms slammed one of his hands down onto the table, palm flat against the wood. The lawyers jumped.
“Don’t fucking sugarcoat it,” he growled, “I wanna know how to fight this.”
The lawyers exchanged another look. Helms stewed. Fucking queers, he thought nastily.
“They have evidence of you authorizing the brain damage ad targeting Ronald Reagan, the pill popper and child abuse ads targeting Nancy Reagan, and the drug abuse ad targeting Betty Ford. All of these could conceivably be declared libel, defamation…a whole host of charges that would be hard to avoid.”
Helms ground his teeth.
“So I’m fucked.”
The second lawyer shook his head slightly.
“No. Not necessarily.”
Helms sighed.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Give me some fucking specifics.”
“If you end your campaign then the Reagans and the Fords could be convinced not to press charges.”
Helms said nothing for a very long time, instead just staring at the lawyers with something akin to disbelief.
“…Are you fucking kidding me?” He asked, voice airy with outrage.
“There’s no real way to fight this sir,” the first lawyer said, “you have no way to deny this. What we have proposed is the only possible way for you to get out of this without being charged with libel.”
Helms said nothing. He was quiet for a very long time.
1:00 P.M. Atlanta Georgia, October 16, 1980
Lee Atwater was halfway to his car when a nearby shout caught his attention. Turning, he was about halfway through the motion when something big and warm slapped him soggily in the chest. Staggering backwards, startled, Atwater looked up to where a Chevy was humming past him, a young man proudly flipping him the bird from the front passenger seat. His middle finger was stained with ketchup.
Looking down, Atwater saw the ragged, sorry looking remains of a burger, then cursed. The Chevy rounded the corner and Atwater shook his head. He hadn’t gotten the license plate number. Nor had he even thought to do so, the whole thing had happened too fast.
“You sons of bitches.” He muttered, and looked at the debris that spattered the front of his shirt. Goddamn was this bad. First Helms had melted down, then he had been reduced to begging Ford and Reagan not to smite him…and now people were throwing fast food at him.
For a moment he wondered if the young man had thrown the burger at him because he recognized him, or if it had just been a random act. Either way, Atwater supposed, it didn’t matter.
Kicking at the burger angrily, he continued on his way. It was a cool day and the soggy front of his shirt clung unpleasantly to his skin. All in all Atwater was feeling rather sorry for himself when he reached his car. Getting in, he started it, and as the news began to play he froze, hand still on the keys, eyes widening.
“It is my belief,” Jesse Helms was saying on the radio, “that I am being unfairly maligned here. The man responsible for these ads-“
Atwater shook his head.
“No.” He insisted, but on the radio Helms kept talking.
“The man responsible for planning and distributing these ads was my campaign manager-“
“No!” Atwater cried out. But really, what had he expected?
“My campaign manager,” Helms said grimly, “Lee Atwater.”
4:35 P.M. Cumming Georgia, October 16, 1980
Representative Larry McDonald, upon learning of the severity of what Helms had gotten himself into, had almost immediately scheduled an interview with a local radio station. The reasoning for this was twofold, both so that he could explain that he had had nothing to do with the ugly ads that Helms had authorized, and because he was still furious at his one time electoral partner.
Sure he had punched the man in the face, and sure that had been satisfying, but it wasn’t enough.
“I’d like to welcome to the show our very own Representative, Larry McDonald, of Georgia’s 7th congressional district.” The anchor of the radio show was a younger man with curly hair and a soft, round face that reminded McDonald vaguely of the Pillsbury doughboy.
“Thank you for having me.” McDonald said curtly. He felt jumpy and tense, thoroughly upset by the events of the past few days. Between Reagan dying, Atwater fleeing to parts unknown and Helms apparently going off the deep end just about nothing felt right anymore.
“You stirred up a lot of attention back in July when Senator Jesse Helms selected you to be his running mate. What’s changed since then?”
McDonald chewed the inside of his cheek, then took a deep breath. This was nerve wracking.
“Quite frankly, I overestimated Mr. Helms’ character. I’m just as appalled as you are about these attack ads that have been traced back to the campaign…and I’m additionally alarmed by some of his personal behavior, which I can say is very unprofessional and divisive.”
The anchor’s eyes visibly brightened at McDonald spoke. He had already been excited to land an interview with Helms’ running mate, but to have that same running mate rip into Helms less than a month before the election? That was gold.
“These statements could be described as hostile,” the anchor said, very charitably, “what exactly sparked the disagreements between yourself and Jesse Helms?”
“We issued attack ads almost immediately,” McDonald said, “and I did have some level of involvement in these early efforts, but soon he began to go further and further. I grew uncomfortable with the idea of attacking our opponents personally and refused to have any further involvement in producing advertisements.”
“So the ads.”
McDonald nodded.
“Yes. As well as some personal behavior that I’d rather not talk about. I did my best to work around these issues because in my mind he was the best option that conservatism had in this race…but eventually it became impossible to ignore.”
The anchor nodded slightly, intrigued.
“Were you aware that Senator Helms was behind the Reagan brain damage ad or the Betty Ford addiction piece?”
McDonald sighed.
“I didn’t bother to ask. I didn’t want to know.”
“But surely you had some sort of idea that the Helms campaign had produced these pieces.”
“There are so many independent political organizations these days that I couldn’t be entirely sure.”
The anchor scratched his chin.
“Did you have much interaction with Lee Atwater?”
McDonald shrugged.
“I was allowed to operate mostly on my own, since I have a constituency that differs from Jesse’s. He would send me a schedule and that was it. I didn’t speak to him much.”
“Could you weigh in on the accusations that Senator Helms made towards Mr. Atwater today?”
“If you’re asking me whether or not Lee Atwater was involved in producing those attack ads then I’d say that he was.” McDonald shut his eyes briefly, wondering if he was making a mistake. Denouncing Helms and Atwater could have blowback…but it was better to cut himself away from them now rather than potentially be implicated in the brewing attack ad scandal that seemed to be enveloping Helms’ doomed campaign.
The rest of the interview was easier, the anchor seemingly satisfied with his answers. McDonald relaxed. But an undercurrent of worry still coursed through him, like a dark river. Helms was still out there. And God only knew what he would do before he was finally dragged down into oblivion.
10:00 A.M. Washington D.C., October 17, 1980
“So Helms has completely collapsed?” Carter asked, mildly astonished by the sudden change of events. He was still trying to get over the fact that Reagan had died, now suddenly Helms was sliding in the polls, his base of support beginning to evaporate as people realized just what he was guilty of. The story uncovered by the Raleigh Review was now being covered by virtually every publication in the nation. Indeed it had gotten a great many people very excited. Conservatives who had opposed Helms from the very beginning, Laxalt and Goldwater amongst them, were sharpening their knives, and apparently Ford was pretty pleased as well.
“Perhaps not completely,” Mondale said, “but he’s in trouble. Facing legal charges if I’m not mistaken. Nancy Reagan is definitely going to sue him. Not sure about the Fords, they might not. It would probably be unseemly to be fighting a legal battle while running for President.”
Carter chuckled a little at that, but couldn’t erase a little prickle of worry that was tickling his stomach.
“Do you think he’ll drop out?” He asked, hoping that the answer was no. He needed something to stall Ford, to keep victory firmly out of the man’s grasp. Because even through the nonstop chaos of the election Ford had somehow managed to inch disconcertingly close to an outright lead in the polls. He was even leading in Illinois and Ohio, which definitely wasn’t good.
“No idea.” Mondale said, shrugging for added emphasis.
“I’m gonna ask for Byrd to try to break the hearings.” Carter said, and got up. It was way past time that those silly things were over with.
11:28 A.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 17, 1980
“So…I think that I should explain why I’m calling you.” Helms fiddled with the cord of the phone, winding it around one nervous finger as he spoke. On the other end of the line Nancy Reagan listened icily, hostility practically oozing through the phone lines.
“You are a murderer,” she said, words clipped and phrasing succinct, “and you will be held responsible for what you have done to Ron.”
Helms bit back an ugly retort, told himself that this was for the greater good. He had no other option. His base had vanished, rocked both by the death of Reagan and the revelation of his crimes. If he wanted to avoid being sued then he would have to cut a deal.
“Listen ma’am,” he said, wincing as he realized just how shrill his voice was, raw with desperation, “I will drop out of the race if you promise not to put any charges against me. Okay?”
Nancy Reagan was absolutely silent for a long moment, almost long enough for Helms to start wondering if he’d lost connection. Then she spoke.
“No. I will destroy you. And so will Gerald and Betty Ford. And so will Jimmy Carter, and Paul Laxalt and Don Regan and Howard Baker…” She paused for effect, “there is nowhere that you can escape to Jesse. You are finished.” She hung up, and Helms stood in place for a long moment, phone buzzing in his ear, acidy fear burning in the back of his throat.
Fuck.
12:01 P.M. Dallas Texas, October 18, 1980
Baker had gone up to Ohio, leaving Ford in Texas for another two days. After that Ford would travel up to New York. He was doing a great deal of traveling lately, all around Texas, down winding dirt roads and endless concrete highways. Past apartment buildings and ranch houses, through quiet neighborhoods and cramped tenements alike. Raising money, making speeches, holding dinners, endorsing candidates, kissing babies. Signing books. It all blurred together.
George Bush had come down to help him, and while Ford sincerely doubted that he would carry Texas and its twenty six electoral votes when it came time for the nation to vote in a little over two weeks (God, was it really that close to the day of reckoning?!) his presence would certainly help the Republicans running for office in the state. Texas was a big place after all, and there were plenty of votes that could be won there.
On the wall of most of his campaign headquarters Ford had seen great big electoral prediction maps, keeping track of the state of play across the nation. The south was pretty much entirely Democratic, with a tentative swing state label placed over Mississippi, while the west was solidly, determinedly Republican. Only Hawaii seemed eager to experiment with the idea of becoming a Democratic state.
That being said, the polls had been screwy enough lately that much of the map was uncertain at best. Helms’ chaotic presence and equally anarchic fall from grace were playing havoc with virtually every southern state and some of the midwestern ones as well. The net effect, Ford had been told, would probably be a loss of Republican support in the south, but that didn’t bother him too much. States like Georgia and Tennessee weren’t exactly in play. The real game was in Ohio, Pennsylvania and the states around that area.
And that concerned him. Those states had gone to Carter last time around, and even now Pennsylvania looked pretty solidly Democratic.
Of course, Ford supposed, there was no real use in trying to figure out what the electoral map would look like. The answer would be revealed in another eighteen days. Four hundred thirty two hours. That wasn’t a lot of time.
12:19 P.M. Atlanta Georgia, October 18, 1980
“You’re being implicated in a great deal of ugly stuff,” Atwater’s lawyer was telling him, “the situation is not good.”
Atwater nodded evenly, examining the whorls and knots in the wood of the table.
“I know.” He said simply. His lawyer, a rotund man with a bald spot and a generally florid complexion, opened a folder. The Reagan brain damage ad stood atop a small stack of similar papers.
“Helms, McDonald…and six others have implicated you in the creation of these ads. But, oddly enough, there doesn’t seem to be any hard evidence that you played a part in this. The relevant paperwork seems to have vanished.”
Atwater shrugged noncommittally, met the lawyer’s gaze.
“Maybe they never existed in the first place.”
“I’m gonna need you to tell me the truth Lee,” the lawyer’s tone had gone deadly serious, his face equally grim, “how deeply were you involved?”
Atwater blinked, looked back down at the table. Couldn’t quite bring himself to make eye contact with his lawyer again. Somehow he felt quite ashamed that he had gotten himself into such a situation. Sure the Reagans and Fords weren’t going to press charges, not after he had sunk the Helms campaign for them…but this was still a decidedly sticky situation.
“I…” He trailed off, chewed the inside of his cheek. Wasn’t sure of how to continue.
“Did you destroy the missing files?” The lawyer asked, just as seriously, face blank, a little flicker of curious intent swimming in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Atwater said after a pause, “I did.”
At this the lawyer nodded. He had known this even before asking the question, but in law one had to have confirmation.
“This is serious Lee,” he said, “if anyone were to find out then you could find yourself facing felony charges. Destruction of evidence, obstruction of justice…that carries a heavy penalty.”
Atwater tried to swallow but his throat was suddenly very dry. He had known the potential consequences from the very start, but hearing them from his very own lawyer added a new aspect to the terror that he was feeling.
“But nobody will.”
The lawyer didn’t look like he believed that. He closed the file with a sigh.
“The suspicion will be very great,” he said, “and you will have at least eight people testifying that you are guilty of everything under the sun. Their testimony will very likely match up as well, since what they’re saying will be true.”
Atwater decided that he didn’t really like the lawyer very much. He seemed distantly contemptuous of him, or at least the shoddy way in which he had tried to cover up his crimes.
“Listen,” Atwater said, “would it change anything if I said that I was the one who leaked the documents that killed off Helms’ campaign? And that I made a deal with Ronald Reagan in order to do that?”
The lawyer blinked, somewhat surprised.
“I’d say that it doesn’t matter, seeing as how Ronald Reagan is dead now. That deal may as well have never existed.”
Ford reached out and put one gentle hand on Nancy Reagan’s shoulder. She seemed frozen, her face empty of everything but shock and a terrible, growing grief. Next to Ford Betty sat down next to Nancy and tried not to look at the white doors that led to the operating room. There, only minutes before, Ronald Reagan, conservative icon, husband and father, had died.
“He just fell over,” Nancy said quietly, her voice surprisingly even, “that was all. Ron was fine just a few minutes before that…how could it all happen so fast?” There was no real answer to the terrible question. Inside of the operating room the final bit of news had been relayed out, and even now Ford could heard the muffled murmur of the press, trying to get answers and reactions. Vultures, he suddenly thought with uncharacteristic ugliness, picking the carrion for stories that might sell more copies, get more viewers…it was all so soulless and horrible that he felt lost for a moment.
“I am so sorry Nancy.” He said, but Nancy said nothing in response. Instead she just sat and stared, face nightmarishly blank. How terrible this all was. How unexpected too. Reagan had sounded fairly hearty when Ford had last spoken to him, how could he go from recovery to a body bag in the space of only a few awful hours? How did that happen?
“It was the campaign,” Nancy said finally, voice so low it was almost inaudible, “this goddamn campaign killed him. If he hadn’t been working then he would have recovered.”
Ford wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“It’s your fault,” Nancy continued, an exhausted sort of venom entering her voice, like she wanted to be furious but just couldn’t quite muster up the energy, “you, Betty, Jesse Helms, Lee Atwater…me too. I didn’t stop him when I could have. We’re all damned. We did this.” She gestured vaguely at the operating room door, and then, for the first time since the news of her husband’s death had arrived, she broke down into hoarse little sobs.
Gerald and Betty Ford stayed with her for the next two hours, until she was gently shepherded back home, to an oddly empty house. They had offered to stay with her but she refused.
“Go win your election,” she had said emptily to them, “and once the funeral is over don’t ever talk to me again.”
2:02 A.M. Sacramento California, October 10, 1980
“I’m still in shock,” Ford sighed as he settled back into bed, “I cant imagine what Nancy is going through right now.”
On the other end of the line Baker sounded anxious.
“I wish I could have been there.” He said.
“Nancy doesn’t want any more contact with us…so I’m going to give her some time to grieve.”
“That’s rough,” Baker sighed, “this is just an all around bad situation for everyone.”
Ford nodded slowly to himself. That about summed it up.
“I’ll call you tomorrow Howard, try to get some sleep.”
“Goodnight Jerry.”
“Goodnight.” Ford hung up the phone and sighed, looking over at Betty.
“What an awful night.” Was her only comment, and in unhappy silence the two of them tried, with mixed success, to get some sleep.
9:19 A.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 10, 1980
Guy Starr had, aside from a name that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of Playgirl, a level of journalistic desperation that drew Atwater immediately. Starr worked for the Raleigh Review as a muckraker and lately hadn’t been finding a whole lot of muck. At least not of the sort that the Review was interested in. They did, after all, have a six digit long list of people who read their rag, and feeding the interest of that many people necessitated a lot of news.
“Mr. Starr,” Atwater said, using a dishtowel to muffle his voice, “what if I told you that I had evidence that could bring down the Helms campaign?” Starr had jumped at that, and hadn’t asked questions either. He was already on the verge of being fired, the possibility of the whole evidence thing being a lie didn’t seem to factor into his decision making.
In the end Atwater had left a manila envelope full of documents on top of a dumpster in an alleyway and then waited across the street to make sure that Starr picked it up. He was a gawky, awkward looking man, Guy Starr was, and thanks to Lee Atwater, he would soon be quite well known.
12:30 P.M. Washington D.C., October 10, 1980
“I’m so sorry Jerry,” Carter said, “I really am.”
Ford nodded unhappily at the President’s words.
“Have you called Nancy?” He asked.
“Yes. She’s going through hell right now.” Carter stared across his office and sighed heavily. His conversation with Nancy Reagan had left him shaken, and he felt intense sadness for her situation but wasn’t sure what he could do. He was already going to her husband’s funeral, rather discreetly, but he wasn’t sure that that would do much to help.
Time would have to be taken for her to heal from her loss. That was probably the only real answer to the quandary at hand.
4:00 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 11, 1980
“These…look pretty legitimate.” The editor said, almost grudgingly, setting the sheaf of documents down onto his desk, toppling a crooked column of files. Stepping back from the little flood of papers Guy Starr nodded, trying not to betray his own relief. He hadn’t exactly taken the time to determine that by himself, and for a moment was supremely pleased with himself. He had gotten something pretty neat for the Review to report on.
“Well, uh,” Starr smoothed back his hair, the Travolta hairdo that he had been attempting recently wasn’t really working out too well for him, “thank you sir.” He smiled, the editor nodded slowly, picked up an early draft of the infamous Betty Ford ad, and then flicked it away.
“We’ll run this right after our big piece on Ronnie Reagan. And don’t think that this makes you hot shit Guy,” the editor growled, “just stay sharp when the national outfits drop by to watch Senator No implode…and get rid of that fucking haircut, would you?”
Starr nodded giddily and practically skipped from the office.
“I am Carl Bernstein.” He said out loud, smoothing back his hair once more. As he hopped into his car and headed home he wondered vaguely how many more presidential campaigns he would destroy by the time he retired.
2:18 P.M. Los Angeles California, October 13, 1980
Ronald Reagan’s funeral was a quiet, unhappy affair. Ford felt remarkably deflated as he stood in the bright California sunshine and watched the final few wreaths being set into place atop the grave. Several people had given speeches, including him, but there wasn’t much applause or goodwill. Instead everyone just seemed shellshocked and deeply exhausted.
A part of Ford hated the day for being so cheerful and nice when his friend had just died an untimely death. It was cloudless and cool, a light breeze ruffling the petals of the flowers being laid against Reagan’s tombstone.
“It’s not fair.” He said quietly. Next to him Betty sighed but said nothing in reply. Nancy wasn’t too far away but so far hadn’t said a word to him. She was dressed brightly compared to most of the others, clad in scarlet from head to toe. Despite that the look on her face told Ford everything that he needed to know about her mental state.
She looked lost. Like a part of her had suddenly and irreversibly been removed. And perhaps it had. She and Ron had loved each other with a zealous, almost religious fervor. And to have that torn away so very suddenly…God. Ford couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to lose Betty, or for Betty to lose him.
On Ford’s other side Baker was staring down at the ground, thumbs hooked into his pockets, looking unhappy. He looked to be chewing the inside of his cheek.
“Sir,” a quiet voice said from behind him and Ford turned halfway around, “when you’re ready, there’s news concerning the Helms campaign.”
Ford nodded and the staffer slipped discreetly away. For a moment Ford was curious as to what the news could be, then decided that he didn’t care.
Everything felt very arbitrary now, almost out of control. The presidency, the campaign? What were those even? Just concepts, powers tied to other nebulous concepts that governed absolutely nothing.
Ford blinked heavily, forced himself to snap out of that nihilistic train of thought, and turned. He would go hear what the news about Helms was, then he would go and say goodbye to Nancy. That was the plan.
Walking slowly, he said hello to a few fellow attendees, shared a scrap of conversation here and there, then stepped over to where his staffers were waiting, on the periphery of the funeral, out of the way.
“You mentioned Helms.” Ford said, and one of them nodded.
“We cant verify its authenticity, but a paper in North Carolina is claiming to possess proof that Helms was behind the ad that…uh, targeted Betty.”
Ford nodded slowly. So Atwater had released the papers. Okay.
“Good.” He said, and smiled grimly. Helms was going down. And would probably drag Atwater down with him.
The suddenness of this shocked him. He had been sparring with Helms for months now, and the thought of no longer having the man as an enemy was somehow incomprehensible. But amongst that surprise was a spark of satisfaction. Helms would crash and burn, and his collapse would avenge everyone that he had ever hurt.
Hopefully, wherever Ronald Reagan was, he was smiling.
9:44 P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 13, 1980
Representative Larry McDonald’s first words to Helms upon entering the campaign headquarters were ugly. Helms’ retort was even uglier, and for a moment the two men stood at an impasse, bristling with anger.
“This isn’t okay.” McDonald said after a few seconds had ticked by.
Helms sneered.
“Atwater took off,” he snarled, “fucking coward.”
McDonald dropped the newspaper that he had been carrying. It flopped open, the headline bold and ugly. HELMS CAMPAIGN BEHIND SLANDEROUS ADS. Authored by a certain Guy Starr.
“I tried to turn a blind eye you know,” McDonald said, “but you’ve gone beyond the pale. You’ve been way too reckless with all of this shit Jesse.” Helms shook his head balefully, glaring at his running mate.
“That was all Lee fucking Atwater,” he said, baring his teeth for a moment, like a cornered animal, “and if you think that a little thing like this is gonna be a good excuse for you to cut and run then you’ve got another thing coming Larry.”
McDonald kicked the paper at Helms, the pages fluttering apart, raining down across the office.
“That doesn’t fucking matter!” He shouted, “what does is that the world has found out. Do you have any idea how people are going to react to this?”
Helms ducked his head, refused to meet McDonald’s eyes. For several seconds the two men stood like that, not speaking, then McDonald shook his head slowly, disgusted.
“You know what Jesse,” he said, “fuck you. I quit.”
That seemed to snap Helms from the angry little stupor that he had been stuck in. Stepping forward, he reached out for McDonald’s arm but the representative jerked it out of reach.
“You little cocksucker,” Helms snarled, stomping after McDonald as he retreated down the hall, “come back here!” He caught onto McDonald’s arm and tried to yank his running mate back towards him. But before he could make any meaningful progress the left side of his vision dissolved into a great big flash of white, and the next thing that he knew he was sitting on the floor, stunned, face throbbing. Above him McDonald was looking over his shirtsleeve, which had been torn almost completely off. A white circlet of fingerprints ringed his arm where Helms had grabbed him and for a moment Helms had no idea what had happened. Then it clicked.
“You fucking hit me.” He said thickly and tried to get up, but McDonald shoved him back with his foot, toppling Helms to the floor. This time Helms stayed there, breathing heavily, grinding his teeth, face throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
“You get up again and I will lay you out,” McDonald said dangerously, and Helms became suddenly aware that several of his interns and volunteers had seen what had just happened to him, “now, I’ll repeat, for your benefit. I quit.” And with that McDonald turned sharply on his heels and marched from the Helms headquarters, ignoring the first few journalists who had shown up to cover the collapse of the Helms campaign.
7:03 A.M. Austin Texas, October 14, 1980
“Jesus, nice shiner. Where do you think he got it?” Ford and Baker were watching Helms’ first appearance before the press, and even if it was just him escaping his besieged headquarters, it made Ford smile. Helms looked haggard, and seemed to have taken a shot to the face at some point in the last twenty four hours.
“I’d like to think that Reagan came back from beyond the grave just to sock him in the eye,” Baker said, “but sadly we will probably never know.”
Ford nodded at this and sipped his coffee. This was probably the last bit of free time that he was going to get before the day really began. In ten minutes he had a fundraiser, then a stretch making phone calls, then door to door through the city, then another fundraiser. And on and on it went.
In the wake of Reagan’s death the campaign had ground to a halt for few days, but now seemed to be picking itself back up. Nancy had gone into seclusion, and virtually everyone was still shocked and dispirited, but ultimately one reality shone through the grim news: Carter wasn’t stopping. The President was trudging grimly through what had to be the worst autumn of his life…and was still going strong. The economy seemed to be growing, and even if the Billygate thing was an absolute nightmare for him, he was weathering it without major incident.
The news wasn’t all bad though. In a turn of grisly benefit Ford had seen his poll numbers rise in the days after Reagan’s death. Not too much, but there was a definite boost that made him feel oddly guilty even thinking about. And some pundits had even begun to call the election a genuine tossup, which was always good.
Others compared it to 1976, which was always worrying, but Ford tried not to obsess over it. The important thing was that he had a genuine chance to win this outright. It wouldn’t be a landslide, that was beyond possibility, but even if Carter won then it would be by a tiny margin that wouldn’t harm too many Republican races down ballot.
And Helms’ campaign was collapsing.
That was the icing on the cake. Hopefully it would be the last gasp of rebellion from the Helms people. Baker had been briefly concerned about McDonald picking up the torch, but so far the Georgian had not made an appearance. Indeed he seemed to have vanished entirely.
2:45 P.M. P.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 14, 1980
“Be honest,” Helms said, folding his hands on the table before him, “what’s gonna happen here?”
The pair of lawyers on the other side of the table glanced briefly at each other. Helms didn’t much like that little look, so full of conspiratorial sentiments, but was too tired to say anything about it.
“Quite frankly senator,” the first lawyer said, his voice was crisp and professional, “the evidence that they have is very broad…” He trailed off.
Helms slammed one of his hands down onto the table, palm flat against the wood. The lawyers jumped.
“Don’t fucking sugarcoat it,” he growled, “I wanna know how to fight this.”
The lawyers exchanged another look. Helms stewed. Fucking queers, he thought nastily.
“They have evidence of you authorizing the brain damage ad targeting Ronald Reagan, the pill popper and child abuse ads targeting Nancy Reagan, and the drug abuse ad targeting Betty Ford. All of these could conceivably be declared libel, defamation…a whole host of charges that would be hard to avoid.”
Helms ground his teeth.
“So I’m fucked.”
The second lawyer shook his head slightly.
“No. Not necessarily.”
Helms sighed.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Give me some fucking specifics.”
“If you end your campaign then the Reagans and the Fords could be convinced not to press charges.”
Helms said nothing for a very long time, instead just staring at the lawyers with something akin to disbelief.
“…Are you fucking kidding me?” He asked, voice airy with outrage.
“There’s no real way to fight this sir,” the first lawyer said, “you have no way to deny this. What we have proposed is the only possible way for you to get out of this without being charged with libel.”
Helms said nothing. He was quiet for a very long time.
1:00 P.M. Atlanta Georgia, October 16, 1980
Lee Atwater was halfway to his car when a nearby shout caught his attention. Turning, he was about halfway through the motion when something big and warm slapped him soggily in the chest. Staggering backwards, startled, Atwater looked up to where a Chevy was humming past him, a young man proudly flipping him the bird from the front passenger seat. His middle finger was stained with ketchup.
Looking down, Atwater saw the ragged, sorry looking remains of a burger, then cursed. The Chevy rounded the corner and Atwater shook his head. He hadn’t gotten the license plate number. Nor had he even thought to do so, the whole thing had happened too fast.
“You sons of bitches.” He muttered, and looked at the debris that spattered the front of his shirt. Goddamn was this bad. First Helms had melted down, then he had been reduced to begging Ford and Reagan not to smite him…and now people were throwing fast food at him.
For a moment he wondered if the young man had thrown the burger at him because he recognized him, or if it had just been a random act. Either way, Atwater supposed, it didn’t matter.
Kicking at the burger angrily, he continued on his way. It was a cool day and the soggy front of his shirt clung unpleasantly to his skin. All in all Atwater was feeling rather sorry for himself when he reached his car. Getting in, he started it, and as the news began to play he froze, hand still on the keys, eyes widening.
“It is my belief,” Jesse Helms was saying on the radio, “that I am being unfairly maligned here. The man responsible for these ads-“
Atwater shook his head.
“No.” He insisted, but on the radio Helms kept talking.
“The man responsible for planning and distributing these ads was my campaign manager-“
“No!” Atwater cried out. But really, what had he expected?
“My campaign manager,” Helms said grimly, “Lee Atwater.”
4:35 P.M. Cumming Georgia, October 16, 1980
Representative Larry McDonald, upon learning of the severity of what Helms had gotten himself into, had almost immediately scheduled an interview with a local radio station. The reasoning for this was twofold, both so that he could explain that he had had nothing to do with the ugly ads that Helms had authorized, and because he was still furious at his one time electoral partner.
Sure he had punched the man in the face, and sure that had been satisfying, but it wasn’t enough.
“I’d like to welcome to the show our very own Representative, Larry McDonald, of Georgia’s 7th congressional district.” The anchor of the radio show was a younger man with curly hair and a soft, round face that reminded McDonald vaguely of the Pillsbury doughboy.
“Thank you for having me.” McDonald said curtly. He felt jumpy and tense, thoroughly upset by the events of the past few days. Between Reagan dying, Atwater fleeing to parts unknown and Helms apparently going off the deep end just about nothing felt right anymore.
“You stirred up a lot of attention back in July when Senator Jesse Helms selected you to be his running mate. What’s changed since then?”
McDonald chewed the inside of his cheek, then took a deep breath. This was nerve wracking.
“Quite frankly, I overestimated Mr. Helms’ character. I’m just as appalled as you are about these attack ads that have been traced back to the campaign…and I’m additionally alarmed by some of his personal behavior, which I can say is very unprofessional and divisive.”
The anchor’s eyes visibly brightened at McDonald spoke. He had already been excited to land an interview with Helms’ running mate, but to have that same running mate rip into Helms less than a month before the election? That was gold.
“These statements could be described as hostile,” the anchor said, very charitably, “what exactly sparked the disagreements between yourself and Jesse Helms?”
“We issued attack ads almost immediately,” McDonald said, “and I did have some level of involvement in these early efforts, but soon he began to go further and further. I grew uncomfortable with the idea of attacking our opponents personally and refused to have any further involvement in producing advertisements.”
“So the ads.”
McDonald nodded.
“Yes. As well as some personal behavior that I’d rather not talk about. I did my best to work around these issues because in my mind he was the best option that conservatism had in this race…but eventually it became impossible to ignore.”
The anchor nodded slightly, intrigued.
“Were you aware that Senator Helms was behind the Reagan brain damage ad or the Betty Ford addiction piece?”
McDonald sighed.
“I didn’t bother to ask. I didn’t want to know.”
“But surely you had some sort of idea that the Helms campaign had produced these pieces.”
“There are so many independent political organizations these days that I couldn’t be entirely sure.”
The anchor scratched his chin.
“Did you have much interaction with Lee Atwater?”
McDonald shrugged.
“I was allowed to operate mostly on my own, since I have a constituency that differs from Jesse’s. He would send me a schedule and that was it. I didn’t speak to him much.”
“Could you weigh in on the accusations that Senator Helms made towards Mr. Atwater today?”
“If you’re asking me whether or not Lee Atwater was involved in producing those attack ads then I’d say that he was.” McDonald shut his eyes briefly, wondering if he was making a mistake. Denouncing Helms and Atwater could have blowback…but it was better to cut himself away from them now rather than potentially be implicated in the brewing attack ad scandal that seemed to be enveloping Helms’ doomed campaign.
The rest of the interview was easier, the anchor seemingly satisfied with his answers. McDonald relaxed. But an undercurrent of worry still coursed through him, like a dark river. Helms was still out there. And God only knew what he would do before he was finally dragged down into oblivion.
10:00 A.M. Washington D.C., October 17, 1980
“So Helms has completely collapsed?” Carter asked, mildly astonished by the sudden change of events. He was still trying to get over the fact that Reagan had died, now suddenly Helms was sliding in the polls, his base of support beginning to evaporate as people realized just what he was guilty of. The story uncovered by the Raleigh Review was now being covered by virtually every publication in the nation. Indeed it had gotten a great many people very excited. Conservatives who had opposed Helms from the very beginning, Laxalt and Goldwater amongst them, were sharpening their knives, and apparently Ford was pretty pleased as well.
“Perhaps not completely,” Mondale said, “but he’s in trouble. Facing legal charges if I’m not mistaken. Nancy Reagan is definitely going to sue him. Not sure about the Fords, they might not. It would probably be unseemly to be fighting a legal battle while running for President.”
Carter chuckled a little at that, but couldn’t erase a little prickle of worry that was tickling his stomach.
“Do you think he’ll drop out?” He asked, hoping that the answer was no. He needed something to stall Ford, to keep victory firmly out of the man’s grasp. Because even through the nonstop chaos of the election Ford had somehow managed to inch disconcertingly close to an outright lead in the polls. He was even leading in Illinois and Ohio, which definitely wasn’t good.
“No idea.” Mondale said, shrugging for added emphasis.
“I’m gonna ask for Byrd to try to break the hearings.” Carter said, and got up. It was way past time that those silly things were over with.
11:28 A.M. Raleigh North Carolina, October 17, 1980
“So…I think that I should explain why I’m calling you.” Helms fiddled with the cord of the phone, winding it around one nervous finger as he spoke. On the other end of the line Nancy Reagan listened icily, hostility practically oozing through the phone lines.
“You are a murderer,” she said, words clipped and phrasing succinct, “and you will be held responsible for what you have done to Ron.”
Helms bit back an ugly retort, told himself that this was for the greater good. He had no other option. His base had vanished, rocked both by the death of Reagan and the revelation of his crimes. If he wanted to avoid being sued then he would have to cut a deal.
“Listen ma’am,” he said, wincing as he realized just how shrill his voice was, raw with desperation, “I will drop out of the race if you promise not to put any charges against me. Okay?”
Nancy Reagan was absolutely silent for a long moment, almost long enough for Helms to start wondering if he’d lost connection. Then she spoke.
“No. I will destroy you. And so will Gerald and Betty Ford. And so will Jimmy Carter, and Paul Laxalt and Don Regan and Howard Baker…” She paused for effect, “there is nowhere that you can escape to Jesse. You are finished.” She hung up, and Helms stood in place for a long moment, phone buzzing in his ear, acidy fear burning in the back of his throat.
Fuck.
12:01 P.M. Dallas Texas, October 18, 1980
Baker had gone up to Ohio, leaving Ford in Texas for another two days. After that Ford would travel up to New York. He was doing a great deal of traveling lately, all around Texas, down winding dirt roads and endless concrete highways. Past apartment buildings and ranch houses, through quiet neighborhoods and cramped tenements alike. Raising money, making speeches, holding dinners, endorsing candidates, kissing babies. Signing books. It all blurred together.
George Bush had come down to help him, and while Ford sincerely doubted that he would carry Texas and its twenty six electoral votes when it came time for the nation to vote in a little over two weeks (God, was it really that close to the day of reckoning?!) his presence would certainly help the Republicans running for office in the state. Texas was a big place after all, and there were plenty of votes that could be won there.
On the wall of most of his campaign headquarters Ford had seen great big electoral prediction maps, keeping track of the state of play across the nation. The south was pretty much entirely Democratic, with a tentative swing state label placed over Mississippi, while the west was solidly, determinedly Republican. Only Hawaii seemed eager to experiment with the idea of becoming a Democratic state.
That being said, the polls had been screwy enough lately that much of the map was uncertain at best. Helms’ chaotic presence and equally anarchic fall from grace were playing havoc with virtually every southern state and some of the midwestern ones as well. The net effect, Ford had been told, would probably be a loss of Republican support in the south, but that didn’t bother him too much. States like Georgia and Tennessee weren’t exactly in play. The real game was in Ohio, Pennsylvania and the states around that area.
And that concerned him. Those states had gone to Carter last time around, and even now Pennsylvania looked pretty solidly Democratic.
Of course, Ford supposed, there was no real use in trying to figure out what the electoral map would look like. The answer would be revealed in another eighteen days. Four hundred thirty two hours. That wasn’t a lot of time.
12:19 P.M. Atlanta Georgia, October 18, 1980
“You’re being implicated in a great deal of ugly stuff,” Atwater’s lawyer was telling him, “the situation is not good.”
Atwater nodded evenly, examining the whorls and knots in the wood of the table.
“I know.” He said simply. His lawyer, a rotund man with a bald spot and a generally florid complexion, opened a folder. The Reagan brain damage ad stood atop a small stack of similar papers.
“Helms, McDonald…and six others have implicated you in the creation of these ads. But, oddly enough, there doesn’t seem to be any hard evidence that you played a part in this. The relevant paperwork seems to have vanished.”
Atwater shrugged noncommittally, met the lawyer’s gaze.
“Maybe they never existed in the first place.”
“I’m gonna need you to tell me the truth Lee,” the lawyer’s tone had gone deadly serious, his face equally grim, “how deeply were you involved?”
Atwater blinked, looked back down at the table. Couldn’t quite bring himself to make eye contact with his lawyer again. Somehow he felt quite ashamed that he had gotten himself into such a situation. Sure the Reagans and Fords weren’t going to press charges, not after he had sunk the Helms campaign for them…but this was still a decidedly sticky situation.
“I…” He trailed off, chewed the inside of his cheek. Wasn’t sure of how to continue.
“Did you destroy the missing files?” The lawyer asked, just as seriously, face blank, a little flicker of curious intent swimming in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Atwater said after a pause, “I did.”
At this the lawyer nodded. He had known this even before asking the question, but in law one had to have confirmation.
“This is serious Lee,” he said, “if anyone were to find out then you could find yourself facing felony charges. Destruction of evidence, obstruction of justice…that carries a heavy penalty.”
Atwater tried to swallow but his throat was suddenly very dry. He had known the potential consequences from the very start, but hearing them from his very own lawyer added a new aspect to the terror that he was feeling.
“But nobody will.”
The lawyer didn’t look like he believed that. He closed the file with a sigh.
“The suspicion will be very great,” he said, “and you will have at least eight people testifying that you are guilty of everything under the sun. Their testimony will very likely match up as well, since what they’re saying will be true.”
Atwater decided that he didn’t really like the lawyer very much. He seemed distantly contemptuous of him, or at least the shoddy way in which he had tried to cover up his crimes.
“Listen,” Atwater said, “would it change anything if I said that I was the one who leaked the documents that killed off Helms’ campaign? And that I made a deal with Ronald Reagan in order to do that?”
The lawyer blinked, somewhat surprised.
“I’d say that it doesn’t matter, seeing as how Ronald Reagan is dead now. That deal may as well have never existed.”