I talked through the choices with Dick, Laura, Karl, Karen, and a few other trusted aides. Karen recommended Tom Ridge, a Vietnam veteran from a key swing state. As a fellow chief executive, Tom would be plenty capable of running the country if anything happened to me. He was also pro-choice, which would appeal to moderates in both parties, while turning off some in the Republican base. Others made the case for Chuck Hagel, who sat on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and would bring foreign policy experience. I was close with Frank Keating and John Engler, and I knew I would work well with either. Jon Kyl was a rock-solid conservative who would help shore up the base. Lamar Alexander, Bill Frist, and Fred Thompson were fine men, and they might help me pull off an upset in Tennessee, the home state of the Democratic nominee, Vice President Al Gore.
I was intrigued by Jack Danforth. An ordained minister, Jack was honest, ethical, and forthright. His voting record over three terms in the Senate was solid. He had earned my respect with his defense of Clarence Thomas during his Supreme Court confirmation hearing in 1991. He was a principled conservative who could also appeal across party lines. As a dividend, he might help carry Missouri, which would be a key battleground state.
I thought seriously about offering the job to Danforth, but I found myself returning again and again to Dick Cheney. Dick’s experience was more extensive and diverse than that of anyone else on my list. As White House chief of staff, he had helped President Ford guide the nation through the aftermath of Watergate. He had served more than a decade in Congress and never lost an election. He had been a strong secretary of defense. He had run a global business and understood the private sector. Unlike any of the senators or governors on my list, he had stood next to presidents during the most gut-wrenching decisions that reach the Oval Office, including sending Americans to war. Not only would Dick be a valuable adviser, he would be fully capable of assuming the presidency.
While Dick knew Washington better than almost anyone, he didn’t behave like an insider. He allowed subordinates to get credit. When he spoke at meetings, his carefully chosen words carried credibility and influence.
Like me, Dick was a westerner. He enjoyed fishing and spending time outdoors. He had married Lynne Vincent, his high school sweetheart from Wyoming, and he was deeply devoted to their daughters, Liz and Mary. He had a practical mind and a dry sense of humor. He told me he had started at Yale a few years before me, but the university asked him not to come back. Twice. He said he had once filled out a compatibility test designed to match his personality with the most appropriate career. When the results came in, Dick was told he was best suited to be a funeral director.
As I mulled the decision, I called Dad for an outside opinion. I read him the names I was considering. He knew most of the candidates and said they were all fine people. “What about Dick Cheney?” I asked.
“Dick would be a great choice,” he said. “He would give you candid and solid advice. And you’d never have to worry about him going behind your back.”
By the time Dick came to the ranch to deliver his final report, I had decided to make another run at him. As he finished his briefing, I said, “Dick, you are the perfect running mate.”
While I had dropped hints before, he could tell I was serious this time. Finally, he said, “I need to talk to Lynne.” I took that as a promising sign. He told me that he had had three heart attacks and that he and Lynne were happy with their life in Dallas. Then he said, “Mary is gay.” I could tell what he meant by the way he said it. Dick clearly loved his daughter. I felt he was gauging my tolerance. “If you have a problem with this, I’m not your man,” he was essentially saying.
I smiled at him and said, “Dick, take your time. Please talk to Lynne. And I could not care less about Mary’s orientation.”
Later that day, I talked to a few trusted aides. I didn’t want to put all my cards on the table yet. I just told them I was thinking seriously about Cheney. Most were stunned. Karl was opposed. I asked him to come to the Governor’s Mansion to make his case. I invited one person to listen in. That would be Dick. I believe in airing out disagreements. I also wanted to cement a relationship of trust between Karl and Dick in case they ended up together in the White House.
Karl gamely delivered his arguments: Cheney’s presence on the ticket would add nothing to the electoral map, since Wyoming’s three electoral votes were among the most reliably Republican in the country. Cheney’s record in Congress was very conservative and included some hot-button votes that would be used against us. Dick’s heart condition would raise questions about his fitness to serve. Choosing Dad’s defense secretary could make people question whether I was my own man. Finally, Dick lived in Texas, and the Constitution prohibited two residents of the same state from receiving Electoral College votes.
I listened carefully to Karl’s objections. Dick said he thought they were pretty persuasive. I didn’t. Dick’s old congressional record didn’t bother me. I considered his experience on Capitol Hill an asset. His lack of impact on the electoral map did not concern me either. I believe voters base their decision on the presidential candidate, not the VP.*
As for Karl’s concern about picking Dad’s defense secretary, I was convinced that the benefits of choosing a serious, accomplished running mate would compensate for any perception that I was falling back on Dad for help.
Two concerns did need to be addressed: Dick’s health and residency status. Dick agreed to have a medical exam and sent the results to Dr. Denton Cooley, a respected Houston cardiologist. The doctor said Dick’s heart would hold up to the stresses of the campaign and the vice presidency. Dick and Lynne would be able to change their voter registration to Wyoming, the state Dick had represented in Congress and still considered home.
The way Dick handled those delicate weeks deepened my confidence that he was the right choice. He never once pushed me to make up my mind. In fact, he insisted that I meet with Jack Danforth before I finalized my decision. Dick and I went to see Jack and his wife, Sally, in Chicago on July 18. We had a relaxed, three-hour visit. My positive impressions of Jack were confirmed. But I had decided on Dick.
A week later, I made the formal offer. As was my habit, I got up around 5:00 a.m. After two cups of coffee, I was anxious to get moving. I managed to wait until 6:22 a.m. before I called Dick. I caught him on the treadmill, which I considered a good sign. He and Lynne came down to Austin for the announcement that afternoon.
Whistlestop campaigning with Dick Cheney. Associated Press/Eric Draper
Ten years later, I have never regretted my decision to run with Dick Cheney. His pro-life, low-tax positions helped cement key parts of our base. He had great credibility when he announced that “Help is on the way” for the military. His steady, effective answers in the vice presidential debate with Joe Lieberman reassured voters about the strength of our ticket. It gave me comfort to know he would be ready to step in if something happened to me.
The real benefits of selecting Dick became clear fourteen months later. On a September morning in 2001, Americans awoke to an unimaginable crisis. The calm and quiet man I recruited that summer day in Crawford stood sturdy as an oak.
The vice presidential selection came at the end of a grueling primary season. The campaign process has a way of stripping the candidates to the core. It exposes strengths and weaknesses to the voters. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the grind of the campaign helps a candidate to prepare for the pressures of the presidency. Those intense days also revealed the character of the people around me and laid the groundwork for the personnel decisions I later faced in the White House.
The campaign kicked off with the Iowa caucus, the ultimate grassroots experience. Laura and I traveled the state, shook thousands of hands, and consumed untold gallons of coffee. For all our meticulously planned events, one of the most revealing moments of the campaign came unscripted.
In December 1999, I attended a Republican debate in Des Moines. The moderators were Tom Brokaw of NBC and
a local anchor, John Bachman. After covering some predictable topics, Bachman let loose a surprise: “What political philosopher or thinker do you most identify with and why?”
I was third in line to answer. I thought about citing someone like Mill or Locke, whose natural law theory had influenced the Founders. Then there was Lincoln; hard to go wrong with Abe in a Republican debate. I was still thinking when Bachman turned to me: “Governor Bush?” No more time to weigh my options. The words tumbled out of my mouth: “Christ,” I said, “because He changed my heart.”
Everybody looked stunned. Where had that come from? On the car ride back to the hotel, Mother and Dad checked in. They almost always called after major events. “Fine job, son,” Dad said. “I don’t think your answer will hurt you too much.” “Which answer?” I asked. “You know, that one on Jesus,” he said.
At first I hadn’t thought about the answer hurting me. I had just blurted out what was in my heart. Upon reflection, however, I understood the note of caution. I was skeptical of politicians who touted religion as a way to get votes. I didn’t believe in a Methodist or Jewish or Muslim approach to public policy. It was not the role of government to promote any religion. I hadn’t done that as governor of Texas, and I certainly didn’t intend to do it as president.
Sure enough, my words prompted an outcry. “There is something unholy about this,” one columnist wrote. “W. is just checking Jesus’ numbers, and Jesus is polling well in Iowa,” another concluded.
The reaction wasn’t all negative. My response had connected with many people who had had similar experiences in their own lives and appreciated my speaking openly about faith.
On caucus night, I won Iowa with 40 percent of the vote. After a brief victory celebration, we made the trek to New Hampshire. I knew that the Granite State could be treacherous for front-runners. New Hampshire voters have a history of knocking down the favorite. I felt good about our operation in the state, led by my friend Senator Judd Gregg. I had spent a lot of time in New Hampshire, marching in parades and perfecting my pancake-flipping skills. On primary day, Laura and I settled into our hotel in Manchester to watch the returns. Early in the afternoon, Karl came by with the first exit polls: I was going to lose, and lose badly.
Laura spoke up. “George, do you want to be president?” she asked. I nodded. “Then you’d better not let yourself get defined again,” she said.
She was right. I had made the classic front-runner mistake. I had let Senator John McCain of Arizona, the other top contender for the nomination, take the initiative in New Hampshire. He had run an energetic campaign that attracted a lot of independents, which overcame my solid support from fellow Republicans. McCain, a member of Congress since 1983, had managed to define himself as an outsider and me as an insider. He talked about reform at every campaign stop, even though I was the one who had reformed a school system, changed the tort laws, and revamped Texas’s approach to welfare. I had to give John credit for a smart, effective campaign. And I had to learn from my mistake.
I went to the gym for a hard workout. On the treadmill, I thought about what to do next. I faced the biggest personnel decision of my young campaign. The conventional playbook called for me to fire a few people and claim a fresh start. I decided to go in the opposite direction. I got the senior staff together and told them I refused to chuck anyone overboard to satisfy the loud voices on TV. One person deserved blame, and that was me. Win or lose, we would finish this race as a team. Then I gave everybody an assignment. Karl called the political directors in upcoming primary states. Joe reassured the campaign staff. Karen reached out to key members of the media. Don Evans bucked up the fundraisers.
I called Policy Director Josh Bolten, who was with the majority of our staff back at campaign headquarters in Austin. “How is everyone holding up?” I asked.
“Most people are in shock,” he admitted.
I knew the team would be looking to me for a signal. “Get them together and tell them they ought to hold their heads high because we’re going to win this thing,” I told Josh.
Looking back on it, the loss in New Hampshire created an opportunity. Voters like to gauge how a candidate responds to adversity. Reagan and Dad showed their resilience after losing Iowa in 1980 and 1988, respectively. Bill Clinton turned his campaign around after defeat in New Hampshire in 1992, as did Barack Obama in 2008. In 2000, I looked at the defeat as a chance to prove I could take a blow and come back. The lesson is that sometimes the best personnel moves are the ones you don’t make.
In South Carolina, we picked a new theme to highlight my bipartisan accomplishments in Texas: Reformer with Results. We set up town hall events, where I fielded questions until the audience ran out of things to ask. I worked the phones, enlisting the support of leaders across the state. Then McCain ran an ad questioning my character by comparing me to Bill Clinton. That crossed a line. I went on the air to counterpunch. The response, combined with a well-organized grassroots campaign, paid off. I won South Carolina with 53 percent of the vote, took nine of thirteen primaries on Super Tuesday, and rode the momentum to the nomination.
In early May, John and I met for an hour and a half in Pittsburgh. He was justifiably upset about insulting language some of my supporters had used in South Carolina. I understood his anger and made clear I respected his character. After our meeting, he told reporters I could restore integrity to the White House “more than adequately.”
That wasn’t the most scintillating endorsement I’ve ever received, but it was the beginning of reconciliation between John and me. In August, John and his wife, Cindy, hosted us at their beautiful ranch in Sedona, Arizona. It was fun to see Chef McCain behind the grill, relaxed and barbecuing ribs. We campaigned together in 2000 and again in 2004. I respect John, and I was glad to have him at my side.
Al Gore was a talented man and an accomplished politician. Like me, he had graduated from an Ivy League school and had a father in politics. But our personalities seemed pretty different. He appeared stiff, serious, and aloof. It looked like he had been running for president his entire life. He brought together a formidable coalition of big-government liberals, cultural elites, and labor unions. He was plenty capable of engaging in class-warfare populism. He was also vice president during an economic boom. He would be tough to beat.
When I look back on the 2000 campaign, most of it collapses into a blur of handshaking, fundraising, and jousting for the morning headlines. There were two moments when the political merry-go-round stopped. The first came at the Republican National Convention in Philadelphia, which was managed well by Dad’s former deputy chief of staff and transportation secretary, Andy Card.
I had attended every convention since 1976, but nothing compared to the feeling when I took center stage. I waited backstage in the dark, listening for the countdown: “Five, four, three, two, one.” Then out into the packed arena. At first the scene was disorienting. Light and sound exploded all around me. I could feel the body heat and smell the people. Then the faces came into focus. I saw Laura and the girls, Mother and Dad. All my life, I had been watching George Bush speak. I was struck by the reversal of roles.
“Our opportunities are too great, our lives too short to waste this moment,” I said. “So tonight, we vow to our nation we will seize this moment of American promise. We will use these good times for great goals. … This administration had its moment, they had their chance. They have not led. We will.”
Two months later the campaigns paused again, this time for the debates. Karen Hughes oversaw my preparation team, with Josh Bolten taking the lead on policy. Josh combines a brilliant mind, disarming modesty, and a buoyant spirit. I’ll never forget standing at the Ames, Iowa, straw poll in August 1999 watching several hundred motorcycles barrel into town. Among the riders were Governor Tommy Thompson of Wisconsin and Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell of Colorado. When the lead man hopped down from his shiny blue-and-chrome Iowa-made Victory bike and pulled off his helmet, I was stunned to see Josh, clad
in a bandana with our campaign logo. “Governor,” he said, “meet the Bikers for Bush.”
The first debate was in Boston. In the holding room backstage, I called Kirbyjon Caldwell, and we prayed over the phone. Kirbyjon asked the Almighty to give me strength and wisdom. His voice gave me such comfort and calm that I made the telephone prayer with Kirbyjon a tradition before major events for the rest of the campaign and during my presidency.
The next voice I heard was that of the moderator, Jim Lehrer of PBS, introducing the candidates. We emerged from our respective corners and met at center stage. Gore deployed the ultra-firm handshake. I suspected he was trying to play a head game, just like Ann Richards had in 1994.
I concentrated on answering the questions, although at times I felt like I was on autopilot. By the time I glanced at my watch—which I had taken off and placed on the lectern to avoid repeating a debate mistake Dad had once made—we were almost done. We gave our closing statements, shook hands again—normal grip this time—and participated in the post-debate stage rush of family, friends, and aides.
Immediately afterward, Karen told me Gore had made a big mistake. He had repeatedly sighed and grimaced while I was talking. That was news to me. I had been so focused on my performance that I had not noticed.
The second and third debates had different formats but similar results. Neither of us made any quotable gaffes. There was one interesting moment in the third debate, at Washington University in St. Louis. The town hall format gave us the freedom to roam the stage. The first question was about the Patients’ Bill of Rights. I was giving my answer when I saw Gore heading toward me. He is a big man, and his presence filled my space quickly. Was the vice president about to deliver a chest bump? A forearm shiver? For a split second I thought I was back on the playground at Sam Houston Elementary. I gave him a look of amused disdain and moved on.
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