We considered a variety of other names for secretary of defense, including Dan Coats, a fine senator from Indiana. Then Condi threw out an interesting idea: How about Don Rumsfeld?
Don had been secretary of defense twenty-five years earlier, during the Ford administration. He had since served on a number of influential national security commissions. I had been considering Rumsfeld for CIA, not Defense. When I interviewed him, Don laid out a captivating vision for transforming the Defense Department. He talked about making our forces lighter, more agile, and more rapidly deployable. And he was a strong proponent of a missile defense system to protect against rogue states like North Korea and Iran.
With Don Rumsfeld. White House/Eric Draper
Rumsfeld impressed me. He was knowledgeable, articulate, and confident. As a former secretary of defense, he had the strength and experience to bring major changes to the Pentagon. He would run the bureaucracy, not let it run him. Dick Cheney, who had been Don’s deputy when he was chief of staff in the Ford White House, recommended him strongly.
There was one awkward issue. Some believed that Don had used his influence to persuade President Ford to appoint Dad to run the CIA in 1975 as a way of taking him out of contention for the vice presidency. I had no way of knowing if this was true. But whatever disagreements he and Dad might have had twenty-five years earlier did not concern me, so long as Don could do the job. Don went on to become both the youngest and oldest person to serve as secretary of defense.
With Rumsfeld going to the Pentagon, I no longer had a leading candidate for the CIA. I had great respect for the Agency as a result of Dad’s time there. I had been receiving intelligence briefings as president-elect for a few weeks when I met the sitting director, George Tenet. He was the opposite of the stereotypical CIA director you read about in spy novels—the bow-tied, Ivy League, elite type. Tenet was a blue-collar guy, the son of Greek immigrants from New York City. He spoke bluntly, often colorfully, and obviously cared deeply about the Agency.
With Dick Cheney (seated), George Tenet (left), and Andy Card. White House/Eric Draper
Retaining Bill Clinton’s CIA director would send a message of continuity and show that I considered the Agency beyond the reach of politics. I asked Dad to sound out some of his CIA contacts. He told me Tenet was highly respected within the ranks. As George and I got to know each other, I decided to stop looking for a replacement. The cigar-chomping, Greek-to-the-core director agreed to stay.
For the most part, the national security team functioned smoothly in the early years of the administration. The economic team did not. The problem was partly the result of a personnel mismatch. As president, I had three key economic advisers: the National Economic Council director, the Council of Economic Advisers chairman, and the secretary of the treasury. I chose Larry Lindsey, an accomplished economist and senior adviser on my campaign, to lead the NEC. Glenn Hubbard, another thoughtful economist, chaired the CEA. They did a fine job designing the tax cuts I had proposed during the campaign. The legislation passed with a strong bipartisan majority.
My treasury secretary did not share the same enthusiasm for tax cuts. Paul O’Neill had come recommended by Dick, Clay Johnson, and others on the team. His strong résumé included success at the Office of Management and Budget and as the CEO of Alcoa, a Fortune 100 company. I felt that his practical business experience would command respect on Wall Street and Capitol Hill.
Unfortunately, things started going wrong from the start. Paul belittled the tax cuts, which of course got back to me. He and I met regularly, but never clicked. He didn’t gain my confidence, nor did he build credibility with the financial community, Congress, or his colleagues in the administration. I was hoping for a strong treasury secretary—a leader like Jim Baker or Bob Rubin—who would advance my economic policies in speeches and on TV. By late 2002, nearly two million Americans had lost jobs in the past year, and Paul wasn’t conveying our determination to get them back to work. Instead, he used his meetings in the Oval Office to talk about tangential topics, like his plan to improve workplace safety at the U.S. Mint.
I did not want to repeat Dad’s mistake of 1992, when he was perceived as disengaged on the economy. I decided that a shakeup of the economic team was the best way to signal that my administration was serious about confronting the slowdown affecting everyday Americans. For the change to be credible, it had to be sweeping. Larry Lindsey had done a fine job, and it was not easy to ask him to move on. He understood the need for a fresh start and handled the news professionally. Paul did not take it as well. I was disappointed that he departed on bad terms, but glad I made the decision when I did.
The next summer, I received a surprising invitation to make another change. Every week, Dick Cheney and I ate lunch together, just the two of us. Jimmy Carter and Walter Mondale had started the tradition, and it had continued ever since. I liked the relaxed setting and the chance to hear whatever Dick had on his mind. While I had similar meetings with other top aides, Dick was the only one on a regular schedule. I didn’t look at the vice president as another senior adviser. He had put his name on the ballot and gotten elected. I wanted him to be comfortable with all the issues on my desk. After all, it could become his at any moment.
Dick and I ate in a small dining room off the Oval Office. The room’s decorations included a bronze bull sculpture given to me by some East Texas friends and a landscape painting that reminded me of the Maine coast. The dominant piece of art in the room was a portrait of John Quincy Adams, the only other son of a president to hold the office. I hung it as an inside joke with Dad. One day early in my presidency, he was teasing me about the special kinship between W and Q. I wanted him to have to look Q in the face the next time he felt the urge to needle. I had read a fair amount about Quincy. I admired his abolitionist principles, although I wasn’t crazy about his campaign to exclude Texas from the Union. Nevertheless, I kept the portrait up for the rest of my time in the White House.
In mid-2003, Dick opened one of our weekly lunches with a startling comment. He said, “Mr. President, I want you to know that you should feel free to run for reelection with someone else. No hard feelings.” I asked about his health. He said his heart was fine. He just thought I should have the option to refashion the ticket. His offer impressed me. It was so atypical in power-hungry Washington. It confirmed the reasons I’d picked Dick in the first place.
I did consider his offer. I talked to Andy, Karl, and a few others about the possibility of asking Bill Frist, the impressive Tennessee senator who had become majority leader, to run with me instead. We all expected 2004 to bring another close election. While Dick helped with important parts of our base, he had become a lightning rod for criticism from the media and the left. He was seen as dark and heartless—the Darth Vader of the administration. Dick didn’t care much about his image—which I liked—but that allowed the caricatures to stick. One myth was that Dick was actually running the White House. Everyone inside the building, including the vice president, knew that was not true. But the impression was out there. Accepting Dick’s offer would be one way to demonstrate that I was in charge.
The more I thought about it, the more strongly I felt Dick should stay. I hadn’t picked him to be a political asset; I had chosen him to help me do the job. That was exactly what he had done. He accepted any assignment I asked. He gave me his unvarnished opinions. He understood that I made the final decisions. When we disagreed, he kept our differences private. Most important, I trusted Dick. I valued his steadiness. I enjoyed being around him. And he had become a good friend. At one of our lunches a few weeks later, I asked Dick to stay, and he agreed.
As the 2004 election approached, I grew concerned about the growing discord within the national security team. In most administrations, there is natural friction between the diplomats at State and the warriors at Defense. Secretary of State George Shultz and Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger famously battled throughout the Reagan administration. President Ford repl
aced Defense Secretary James Schlesinger largely because he couldn’t get along with Henry Kissinger. I didn’t mind some creative tension in the organization. Differences of opinion among advisers helped clarify tough decisions. The key was that disagreements had to be aired respectfully, and my decisions had to be accepted as final.
After the successful liberation of Afghanistan, the territorial squabbles between State and Defense seemed tolerable. But when the debate over Iraq intensified, high-level officials within the respective departments started sniping at each other viciously. Colin and Don were always respectful to each other in my presence. Over time I realized they were like a pair of old duelers who kept their own pistols in their holsters, but let their seconds and thirds fire away.
A memorable example came during one of Don Rumsfeld’s televised press briefings, which he had been holding almost daily since the war in Afghanistan started. Don’s handling of the press was fun to watch. He was an expert at parrying reporters’ questions, and he jousted with exuberance and flair. I liked to tease him about his stardom in the early-afternoon TV slot. “You’re a matinee idol for the over-sixty crowd,” I told him. He took the ribbing in stride.
In January 2003, a Dutch television reporter asked Don why America’s European allies were not more supportive of our calls to hold Saddam Hussein to account. “You’re thinking of Europe as Germany and France,” Don said. “I don’t. I think that’s old Europe.”
I agreed with Don’s point. The new democracies of Central and Eastern Europe understood the nightmare of tyranny firsthand and supported action against Saddam Hussein. But that sensible argument is not what made the news. Don’s characterization of Germany and France as “old Europe” ignited a wave of protest.
Colin was furious. He was trying to persuade the Germans and French to join our cause at the United Nations, and he felt Don had crossed into his lane in a way that complicated his diplomatic mission. His subordinates clearly felt the same way. Policy disputes that once took place behind closed doors started spilling out in the press.
It irritated me to read headlines like “A White House Divided: The Bush Administration’s Civil War” and “Bush’s Next Role: Mediator in Disputes over Running Postwar Iraq.” I announced at NSC meetings that the squabbling and leaks were damaging our credibility and giving ammunition to our critics. I spoke to Don and Colin individually. I asked Dick and Condi to work behind the scenes. I instructed Condi’s skillful deputy, Steve Hadley, to tell the seconds and thirds to cool it. Nothing worked.
In the spring of 2004, Don came to me with serious news. In defiance of their orders and military law, American soldiers had severely mistreated detainees at an Iraqi prison called Abu Ghraib. I felt sick, really sick. This was not what our military or our country stood for. While the perpetrators were court-martialed, America’s reputation took a severe hit. I considered it a low point of my presidency.
I also felt blindsided. Don had told me the military was investigating reports of abuse at the prison, but I had no idea how graphic or grotesque the photos would be. The first time I saw them was the day they were aired by 60 Minutes II. I was not happy with the way the situation had been handled. Neither was the team at the White House. People started talking to the press and pointing fingers, mostly at my secretary of defense. When Don got word of the stories, he gave me a handwritten note: “Mr. President, I want you to know that you have my resignation as secretary of defense anytime you feel it would be helpful to you.”
I called Don that night and told him I would not accept his resignation. I didn’t blame him for the misconduct of the soldiers at Abu Ghraib, and I didn’t want to turn him into a scapegoat. I needed the problem fixed, and I wanted him to do it. Four days later, Don sent another, longer letter. He wrote,
During recent days, I have given a good deal of thought to the situation, testified before Congress, and considered your views. I have great respect for you, your outstanding leadership in the global war on terror and your hopes for our country. However, I have concluded that the damage from the acts of abuse that happened on my watch, by individuals for whose conduct I am ultimately responsible, can best be responded to by my resignation.
I respected Don for repeating his offer. It was clear his earlier message had not been a mere formality; he was serious about leaving. It was a testament to his character, his loyalty to the office, and his understanding of the damage Abu Ghraib was causing. I seriously considered accepting his advice. I knew it would send a powerful signal to replace the leader of the Pentagon after such a grave mistake. But a big factor held me back: There was no obvious replacement for Don, and I couldn’t afford to create a vacuum at the top of Defense.
While I decided not to accept Don’s resignation, the spring of 2004 marked the end of my tolerance for the squabbling within the national security team. What started as creative tension had turned destructive. The stories about the feuds were fueling the impression of disarray within the administration and making me furious. I concluded that the animosity was so deeply embedded that the only solution was to change the entire national security team after the 2004 election.
Colin Powell made it easier for me. That same spring of 2004, he told me he was ready to move on. He had served three tough years and was naturally fatigued. He was also a sensitive man who had been wounded by the infighting and discouraged by the failure to find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. I asked Colin to stay through the election, and I was grateful that he agreed.
The early notification gave me plenty of time to think about a successor. I admired Colin, but it sometimes seemed like the State Department he led wasn’t fully on board with my philosophy and policies. It was important to me that there be no daylight between the president and the secretary of state. After six years together in the White House and on the campaign, I had grown very close to Condi Rice. She could read my mind and my moods. We shared a vision of the world, and she wasn’t afraid to let me know when she disagreed with me.
Condi’s range of talents was impressive. I had watched her brief members of Congress and the press on sensitive national security issues. She was a talented pianist who had played with Yo-Yo Ma. She inspired people with her story of growing up in the segregated South. And she knew how to handle some of the biggest personalities in the world.
I saw that in March 2001, when I held a meeting on North Korea policy to prepare for my visit the next day with South Korean President Kim Dae-jung, my first with an Asian head of state. The previous administration had offered concessions to North Korean dictator Kim Jong-il in return for a pledge to abandon his nuclear weapons program. The policy had not worked, and I told the team we were going to change it. From then on, North Korea would have to change its behavior before America made concessions.
At 5:15 the next morning, I read the Washington Post. One story opened, “The Bush administration intends to pick up where the Clinton administration left off in negotiations with North Korea over its missile programs, Secretary of State Colin L. Powell said yesterday.”
I was stunned. I figured the reporter must have misquoted Colin, because the story was the exact opposite of what we had discussed at the meeting. I called Condi. Like me, she is an early riser, but she had not yet seen the paper. I gave her a summary of the Post story and said, “By the time Colin gets to the White House for the meeting, this had better be fixed.”
I had given Condi a daunting assignment. She had to instruct the secretary of state, a world-famous former general a generation older than she, to correct his quote. Later that morning, Colin came bounding into the Oval Office and said, “Mr. President, don’t worry, it’s all been cleared up.”
The next year, I asked Condi to take on a similar mission with the vice president. It was August 2002, and I was thinking through my decision on whether to seek a UN resolution to send weapons inspectors back to Iraq. Dick gave a speech at the Veterans of Foreign Wars Convention in which he said, “A return of inspectors would provide … false
comfort that Saddam was somehow ‘back in his box.’ ” That made it sound like my decision had been made. But I was still considering my options. I asked Condi to make clear to Dick that he had gotten out in front of my position. She made the call and, to Dick’s credit, it never happened again.
I prepared to announce Condi’s nomination as secretary of state shortly after the 2004 election. To fill the national security adviser post, I decided to promote her outstanding deputy, Steve Hadley, a humble and thoughtful lawyer whose advice was always crisp, discreet, and uncolored by any personal agenda. Then, out of nowhere, Andy informed me that Colin had expressed second thoughts about leaving. I considered Colin a friend and appreciated his achievements, especially his work to rally a strong coalition in the war on terror and lay the groundwork for future peace between the Israelis and Palestinians. But I had already decided on Condi.
I’ve always wondered if one of the reasons Colin hesitated to leave is that he expected Don Rumsfeld to go, too. He was right to assume that. I had planned to make a change at Defense as part of a new national security team. Late in 2004, I asked Andy to approach Fred Smith again to see if he would consider the job. I had seen Fred, and he looked perfectly fine. The problem this time was not Fred’s health; it was his oldest daughter’s. Wendy had been born with a fatal genetic heart condition, and he needed to spend time with her. Sadly, she died in 2005.
I considered other possible replacements at Defense. I thought about sending Condi to the Pentagon, but I decided she would be a better secretary of state. I considered Senator Joe Lieberman of Connecticut, but I didn’t think he was the right fit, either. At one point, I reached out to Jim Baker. Had he accepted, Jim could have claimed a historic triple crown as the first person ever to serve as secretary of state, treasury, and defense. But he was enjoying his retirement and had no interest in returning to Washington.
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