Rawhide Down

by Del Quentin Wilber

It was just after 3:08 p.m.

  * * *

  AN HOUR EARLIER, Richard Allen, the national security advisor, had been taking a rare midday swim at the University Club, an exclusive athletic facility near the Soviet embassy. As he completed his twentieth lap, his military driver, Joe Bullock, tapped him on the head and said he was needed at the White House because “something terrible has happened.” Allen bolted from the pool and was still buttoning his shirt when he dashed out the club’s doors.

  When Allen’s driver pulled into the White House grounds just after 2:50 p.m., he nearly collided with the sedan ferrying Jim Baker and Ed Meese to the hospital. Inside, Allen’s first stop was the office of the chief of staff, where he witnessed Al Haig’s futile attempt to talk with the vice president on Air Force Two. Then the two men and a number of other Reagan aides headed for the Situation Room, where they could consult in a secure setting.

  Located on the ground floor of the West Wing, the Situation Room was in fact a group of offices and high-tech communications areas where staff members monitored a steady stream of diplomatic cables and intelligence bulletins from around the world. The complex had been built in 1961 after President Kennedy grew frustrated by the slow arrival of information during the Bay of Pigs crisis. Two decades later, information from all over the government flowed into the Situation Room through secure phone lines, clattering teletypes, and advanced fax machines.

  Central to the complex was the part the press and public thought of as the Situation Room, a cramped, wood-paneled conference room illuminated by bright fluorescent lights. At the center of the room was a nine-and-a-half-foot polished hardwood table surrounded by comfortable striped chairs on rollers. Mounted on the wall was a small color television, and there was a receptacle for a secure telephone. Richard Allen, whose office was just a few steps away and who used the conference room more than anyone in the administration, had personally ensured that the room contained no other televisions or even a phone. He didn’t want distractions: the room was a place for serious consultation, not mindless chatter.

  At about 3:15 p.m., Allen sat down at the conference table across from the television. Haig took a seat across from him. Others joined them, including Donald Regan, the Treasury secretary; Fred Fielding, the White House counsel; and David Gergen, the White House staff director. Soon they were joined by William French Smith, the attorney general, and Dan Murphy, Bush’s chief of staff.

  Everyone in the room was anxious to know what was happening at the hospital, but reports were scattered and incomplete. The White House Communications Agency was setting up a command post in GW, but for the moment the hospital’s phone lines were overwhelmed and sometimes went dead. In the meantime, Allen and Haig began analyzing a flood of information coming into the White House about the gunman, the status of U.S. forces around the globe, and the current movements of the Soviet military. They also asked Gergen to draft a statement that would reassure the American public and the world that the government was functioning smoothly despite the crisis.

  By now, Allen and the others had heard from Jim Baker, who called from the hospital to report that the president had walked into GW under his own power, was in stable condition, and was being examined by doctors. According to Baker, surgeons were still weighing whether to operate. Allen had been relieved to learn that Reagan’s condition was stable, but he also knew that any gunshot wound had to be taken seriously. He prayed that the president would pull through.

  Now, as he worked at the conference table, Allen’s attention was drawn to the television, where a newscast was replaying the shooting. “Oh, Jesus, God,” Allen said. The sight of James Brady lying on the sidewalk was particularly wrenching; the two men were neighbors in Arlington, and Allen often gave the press secretary a ride to work. In recent months, they had become good friends.

  After the video replay ended, the national security advisor leaned toward Fielding, his closest friend in the administration. “Remind me to tell you a sensation, an incredible sensation I had,” Allen said. “I had a premonition.”

  On his way to his swim at the University Club, Allen’s car had pulled alongside another. The driver of the other car had looked a bit shady, and for no reason at all Allen suddenly felt vulnerable. You know, he thought, that guy could take me out if he wanted to. Allen, who had declined government bodyguards, was a devout Catholic and an optimist, and he was not inclined toward paranoia. In fact, he couldn’t recall another time he had felt so exposed.

  Haig, too, had watched the news report, but now he turned away from the television and brought everyone back to the work at hand. What’s important, Haig said, is that everybody stay together. “We’ll decide here what the hell we are doing. That’s the best way, always.”

  Haig was particularly concerned lest any officials try their hand at “playing public relations”—to avoid creating panic, it was critical that the administration speak with one voice. But Haig and Allen both understood that this would be difficult, since the press secretary was gravely wounded and his backup, Larry Speakes, was with Baker and Meese at the hospital. That left Gergen and Frank Ursomarso, the director of the White House office of communications, to deliver the news. Each had dealt extensively with the media but never under such trying circumstances.

  A moment later, Gergen appeared and passed a hastily drafted statement to Haig, who began to read it aloud. “‘This is to confirm the statements made at George Washington Hospital that the president was shot once, in the left side, as he left the hotel,’” Haig said, jotting notes as he went. “‘His condition is stable. We are informed by James Baker that a decision is now being made…’”

  Haig paused, obviously unhappy with the rest of Gergen’s sentence.

  Allen jumped in: “‘… as to the course of medical treatment’?” he asked. “Are we going to say the word ‘operate’?”

  “‘Whether or not to operate now to remove the bullet,’” Haig said slowly, pausing as he made corrections on Gergen’s draft.

  After a few more minutes of work, the brief statement was nearly finished. Before it was done, though, Haig made sure that it mentioned that the secretary of state was among those in the Situation Room.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL, a growing horde of reporters was becoming impatient for news. At least two journalists had already slipped into the hospital and had had to be escorted out by officials. Scores of others prowled the grounds, interviewing patients, employees, bystanders—anybody who might have something to say about the shooting and Reagan’s condition.

  Jim Baker knew that the administration had to provide some information about the president before things got out of hand. Skeptical that Larry Speakes, the deputy press secretary, could handle the assignment, Baker deputized Lyn Nofziger—a top political aide who had also made his way to GW—to talk to the media. Though Nofziger had handled press for Reagan when he was the governor of California, he was not an ideal spokesman in the television age. Gruff and quick-witted, he had bags under his eyes, wore a ragged goatee, and favored rumpled sports coats and loosely knotted ties. Still, he had a sharp mind, and he was easily the most experienced and unflappable public relations staffer at the hospital. Standing in front of a line of reporters not far from GW’s emergency entrance, Nofziger clutched notes he had scribbled on the back of pink hospital record sheets. A Secret Service agent shadowed his every move.

  “We have this information,” Nofziger said, his voice grave but confident. “The president was shot once in the left chest. The bullet entered from the left side. He is conscious. He is in stable condition. That is literally all I can tell you at this time.”

  “The president?” a reporter asked.

  “The president.”

  “Was anybody else shot?”

  “Off the wires, I understand that three people were shot, including Jim Brady, the press secretary. I do not know how serious that wound is.… I have no information on the condition of the other persons.”

  “W
as the president’s heart endangered by the shot?”

  “No.”

  Nofziger began walking up and down the line of journalists, punctuating each answer with a quick movement of his right hand.

  “Is the bullet still in his body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he in surgery?”

  “At this moment, he is not undergoing surgery,” Nofziger said, although he had just seen Reagan being wheeled to the operating room. “I don’t know whether he will.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he seem seriously injured?”

  “Obviously a wound in the chest is a serious wound.”

  * * *

  IN OPERATING ROOM 2, Wesley Price, one of the doctors who had initially treated the president, prepared Reagan’s abdomen by bathing the area from his ribs to his groin in antiseptic. Though the belly tap itself would require only a small incision, Price sterilized a large part of Reagan’s body in case the surgical team encountered unanticipated problems. If they found damage below the diaphragm, for instance, they might decide to perform immediate abdominal surgery. As for the president’s chest wound, Ben Aaron was also preparing for the unexpected. He had ordered that a heart bypass machine be placed on standby, just in case Reagan’s heart had been nicked by the bullet and needed to be repaired.

  Before the surgery got under way, a nurse changed the Pleur-evac container. It now held 2.275 liters of blood, about 35 percent of the president’s total blood volume. David Gens, standing at the foot of the operating table, was shocked. The bleeding hadn’t significantly slowed since they’d inserted the chest tube.

  At 3:26 p.m., an hour after Reagan had been shot, Joe Giordano asked for a No. 10 blade and made an inch-long vertical incision just two inches below the president’s belly button. He then sliced through three layers of tissue and fat before poking through the peritoneum, the thin sheet of tissue that encloses the abdomen. Using forceps, he passed a needle trailing surgical thread through the tissue, creating a so-called purse-string suture, like the cord on a duffel bag. He inserted a small catheter into the hole and pulled tight on the thread, drawing the wound taut around the thin tube.

  Another surgeon injected a liter of sterile saline solution through the tube and into the president’s abdomen. Nurses and doctors jiggled the president’s body to ensure the saline made its way around all the organs. If the solution came back clear, the president was probably free from abdominal injury. If it came back red or pink, the surgical team would learn that his wound was even more serious than they had believed.

  For the moment, there was nothing to do but wait.

  CHAPTER 12

  A QUESTION OF AUTHORITY

  At about 3:30, Richard Allen slipped out of the conference room and walked to his office, just outside of the Situation Room’s communications area. Joining him was the secretary of defense, Caspar Weinberger, who had arrived minutes earlier from the Pentagon. Together, they took a call from Ed Meese at the hospital.

  Meese reported that the president was unconscious and that doctors were about to perform surgery, although Meese did not want that information to be made public yet. He then reminded Weinberger that the secretary of defense had command authority over all U.S. forces—that is, in absence of the president and vice president, Weinberger could deploy troops, planes, and nuclear weapons under certain circumstances or in response to an attack. The three men then discussed how to frame statements issued by the White House. They agreed to be as candid as possible, but they also wanted to downplay the extent of the crisis. It would be a mistake, they felt, to unnecessarily worry the American public or to send enticing signals to enemies.

  “What we want to do is to mainly indicate that he is not in any major danger,” Meese said.

  “You think this an appropriate time now to [communicate] with foreign governments?” Weinberger asked.

  “I would think so, you might want to talk to Al [Haig] about that, but I think we don’t want to have any thought of any kind of a vacuum,” Meese said.

  An aide handed Allen a draft statement that the administration intended to issue to U.S. embassies around the world; the statement would then be delivered to foreign governments. Allen began to read it to Meese. “‘You will have heard that on March 30th there was an attempt on the life of President Reagan,’” Allen read. “‘Although he was injured in that attack, his condition is stable. You should inform the government that in spite of this terrible event, the government in Washington continues to carry out its obligations to its people and its allies.’

  “Is that statement all right,” Allen asked, “for a temporary?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Meese said.

  Weinberger didn’t like it. “I wonder if the last sentence is more alarmist than it should be,” he said.

  Meese suggested that they simply leave it out and then added that they should include a line indicating that the president “was stable and conscious following the injury.”

  After finishing the call, Allen and Weinberger returned to the Situation Room, where Allen informed Haig and the others that doctors were about to operate on the president. “But it’s not for publication,” Allen added.

  Concerned that they might need the country’s nuclear war plans and codes, Allen requested that a duplicate nuclear football be brought to the Situation Room. When it arrived, he stashed it by his feet. He also obtained an authentication card. (Reagan’s military aide had the president’s football at the hospital, and the FBI had recovered Reagan’s nuclear code card. On Air Force Two, Bush had his own authentication card and his own military aide carrying a football.)

  Just as Allen and Weinberger began discussing the alert status of U.S. forces, David Gergen appeared on the television mounted on the room’s wall. He was at the podium in the White House press room, before a large crowd of reporters.

  “This is to confirm the statements made at George Washington hospital that the president was shot once in the left side this afternoon as he left the hotel,” said Gergen, who stumbled over a few of his words and looked a bit shaky as he read his notes at the podium. “His condition is stable. A decision is now being made whether or not to operate to remove the bullet. The White House and the vice president are in communication.… We have been informed by Jim Baker that the president walked into the hospital. I would also like to inform you that in the building at the moment are the secretary of state, the secretary of the Treasury, and the secretary of defense, and the attorney general, as well as other assistants to the president.”

  “What building, the hospital?” a reporter asked.

  “No, in this building,” Gergen replied.

  “Do you have any condition on Brady?”

  “I’m sorry, we do not.”

  To Allen, it was like watching a train wreck. Gergen looked wide-eyed and nervous. In a crisis such as this one, Allen knew, it was imperative that the government project confidence.

  When Gergen started taking questions, the normally unflappable advisor seemed to struggle to provide useful answers and then had trouble bringing the session to a close. Watching, Allen said aloud, “Don’t take any more questions. He’s not in any state for that. Get off the platform.”

  Haig swiveled in his chair to look at the TV screen. “I didn’t think he was going to do that,” he said. “I thought the press guy was going to.”

  “He is the press guy,” Allen said. “We haven’t got a press guy.”

  As Gergen carried on, Haig and Allen turned their attention back to the message they were preparing for foreign governments.

  “Al, they want something about the president being stable,” Allen said.

  “That’s right,” Haig said. “‘His condition is stable and he is conscious.… The vice president…’”

  “We don’t need to say any more,” Allen said. “‘The vice president is en route—’”

  “‘From Texas,’” interjected Weinberger.

  “No,
we’re not saying from Texas,” Allen said. “‘The vice president is en route.’”

  “‘Will return to Washington this afternoon,’” Haig said.

  “‘At 6:30,’” said Dan Murphy, Bush’s chief of staff.

  “‘Is returning to Washington,’” Haig said.

  “‘Is returning to Washington,’” Allen repeated.

  Sitting at the end of the table and reviewing some notes, William French Smith, the attorney general, abruptly changed the subject. “Anybody interested in who did it?” he asked.

  * * *

  JOHN HINCKLEY, LEANING against the wall of a small white interview room in Washington police headquarters, stared blankly at a Polaroid camera held by Secret Service agent Stephen T. Colo. It was 3:50 p.m., and as Colo took seven instant photographs of the would-be assassin, he pondered the young man standing before him. Hinckley was unlike any suspect the agent had ever confronted. He didn’t seem crazy: he wasn’t ranting or twitching or wearing a tinfoil hat. He didn’t seem hardened, sad, or scared. He looked boyish but strangely plain, and his face was utterly without emotion.

  Hinckley was silent while the photos were being shot, but as Colo turned to leave he spoke, complaining that his throat and wrists hurt.

  The agent said nothing and continued out the door.

  Colo, who was detailed to the service’s Washington field office, had been one of the two dozen agents assigned to guard Reagan at the Hilton. That morning, however, he had been told that, instead, he should finish the paperwork documenting an accident involving his government-issued car. After the shooting, Colo had been dispatched to police headquarters to act as a liaison among local authorities, the FBI, and the service.

  His supervisors couldn’t have picked a better man for the assignment. Colo, a native of New Jersey, had spent three years on the D.C. police force before joining the Secret Service in 1976. Since then, he’d remained in Washington, where he had investigated fraud artists, hardened criminals, and a number of men and women who wanted to kill the leader of the free world. He had also questioned scores of suspicious and unstable characters who appeared at the White House. His work for both law enforcement agencies had given him considerable insight into troubled minds.