Preserve and Protect

by Allen Drury

  Very promptly, the task broadened.

  “I’m going to reassure ’em,” he remarked thoughtfully, “but I’m also going to tell a few people here and abroad a few home truths. This is my first speech since taking office and I’m going to let ’em have it. I want to cover violence and the foreign picture and the nomination and a few other things, while I’m at it.” He gave a sudden grim little smile. “May not be here tomorrow. Never know, nowadays.”

  He had then left them and gone off to the State Department for the diplomatic reception scheduled for four p.m., telling Orrin to stay where he was.

  “Give Walter Dobius and friends something to think about,” he said in the same grimly humorous vein. “They’ll wonder where you are. If they only knew. And if they only knew who you’re working with. Right, Bob?”

  “Right,” Bob Leffingwell said, not looking too comfortable, the President thought. He paused at the door.

  “If you’re not happy about it, Bob, you can go home. No law says you have to stay.”

  “Oh, no,” Bob said quickly. “I didn’t say I was unhappy, Mr. President. I’m still a little numb at being asked to be here, but—if that’s what you want—”

  “It’s what I want,” the President said. “We won’t tell anybody.” He turned to the Secretary of State. “Orrin?”

  Orrin looked quizzical, shrugged, then smiled.

  “I guess we won’t kill each other.”

  The President snorted.

  “I hope not. Keep working. I’ll be back here by six.”

  In the great banquet hall of the State Department the atmosphere was quivering, as he had known it would be. No one dared mention the funeral, everyone expected him to. He took a cold satisfaction from mentioning it not at all. Presidents, kings and prime ministers, most of whom vehemently opposed his actions in Gorotoland, Panama and the UN, many of whom almost certainly relished his discomfiture and that of his country this day, came down the line and shook his hand. He wrapped himself in the formidable dignity of Mr. Speaker, greeted them with exactly the right amount of smile, stared at them with a courteous but inscrutable impassivity, and said nothing of any import whatsoever. “The Caretaker President” became “The Great Stone Face” in the next editions. “A somber and unyielding President Abbott today greeted visiting foreign dignitaries following the riot-besmirched funeral of President Hudson,” the first news stories began. Not even the new President of the Sixth (People’s) French Republic was able to elicit more than a calm stare when he made some slyly condescending reference to “the difficulties we all face in this difficult world.” “Do we?” the President asked, and turned away to greet the next in line.

  At no point did he make a comment that might remotely be construed as bearing upon either United States involvements overseas or the dreadful events of the day. By the time he left the reception, shortly before six, he had successfully established an aura of mystery in the minds of his drinking, gossiping, hors d’oeuvres-gulping guests. Orrin’s absence nicely compounded it. What are they up to? was the general burden of the noisy crowd of famous global leaders upon whom he looked back for a moment with the briefest but most explicit expression of contempt as he departed. The expression of course was noted too. A genuine uneasiness followed his departure. This was, after all, the President of the United States. They did not like to have him acting like a cold and implacable man. It disturbed them, which was what he wanted it to do.

  Promptly at six p.m. the press secretary called in the reporters hanging about in the lobby and announced that the President would go on the air at nine. At that point Orrin and Bob Leffingwell had the first draft finished. The President told them to order some drinks and dinner for themselves in the study, took the scribbled-over, crossed-out, written-in pages into his bedroom, propped himself up comfortably on some pillows and began to read and edit. By seven he had it shaped up about the way he wanted it and took it back out to Orrin and Bob, who were, he was pleased to see, in quietly amicable conversation. He called in a secretary, dictated his revised version to the accompaniment of their last-minute suggestions; read it slowly through once again aloud, making a few final corrections in his round, firm hand; sent it down to be typed for delivery. This brought him up to eight-fifteen.

  He decided he needed half an hour’s rest, decided also that a sudden change of plan would be good for his critics’ psychological equilibrium. He told the press secretary to notify the networks that he would speak at nine-thirty instead of nine, which caused great outcries and anguish (“He can’t do that!” NBC wailed to the press secretary. “He can’t?” the secretary said. “Know anybody who can stop him?”). It also made the world even more uneasy about his intentions, which, he thought with a sardonic amusement, was a good thing. He lay down for thirty minutes of instant, deep sleep; was wakened by his valet promptly at nine, got up, washed, put on the freshly pressed suit laid out for him, and by nine-twenty was downstairs in the television room ready to go. The Great Seal appeared on the screens at nine-thirty exactly, a hushed voice uttered the standard, “Ladies and gentlemen, from the White House in Washington, D.C., we bring you the President of the United States,” and he was on. He felt grave and looked grave. He also felt powerful and looked powerful. He was in no mood to equivocate.

  “My countrymen,” he said, looking straight into the cameras, “my first word to you is this: your country is still here. She is going to remain here. Under my administration she is going to do what is best and right for her to do. Neither foreign critics nor domestic guttersnipes are going to deflect her one inch.

  “To those who desecrated this sad day, and to those who either by deed or thought supported them, I say: you have met your match. I am sending to Congress tomorrow a message outlining a stringent anti-riot law which will give the Federal Government extensive and necessary powers to protect itself against anarchy—and protect the honest citizen in the honest exercise of his right of dissent as long as that dissent is peaceable, law-abiding and within the customary norms of decent social behavior.

  “While I hold this office, we will never again tolerate the sort of thing that has gone on in this country too much in recent years. We will never again tolerate the vicious, insane anarchism which has as its sole purpose, not honorable protest, but the deliberate destruction of American government and American society—the deliberate destruction of America herself.”

  (He stopped to take a sip of water, and in his apartment in Tiber Towers near the Capitol, Fred Van Ackerman turned to Rufus Kleinfert and said smugly, “He’ll have a hell of a fight on that one. Listen to the damned liberals yelp!”)

  “To those honest critics of American foreign policy,” the President resumed, “whose reasonable right to protest has been kidnapped by the rioters, the racists”—he paused and gave the next words full impact—“and the rats, I say to you that your government welcomes honest criticism. But I believe, as did the great President we buried today, that you are mistaken and that the present international situation requires us to do the things we are doing.

  “Let me spell them out once more, for you and for all those overseas who honestly”—and again he paused and gave his words an uncompromising emphasis—“or dishonestly—oppose what we are doing in Gorotoland and Panama.

  “There was a challenge to us, and to human decencies, in Gorotoland. President Hudson warned those responsible. They did not listen. Forty-four American missionaries were raped, murdered, mutilated. American property was wantonly destroyed. A Communist-trained, Communist-financed and Communist-led attempt was made to overturn the legitimate government of Gorotoland.

  “In keeping with his repeated warnings to those responsible. President Hudson ordered American intervention. He did so to protect American rights, to uphold the principle of legitimate government, to restore order and stability to a vital section of the African continent; and to stop, if you please, further Communist advances in that continent.

  “Three days ago there came in
to the possession of your government Communist battle plans contemplating an all-out assault in Gorotoland. This assault was to have been timed to coincide with our day of national mourning today.

  “Your government,” he said calmly, “stopped it. I ordered in additional troops and an assault of our own upon the rebel capital of Mbuele. After early reverses yesterday, that drive is succeeding. I have been informed within the hour that the rebels are abandoning Mbuele and retreating to the highland mountains and plateaus.

  “We shall pursue them there,” he said bluntly, “until they are beaten.

  “In Panama, an adventurer who had been planning for many years to seize the country and the Canal, found Communist support for his dreams and started trying to do it. Again, President Hudson moved. Again, captured Communist battle plans disclosed a proposed all-out attack for today, simultaneous with the one in Gorotoland. Again, your government responded.

  “We have not yet,” he said—and a certain ironic line came around his lips—“persuaded some of our best and dearest foreign friends to go along with us on the principle that it is better to blockade the Panamanian rebels than it is to bomb them out of existence—something which, of course,” he added dryly (“He is so arrogant!” Raoul Barre murmured to the Ambassador of Lesotho. “So arrogant.”), “we are completely able to do.

  “Still, we have hopes that in time they will see it our way.

  “Certainly we do not intend to change our policy. Nor will we hesitate to enforce it if we must. (“Oh, dear!” Krishna Khaleel said nervously to Lord Maudulayne in the crowded, quivering delegates’ lounge. The British Ambassador murmured, “Quite,” with a worried air.)

  “We shall restore stability and order to Panama,” the President said quietly. “No Communist-backed adventurer will be allowed to seize the Canal.” Again the sardonic tone came into his voice. “We shall exercise the first right of nature—we shall survive.

  “One further thing I must say to you tonight in this first talk as your President. It concerns the election this fall.

  “You all know the situation which confronts my party. It does not now have a candidate for President, though it still has one for Vice President, the Honorable Orrin Knox of Illinois, Secretary of State.

  “Both Secretary Knox and the Governor of California (“That’s right!” Walter exclaimed bitterly. “Don’t name him!”) have, as you know, declared their intention to seek the Presidential nomination through the mechanism provided by our party’s rules. Those rules have never in history had to be used. Now, tragically, they must be.

  “Therefore, by right of the authority vested in me as chairman of the National Committee, and as head of the party, I am tonight issuing a call to the members of the Committee to meet in the Playhouse of the Kennedy Center (“Why there?” Bob Munson wondered aloud to Dolly and Lucille at “Vagaries.” Then he said, “Oh, I see.”) at ten a.m. on Tuesday next for the purpose of selecting a nominee for the office of President of the United States—and, should events so develop, for the office of Vice President of the United States.

  “It is my hope,” the President said, “and my expectation,” he added firmly, “that the members of the Committee will be able to complete their work swiftly, so that our party and you, the voters, may know at an early date the choices that we will have in November.

  “And now,” he said, “I conclude this first talk to you as President. I expect to speak to you again from time to time, as may be desirable to keep you fully informed on the purposes and plans of your government. I wish that a tragic event had not put me in this office. But as long as I have it,” he concluded quietly, staring straight into the cameras and giving the impression of solid and immovable determination that he had always managed to convey in his long years in the House, “I intend to exercise it to the best of my knowledge and ability, as God sees fit to assist me.

  “I ask you to join your prayers with mine that He will do so.

  “God bless you, and good night.”

  PRESIDENT CLAIMS GAINS IN GOROTOLAND, the headlines said. PLEDGES CONTINUED FIRMNESS IN OVERSEAS WARS. PROMISES STRONG ANTIRIOT LAW TO HIT “RIOTERS, RACISTS AND RATS.” CALLS NATIONAL COMMITTEE TO CHOOSE NEW PRESIDENTIAL NOMINEE …

  GOVERNOR JASON CAUTIONS AGAINST “UNCONSTITUTIONAL MEANS TO THWART CONSTITUTIONAL PROTEST.” PLEDGES OWN PROPOSAL TO CURB VIOLENCE. CALLS ON COMMITTEE TO RECONVENE CONVENTION. CHARGES “RAILROADING IN FAVOR OF HAND-PICKED HEIR …”

  SECRETARY KNOX REFUSES COMMENT …

  WORLD ALARMED BY PRESIDENT’S FIRMNESS, DETERMINATION TO GO IT ALONE ON PANAMA BLOCKADE. SOVIETS, BRITISH, FRENCH, TAKE LEAD IN DENOUNCING “DANGEROUS UNILATERALISM.” STRONG WORLD SUPPORT FOR JASON PEACE POLICIES SEEN DEVELOPING …

  And at “Salubria,” Walter Dobius, summing it up for tomorrow’s column, his fingers racing on the keys:

  “Washington is saddened and depressed tonight following the first statement of policy from President Abbott. Not so much because the President has revealed himself, in the opinion of many, to be a self-willed and headstrong man, at a time when America has suffered too much from that type in the White House—but because the policy he offers is so stereotyped, so unyielding, and so dangerous.

  “America will continue her attempts to impose her will by force on the small, backward nation of Gorotoland. America will move unilaterally, if need be, to impose an illegal and potentially world-exploding blockade upon the forces fighting to liberate Panama. America will do as America pleases, with the brief and fatal arrogance that history gives to those who think a temporary position of power will last forever.

  “Even more, Washington is dismayed by the President’s call for what he apparently contemplates as an iron-fisted prohibition on all legitimate protest against his Administration’s policies. And Washington links this with his obvious determination to manipulate the National Committee in such a way as to guarantee the election of Secretary Knox as its nominee.

  “In that direction lies potential fascism, the iron fist of dictatorship, the hand-picked heir that has always been so repugnant to America.

  “Congress must reject this ill-advised and terribly dangerous proposal for a gag-bill. The National Committee must reject this obvious attempt to force it to take Secretary Knox. An end to this gag-bill—and a motion to recall the national convention that it may freely and openly work its will—are the basic things Washington believes must be done now.…”

  At the White House he talked for a while with his sister and brother-in-law; accepted a few calls, one from Lucille Hudson, somewhat calmer now, and another, quite surprising, from Ceil Jason; read over the first reactions as furnished by the press secretary from the hurrying teletypes in the press room; stood for a few minutes on the balcony, looking at the Washington Monument in the hot, oppressive night which still flickered uneasily with flashes of lightning from the tremendous thunderstorm that had hit the District shortly after seven p.m.; and went in to bed, and almost instantly asleep.

  The last thing he watched on television was Frankly Unctuous on his late-news round-up, “The Day Behind Us.”

  “The President is obviously making it difficult for the National Committee to recall the convention,” Frankly was saying in his most pursed-lip, disapproving manner.

  So he was, the President thought with a contemptuous satisfaction as he punched the button and watched that round, superior little pudding-face dwindle into nothing.

  And what did Frankly and his friends think they could do about it, except bellow?

  ***

  Two

  Bob Leffingwell’s Book

  1

  Returning to his empty house after the President’s address, he finds a postcard from Louise at Chocorua. “I hope you’re happy,” it says with the words underlined three times and three enormous exclamation marks after. That is all. There is no indication of what she is referring to. Happy because riots have occurred? Happy because the President has increased the tempo in Gorotoland and Panama? Happy be
cause she isn’t there? He shakes his head with a tired, impatient smile. What oblique, elliptical interpretation of things has she come up with this time? It baffles him, as it has so often in the uneasy years of their marriage.

  He quickly shreds the card, tosses it in a wastebasket, forgets it. There are other matters for Robert A. Leffingwell to be concerned about tonight, and Louise must retire to that rather neglected corner of his mind that she normally occupies: a rather sad little commentary, but characteristic of many a prominent marriage in the shining capital, which rearranges lives and emotions at whim and often reveals to husbands and wives that they are moving at entirely different tempos than they thought they were, when they and the world were young.

  Right now his mind is occupied with the events of the past six hours: the implications they seem to hold for his future, the light they appear to throw on his past, the consequences they may have for his reputation. In Washington, where the care and feeding of the ego often take precedence over love, sex, marriage, hearth, home and health, Bob Leffingwell is following the standard pattern. Where do I fit in? What will it mean for my future? How do I feel about it? How will it affect what is obviously the center of the universe—me?

  There is in him, however—nearing fifty, handsome, highly intelligent, extremely capable—a saving grace, and he is honest enough to acknowledge to himself that it probably comes to him courtesy of Orrin Knox. Had anyone told him a year ago that he would ever feel for the Secretary anything but a bitter dislike, he would have scoffed the suggestion down with some withering witticism. Nowadays he finds he doesn’t make that kind of witticism any more. Something gentling, alleviating, mitigating an old arrogance has entered his being. Orrin Knox gave him a lesson when he defeated him for Secretary of State, and he is finally able to admit the fact to himself. He is even, wry though the thought makes him, beginning to feel the start of gratitude.