Come Nineveh, Come Tyre: The Presidency of Edward M. Jason

by Allen Drury

  But he would not—could not—permit himself to yield to the dismay these facts might otherwise induce. Nor, indeed, did he really feel any particular dismay. He was convinced that his interpretation was correct, that Tashikov, aided by his message, was in process of gaining the upper hand over hawks and war lovers in Moscow just as he had gained the upper hand over them in Washington, and that he would receive in due course a message as conciliatory and constructive as his own.

  This was what he believed. It was, in fact, what he had to believe. To believe anything else would be to open abysses he could simply not afford, as man or President, to acknowledge or look into.

  In this position he was mightily and comfortingly confirmed by the actions taken during the afternoon in Senate and House. Had not the Congress repudiated with crushing finality the two men who symbolized and represented, not only in Congress but in the nation, his principal opposition? Did not Bob Munson and particularly William Abbott speak for the war party? And had not the representatives of the American people in Congress assembled, acting under the national mandate delivered two months ago at the polls, flatly and completely rejected everything they stood for?

  The votes had come on Senator Munson and Congressman Abbott but the man at issue, of course, was Ted Jason. The free Congress of a free people had told him with overwhelming enthusiasm that he was right. Right to do what he had done yesterday in his inaugural, right to do what he had done this morning in his message to Moscow.

  Events of the past twenty-four hours had not shaken his hold on the country: he was secure.

  Now the question arose, secure to do what? And the only answer possible came back: exactly what he was doing. He had offered the Communists not a sword but conciliation; he was confident they would respond in kind; and now he had only to wait, in the certainty that he had the full support of all the elements in his country that a President had to have to move forward in the direction he wanted to go.

  He was pleased to realize, as one more earnest young military aide knocked discreetly, hurried in to leave his burden of reports from the Situation Room, and as discreetly departed, that there was no doubt he had the support of the media. Walter Dobius and friends, Frankly Unctuous and pals, had recovered with gleeful rapidity from their first bedazzled astonishment. Walter, the New York Times and the Washington Post, had rushed advance copies of tomorrow’s comments and editorials to his desk; and during dinner, which he had eaten with the family on trays in the solarium, he had made it a point to watch Frankly and his colleagues of the little screen. Nothing could be more flattering or encouraging than the praise he was receiving from every side.

  “We do not remember,” the Times would say tomorrow morning, “a President who has responded with greater courage or more farsighted statesmanship to the difficult challenges which confront him than has Edward M. Jason in these first difficult hours of his Presidency. He has given the world an example of leadership so powerful in its application and so moving in its implications that we think he has already moved into the ranks of America’s greatest Chief Executives.

  “Faced with an erratic and inexplicable—except as a possible Byzantine captivity of Chairman Tashikov explains it—démarche by the radical military elements of the Soviet Union, he has resisted the advice of the most bloodthirsty—Senator Munson and ex-President, now Representative, William Abbott. He has not wasted time on recriminations, rantings or revenge. He has moved swiftly and sure-footedly to remove the threat to peace, ease tensions and open the door to a genuine conciliation with the peace-loving elements in the Communist leadership.

  “We applaud him for his statesmanship, his courage, his integrity and his calm and fearless dedication to world peace.… ”

  The Post was equally triumphant—not quite so high-flown but getting at what, in its editorial board’s opinion, was the guts of it:

  “Edward M. Jason with a sure-footed mastery has moved to consolidate his control of the American Republic so that he may lead it in the ways of peace. There is no question about it now: he is the boss and whatever he decides will be done. We could not applaud more heartily than we do the events of the past twenty-four hours which have established him as both the world’s greatest peacemaker and the nation’s most responsible leader.

  “Momentarily—but only momentarily we believe—he has received what appears to be a slight setback at the hands of what is apparently a military clique in Moscow as rabid and stupid as our own. To it he has responded with calmness, with courage, with farseeing statesmanship and Christian good will. We await as confidently as he does the response which will, we know, tell us he is on the right road to the great goal of world peace.

  “And we congratulate him a thousandfold on his defeat of its enemies.

  “Be it known to all the fainthearted, the reactionary and the subverters of peace: Edward M. Jason is in charge. It would be wise of them to acknowledge the fact.… ”

  Walter Dobius’ summation was as flattering and encouraging as Frankly Unctuous’ final words:

  “Edward M. Jason,” Walter said, “having made a great gesture and received an unworthy rebuff, has responded in the tradition of history’s greatest peacemakers. The nation waits—the world waits—for an answer from Moscow that will be worthy of his own integrity and courage. The world must have such an answer, for any other kind would be absolutely unthinkable.

  “President Jason has shown the way to peace. A noble Congress and a united people stand behind him, inspired by his shining example. Not in all her history, perhaps, has America been blessed with a leader of such integrity, such courage, such statesmanship. He must not fail—he cannot fail—he will not fail, else there is no God in heaven, and no hope for the just.”

  And Frankly, gravely concluding that portion of the evening news roundup that viewers were officially told was “Opinion,” proved equally encouraging.

  “Thus,” he said, “Washington waits, tonight. But it waits in the calm certainty that it has in the White House a statesman and leader of far-seeing vision and far-ranging hopes. Briefly, perhaps, those hopes may have received a temporary setback. But in the march of mankind toward universal peace, he knows, as most Americans know, that the setback is infinitesimal, the goal of peace almighty. Confidently he waits for the accommodating answer which must come. Confidently this capital and his nation wait with him. Rarely have man, moment, the fate of America and the fate of the world been so surely met. Rarely has there been reason for greater optimism that all will in due course come right.… ”

  And just now one more ubiquitous young man had approached the President’s desk, this time carrying advance copies of Time and Newsweek. Ted’s head, handsome, distinguished, confident, steady, appeared on the cover of both. Across the corner of Time a slanting double banner: PRESIDENT EDWARD M. JASON … THE SPEECH THAT INSPIRED THE WORLD; across the corner of Newsweek: EDWARD MONTOYA JASON … THE GREAT LEAP TOWARD PEACE—neither magazine, of course, having had time to receive the Russian response, but both devoting many pages to the inaugural and the thrilling decisions that would, in the unqualified opinion of their editorial boards, open the gates to the Promised Land and let all God’s chillun in.

  Add to that the letters, telephone calls and telegrams that had already brought the mail room and the switchboard to a stop with their eager messages, running approximately 10 to 1 in his favor, and he had every reason to feel loved, endorsed, supported.

  Everything, in this late hour in the Oval Office, combined to confirm in the mind of the President of the United States the conviction that all would, as Frankly had said, come right. How could it, indeed, be otherwise? His decisions had been inspired by sincerity, idealism and good will. Therefore they simply had to bring good, because God was good and He recognized goodness, and therefore He would not abandon America, which was so good, or her President, who was so good.

  It was almost midnight, just as he was on the point of calling it a day and turning in to get some badly needed sleep, w
hen there finally came the knock on the door that he had been waiting for, and with it the realization that the President of the United States and his perennially hopeful country had once again overlooked the one thing they never quite understand and never quite dare acknowledge to themselves: the endless and unrelenting malevolence of those who, unlike Deity, wish them ill.

  Once again the hand of the Secretary of State thrust a paper beneath his eyes. Once again euphoria crumbled, certainty died, confidence fled.

  MOSCOW REJECTS U.S. NOTE, DEMANDS “IMMEDIATE CONFERENCE OR DEVASTATING CONSEQUENCES.” RECOGNIZES NEW GOVERNMENTS IN GOROTOLAND AND PANAMA. ANNOUNCES SOVIET UNION TO ACT AS “CUSTODIAN” OF AMERICANS TAKEN IN BOTH COUNTRIES, SAYS “HUNDREDS” OF PRISONERS ALREADY BEING AIRLIFTED TO CAMPS IN UKRAINE.

  REDS MINE BERING STRAITS AND AREAS OFF ALASKA “TO PREVENT IMPERIALIST WARLIKE ACTS IN CONTIGUOUS WATERS OF THE SOVIET UNION.” WILL “CONTINUE TO SINK ALL VESSELS WHICH INTERFERE WITH INTERNATIONAL SHIPPING.”

  UNITED NATIONS SECURITY COUNCIL SETS EMERGENCY MEET FOR 10 A.M.

  ANTI-JASON PROTESTS ERUPT IN LOS ANGELES, CHICAGO, MIAMI. NAWAC BATTLES DEMONSTRATORS IN BLOODY CLASHES.

  WHITE HOUSE SILENT.

  White House silent and President silent, as he wandered, with an air his frightened but admiring aides took to be casual and untroubled, across the Rose Garden to the Mansion shortly before 1 a.m. His face had appeared impassive, his manner calm, when he had bade them good night. Nothing in his brief conference with Bob Leffingwell, Ewan MacDonald MacDonald and the hastily summoned Chiefs of Staff had disclosed any undue agitation or any noticeable diminution of purpose.

  To the agitated counsel of the Chiefs of Staff, supported by a nervous Secretary of Defense MacDonald, that he ask Congress to declare war immediately, he had simply said the one word “No!” in such a terrible tone that none of them had dared repeat the suggestion. To Bob Leffingwell’s alternative plea that he at least authorize an all-out fight for world opinion in the United Nations and launch it with an address to the nation, he had been more amenable.

  “I think,” he said, looking tired and a little pale but otherwise resolute, “that we’ll take it one step at a time, first the UN and then, if necessary, the talk. Who do we have at the UN now?”

  “President Abbott,” Bob Leffingwell said hesitantly, “had Lafe Smith and Cullee Hamilton. If I might suggest, it might be best to keep them on, because they have the experience—”

  “I doubt if they’re loyalists,” the President interrupted, using a rather odd term that he hadn’t intended, really, but which just came out. He smiled grimly. “In fact, you and I know they disagree with me 100 per cent. I need loyalty, in this situation. Wake up the Vice President and George Wattersill and tell them they’re to be in this office at 7 a.m. and in the Security Council at 10. And call the secretary of the delegation, whoever he is, and tell him to have all the necessary position papers ready for them when they get there. All right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bob Leffingwell said. “Do you want me here at seven, or—?”

  “Certainly,” the President said. The briefest of smiles crossed his face. “I don’t intend you to be a bypassed Secretary of State. Unless you’d rather.”

  “No,” Bob Leffingwell said. “I’d rather be here, thank you.”

  “Good,” the President said. “Then I guess that does it for now. Unless you have something more, Ewan? Gentlemen?”

  And when the Secretary of Defense and the greatly worried but still deferential Chiefs responded with dutiful if uneasy disclaimers, he said, “Well, then, let’s all go home and get some sleep. We’re going to need it.”

  With their rueful agreement the hasty little conference ended, leaving him approximately seven hours until 7 a.m. to decide what he would do, prepare his instructions for the Security Council, begin thinking about the talk he would inevitably have to make to the nation sometime in the next forty-eight hours, and get some sleep.

  Get some sleep: that was probably the most important for the moment, but as he entered the silent Mansion, speaking quietly to the guards on duty at this lonely hour, he did not know how soon this would come, even with the pills the White House physician had given him earlier in the evening.

  He had intended to go straight up to bed, but as he paused for a moment after receiving the guards’ greeting—hushed, respectful, somehow curiously tender and protective—a pull he had felt all day but had been unable in the midst of turmoil to answer, drew him along the great central hall to the portraits of his wife and grandmother, side by side facing the doors to the North Portico.

  He stood looking up at them and for the first time a desolation of soul so great that he felt he must actually stagger beneath its weight surged out of the events of the past thirty-six hours and savaged his heart.

  Ceil!? he thought, crying to her desperately inside like a little child. Oh, Ceil, what shall I do?

  And turning half-blinded by emotion, to Doña Valuela, impassive and indomitable alongside, Grandmother! Help me! Counsel me, counsel me!

  Neither responded, not Ceil in her perfect, shining beauty nor Doña Valuela in her fierce and hooded courage, and for a moment it seemed he must actually cry aloud in the silence of the vast corridor where so many of history’s mighty had passed in different times, and where now only the silent guards, deeply troubled, watched him from their posts.

  As he stood thus, paralyzed by emotion, he became aware that someone was approaching from his right. He turned to see the present-day Valuela. He could tell from long experience that she had consumed her usual quota for the evening, but he knew instinctively that if there was any help to be had from his living family, it would come from her, who was, in her rather offbeat and raffish way, as tough an old bird as her mother.

  “Ah, Teddy,” she said softly, placing a hand on his arm as she, too, looked up at the portraits on the wall. “I grieve for you, dear heart. It all began so wonderfully, didn’t it, and already it’s come to this. But,” she said, and a firmness came into her voice and into her grip, “here it is and it’s your job to meet it, and us Jason gals all expect you to do it.” She shot him a sudden keen look from under her tall red wig. “Okay, Mr. President? You aren’t going to let Ceil and the old lady and me down, are you?”

  For a moment he stared at her almost as though he did not see her. Then his face softened, he smiled and placed a hand over hers.

  “Dear old Val,” he said quietly. “No, I’m not.… I don’t quite know how it’s going to happen, yet, but—somehow—it’s going to work out.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’m sure of it. Want a nightcap before you turn in?”

  “A very little one,” he said, sounding more cheerful than he had since the inaugural ball, taking her arm and walking her toward the elevator to the solarium. “I’ve got to have a clear head in the morning. But don’t let that stop you.”

  “When did it ever?” she demanded and chuckled, and so did he, their amusement echoing lightly and encouragingly through the cavernous hall.

  The guards silently watched them go, nodding gravely to one another, feeling better.

  2

  Up and down the East River patient tugs and barges passed.… Gulls swooped low over the grimy swift-flowing water. January’s bleak sun tried halfheartedly to find a way through the sullen overcast, as delegates and staff members, coated and mufflered against the freezing wind, hurried into the gleaming glass shaft of the Secretariat and the crouching hulk of the General Assembly. It was a cold, gray, impersonal day in New York. Inside the plush and overheated headquarters of the United Nations fear and relish suffused the agitated air.

  Fear on the part of those who still looked to American strength as a necessary balance in the world.

  Relish on the part of those whose purpose for many years had been the permanent destruction of that necessary balance.

  The fearful and the relishing were agreed: if the time had come for the balance to be knocked permanently askew,
this would be the day.

  Standing thoughtfully for a moment in the door of the Main Delegates Lounge shortly before 10 a.m., the British Ambassador, Lord Claude Maudulayne, surveyed the long, buzzing room with a speculative concern that was not lost upon many of his colleagues. Two in particular, the Indian Ambassador, Krishna Khaleel, and the French Ambassador, Raoul Barre, noting his rather gloomy aspect, detached themselves from their coffee companions and came toward him through the colorful crowd. Krishna Khaleel, Lord Maudulayne noted sourly, had been deep in a confidential chat with the Ambassador of the People’s Republic of China. Raoul Barre had been chummily hobnobbing with the new Soviet Ambassador, Nikolai Zworkyan. He could not resist a dig when they had found a table together in a relatively secluded spot beside one of the great windows.

  “Well, gentlemen, I see your alliances are in good shape. Are you all going to vote together today?”

  “I,” Krishna Khaleel announced with dignity, “shall vote according to the best decisions of my government, Claude. You know that.”

  “I, too,” Raoul Barre said, staring quizzically at a group of East Africans going by in gorgeous robes and voluble clacking conversation. The outlook is not favorable for our friends in Washington. I assume you will support them as usual, however.”

  “Not ‘as usual,’” Lord Maudulayne said mildly. “As common sense and survival require, I should say.”

  “I do not see that,” Krishna Khaleel said, somewhat stiffly.

  “I do,” Raoul Barre remarked. “That does not mean it will control the vote of France, however.”

  “How can it not?” Lord Maudulayne demanded with a gloomy though unsurprised disbelief. “Something must be done to save this President.”

  “It will not be,” the French Ambassador said flatly. “Anyway, what good are votes here? Never very important—now, even less so. The deed is done, only the coup de grace remains. It is immaterial what happens here or anywhere except where American power meets Russian. And this President does not want them to meet. Oh, he will talk, he will meet that way. But to meet strength with strength—no, he prefers to run away, this President. Ergo—” He shrugged. “There will be no real meeting and therefore no turning back and therefore no stopping the Russians. It is already history, it is inevitable. The script was written many years ago when the Americans grew tired and lost their nerve. The only difference today is that now, at last, they are being forced to admit it. All that is left them to determine is the style with which they will do so. That, I think, is their only option.”