Spending most days in Sit Room. Wonder if air there healthy. Will look into.
—JOURNAL, OCT. 9, 1992
At 4:54 a.m. on Wednesday, October 7, my phone rang. It was the duty officer in the Situation Room at the White House to say that the U.S. Naval Air Station on Bermuda was “under attack” and that the President had called a meeting of the Emergency Situation Team (EST) for six a.m.
Groggily, I slipped on my clavicle brace. It’s what they give you when you’ve broken your collarbone: a harness contraption that keeps your shoulders straight. It was soaking wet.
“Joan,” I said, “why is my clavicle brace soaked?”
She told me that she’d washed it the night before.
“Well, why didn’t you dry it?”
She said she hadn’t put it in the dryer, thinking the elastic might melt.
There was nothing to do but put the wretched thing on. It was an exceedingly unpleasant sensation.
After searing the inside of my esophagus with a hurriedly gulped cup of scalding coffee—I was now drinking coffee—I had collected myself. The car arrived, and I sped off in the pre-dawn darkness.
On the way in, I reflected on the developments that had brought Bermuda to a boil.
I am not a colonialist, or a neo-colonialist, but I fervently wished Great Britain had not chosen to expel Bermuda from the Commonwealth. The status quo in Bermuda was pleasant enough: overemployment, full integration, bicameral legislature, a vigorous tourist economy. Her Majesty’s government made a great to-do about how it desired her former colony to enjoy full self-determination, but the real reason was economic: Bermuda was costing the Exchequer too much in subsidies.
“Liberation,” as it was exaggeratedly called, emboldened impetuous and extremist elements within Bermuda. With the benign specter of British authority removed, these elements quickly coalesced under the leadership of Mr. Makopo M’duku and all hell had been breaking loose ever since, beginning with the incident on the golf course several years earlier.
M’duku, whom a National Security Council officer had nicknamed “M-and-M,” advocated expropriation of all white-held property, abrogation of the 1941 agreement between Britain and the U.S. whereby America had established her naval bases on the island, and abolition of the island’s sweater retail industry, which M’duku, ardent cultural nationalist, was said to regard as demeaning.
At the White House the atmosphere was charged, electric. The corridor outside the Situation Room was crowded with admirals and Marine colonels. The smell of bacon, eggs, coffee, and fresh-baked buttermilk biscuits was in the air. I’d called the mess and told them to prepare emergency breakfast for 5:30.
Feeley greeted me with a smile entirely out of place at a quarter to six.
“You’re looking exuberant,” I said.
“This is fantastic.”
I assumed he was talking about the breakfast. “Yes,” I said, “Sanborn has outdone himself.”
“Not the food, for Chrissake. Bermuda.”
“What,” I said, “is so ‘fantastic’ about an American base being attacked?”
“Everyone’s been calling us pussies for four years. Treating this asshole M’duku like George Washington. Not saying anything when he was going to hang Wells.”
One of Mr. M’duku’s more intemperate statements had been his threat to hang our Consul General, Cecil Wells, from the flagpole outside the consulate. The President had written it off as “bluster,” but Wells had been greatly alarmed and had asked to be recalled. The President told him it would be a “bad signal” to withdraw, and asked him to stay on and “show a little flag.” Wells finally agreed, but with the most pronounced reluctance.
“Oh,” said Feeley. “I called Manganelli and told him to get to work on a declaration of war.”
“What?”
“Think I woke him out of a hangover.”
I took strenuous exception to this. After all, presidential speech-writing was my bailiwick.
Feeley said, “Herb, this is no time for a turf battle.”
“But war?” I said. “Don’t you think that’s a bit … premature?”
“We’ll edit if we have to.”
“God,” I said. “A month before the election.”
“Yeah. I just hope this thing doesn’t peak too early.”
It was time for the EST meeting. My clavicle brace was killing me.
“Why,” yawned the President, “did they attack so early?”
Admiral Boyd, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Clay Clanahan of CIA, also yawning, suggested it was because the torches they were holding would look dramatic on the TV news. Feeley nodded.
The President asked about the base’s integrity. General X. O. Gilhooley, commandant of the Marine Corps, said it was “watertight but not airtight.” The President creased the left side of his face and asked what that meant. “It means we can hold for another few hours. Maybe three. They’ve breached at four points, but they were repelled.”
“How?”
“Dogs, sir. They seem particularly averse to dogs.”
“Good,” said the President. “Let’s get some more flown in. I want the place covered with dogs. Hundreds.”
“Can I say something?” said Feeley.
“If it’s constructive.”
“You put a lot of German shepherds in there and it’s going to look like Alabama in the early Sixties.”
“What do you want, Feeley? Pekingese?”
“I’m saying if you want to be compared to Bull Connor, go ahead and unleash German shepherds all over the place.”
“Feeley,” said the President, “I’m not trying to keep Negroes from sitting at lunch counters, for Chrissake.”
“Fine. Maybe you’ll get off being compared to the Prime Minister of South Africa.”
The President glared at him, then turned to Admiral Boyd. “Bud,” he said, “is there a peaceful way of doing this? I mean, without anybody getting killed?”
Admiral Boyd and Gilhooley suggested rubber bullets and water cannon.
“Okay,” said the President. “Let’s go with the rubber bullets and water cannon. And don’t tell me about Northern Ireland, Feeley.” He turned to Edelstein. “Are we in touch with BUPI?”
Marvin said they weren’t answering their phone at headquarters.
The President frowned. “Clay?”
“Most of the phones on the island are out,” he said. “BUPI blew up the satellite dish two weeks ago. We’ve been using private channels. You want to get a message to him, we can do that.”
“Tell him to give me a call,” said the President. “Collect.”
Feeley snorted. “Clay,” he said, “if you can get a message to him, why can’t you stick a grenade or something up his ass?”
Clanahan smiled. He had a gentle manner, despite all that he’d seen and done.
After issuing instructions to Edelstein, Clanahan, and Boyd, the President adjourned the meeting until noon.
The EST convened at noon. Admiral Boyd reported on an ominous development. Our P-3C aircraft were drawing small-arms fire. People were shooting at them as they came in to land.
The Orion P-3Cs are the old workhorses of America’s anti-submarine warfare. They fly sorties out of Bermuda every fifteen minutes to drop sonar buoys that listen for Soviet submarines. Indeed, anti-submarine warfare was at the heart of the island’s strategic value to this country.
The President sighed. “Are they doing any damage?”
“Mr. President,” said the Admiral patiently, “American planes are being fired on.”
“I appreciate that, Bud. But are they just plinking at them, or are they really trying to bring them down?”
From the Admiral’s expression, it was obvious that the distinction was inconsequential to him. “Those are sensitive planes, sir. And if they blow out a wheel, hit a cable …”
The problem was that though the base was American soil—as per the 1941 agreement—the people shooting at the planes were on St. George’s Island, across a stretch of water called Ferry Reach.
The President suggested landing a small assault force of Marines across the Reach to “neutralize” the snipers.
Lleland and Edelstein started shaking their heads. They said that would be tantamount to “an invasion.”
“Invasion?” said the President. “We’re the ones being fired on.”
“Yes,” said Edelstein. “But they are firing from Bermudian soil. It’s one thing to defend the base, but if you start helicoptering in Marines, then you are, technically, escalating. And it could go beyond manageable dimensions.”
Feeley lit a cigarette; smoke was now coming out his nose, mouth, and ears. He said, “Why are we dicking around with these people?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Edelstein, affronted.
“Not you,” said Feeley, without conviction.
Edelstein suggested grounding the P-3Cs until the situation could be rectified through “dialogue.” Admiral Boyd didn’t like that idea at all. He said that anti-submarine warfare was a “continuum.” If you stopped the flights, Soviet submarines would go undetected.
While he and Marvin disagreed, the President asked Clanahan if he’d established contact with M’duku.
Clanahan nodded. “He’s not in a talkative frame of mind just now. Apparently he’ll be making his position clear on the evening news tonight.”
“Well, get this message through right away. Tell him this shooting has got to stop. If those men are still there by dawn tomorrow, they suffer the consequences.”
“That might provoke him,” said Edelstein.
“Marvin,” said the President, “you’re reminding me more and more of Cyrus Vance.”
“Let me talk with him,” said Edelstein.
Lleland spoke up in favor of the idea.
While they discussed it, Feeley leaned over and whispered, “They think it’ll be good material for their books.”
The third EST meeting that historic day began at nine p.m.—or, as I had begun thinking of it, at 2100 hours. Joan had brought me another clavicle brace; the other had shrunk, cutting off circulation in several major arteries and causing my arms to turn blue.
Clanahan had brought along someone whom he’d introduced simply as “Mr. Smith.” Smith was short and nondescript and carried a gray briefcase that looked as if it might explode if you tried to open it.
M’duku had indeed made his demands on the evening news with all of America tuned in. Afterward he’d done a one-on-one with Barbara Walters, discussing some of his favorite movies and telling her that Gandhi had been a major influence on his political philosophy.
“Gandhi!” snorted the President, calling the meeting to order. “Well, he doesn’t remind me of Gandhi.”
“Maybe he’s into enemas,” said Feeley.
Clanahan reported that our Consul—the now hysterical Cecil Wells—and the entire consular staff had been moved to a safe house in Hamilton and would be evacuated by boat before dawn. The President remarked that he hated sneaking them out of there like that, but that he earnestly desired to avoid a consulate seizure. Clanahan warned him that M’duku would be sure to use the empty consulate to propaganda advantage, turning it into an “imperialist museum” or something similar. It was discussed whether to “blow” the consulate with explosives, but the idea was discarded as “too Libyan.”
Marvin Edelstein reported on his plan—approved by the President—to fly down and attempt to hold talks with M’duku. Clanahan had cautioned against it on grounds that M’duku was too unpredictable. The President had considered sending Jesse Jackson. Edelstein had argued that it might introduce “too wild a card.” I suspect what he really meant was he thought Jackson might steal his best memoir chapter. I personally was disappointed that we weren’t sending Jesse, though it was true he had a habit of “getting out in front,” as they say, making the kind of concessions that had led to our abandoning our former naval base in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
The Admiral reported that the sniping was continuing and that the belly of one P-3C looked like a “tea strainer.” Morale, he said, was very low among the pilots; it was taking the edge off their sub-hunting capabilities.
Clanahan gave us the worse news. Between 2,000 and 4,000 people were massing across the causeway separating the air base from Hamilton parish and the main part of Bermuda.
“What are they doing?” asked the President.
“They’re going to storm the base.”
The room fell silent, except for the slight hissing noise caused by the anti-bugging machine.
“When?” asked President Tucker.
“Sometime after sun-up. Apparently the BUPI leadership wasn’t satisfied with the TV coverage of the night raid, so they want this one with proper lighting.”
“Shit. Do they have weapons?” asked the President.
The CIA director handed him a sheet of paper.
The President read it. “Jesus. These are American weapons. Where’d they get all this stuff?”
“The serial numbers trace them to Reagan administration arms shipments to Pakistan. After the Soviet—”
“Right. Thank you.” The President shook his head. The Admiral suggested “taking out” the causeway. Edelstein objected. The Admiral counter-proposed moving the carrier Weinberger into Bermudian waters. Edelstein called it “gunboat diplomacy.” Feeley fumed. The President hit the desk with his pencil.
Clanahan spoke up. “Mr. Smith here has something that might be of comfort.” This was the first time I or most of the people in the room had heard of GB-322.
The idea of putting large numbers of people to sleep struck me at first as being eminently sensible. Feeley, however, became extremely agitated. He devotes three pages to his argument against GB-322 in The Outrage of Power.
“Gas?” he said in a loud, demonstrative voice. “You want to gas them?”
But the President was intrigued. He pressed Mr. Smith, asking him if GB-322 was non-toxic.
The curious Mr. Smith explained, in his gray monotone, that the effects were temporary, and that the “target audience”—as he quaintly called them—would awake feeling mildly nauseated. “They won’t be in the mood for politics when they come to,” he said.
Feeley turned to the President and pleaded, “Boss, we’re in the middle of an election. You want to gas people, gas them after November fourth. Hell, drop the big one on them. But not now—please.”
Mr. Smith had brought slides. One showed a flock of sheep grazing. In the next one they were lying down with their legs up in the air.
“Will it work that way with people?” said the President. “I mean, are their arms and legs going to do that?”
Mr. Smith shook his head and said that was just the way sheep were.
The President asked for a vote. He went around the table. Only Feeley and Admiral Boyd objected.
“Look, let’s just shoot the bastards and get it over with,” said Feeley. “You know, the old-fashioned way. Why, I bet the Admiral here could—”
“I don’t want to shoot anyone, Feeley.”
“But gas …”
“People get gassed all the time. Tear gas, laughing gas, ether.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “You know, this could be the start of a whole new ballgame. Non-lethal warfare.”
Admiral Boyd shifted in his seat.
“If we solve this thing without killing anyone, Feeley, you’re going to be out of a job. I won’t even need a press secretary.”
Four minutes before eleven o’clock—or at 2256 hours, as they say in the military—Operation Sandman was given the green light.