Twentieth Century Limited Book Two ~ Age of Reckoning: A Novel

Sea.

PART ONE

ROUGH ROADS

1. Clay Feet And Other Surprises

I ARRIVE EARLY AT STEVE’S OFFICE but, as usual, he’s already there. For a lawyer, the guy works very hard. Cahill arrives mid-morning and greets me with a hearty handshake. He is from North Cambridge – we went through BC together. I studied, he played football. Big florid-faced, blustery Irishman, think Tip O’Neill. After a hundred seventeen minutes – I am counting the ticks – they pronounce my answers satisfactory. Steve will file them and move to dismiss the case. It won’t succeed, he says, but we’ll give the judge a preview of our case. What I think about our case is not printable, but that’s just me.

We’ve received another missive from Paul’s ex, the fair Diane, demanding to know what I am doing with his stuff, saying it’s hers though for a price she’ll let me do all the work. We’re past the point of what she is, it’s just a matter of how much. Painful, reading Paul’s journals, seeing the problems develop between them. Makes me thankful – I was very lucky. I met that Lucie who has just surfaced only once, but I don’t want to spoil that story.

I have to say I wasn’t that impressed by Paul’s big report. I recall thinking he didn’t answer what he set out to answer. But maybe that’s unfair. Outside your area of expertise as I certainly was, you use standards you’d scream about if somebody applied them to you. But it certainly raised his standing. Interesting, how that film got him thinking about television.

I got a kick seeing Yamani maneuver Paul into a corner. And you can see his devotion to Israel beginning to cool, rightfully so if you ask me. I am curious to hear about that Mossad rumor. I tend to dismiss it, but crazier things have happened.

I haven’t yet had a chance to look at that disk of Jonathan’s. He should have given me a manuscript. Easier to fall asleep over.

* * * * * * *

BY MID-SUMMER OF SEVENTY-EIGHT, we got word Jimmy Carter was about to launch an all-out effort for peace between Egypt and Israel. A risky business, unpopular in many quarters. Warsaw Pact countries threatened military action if its former ally made peace with Israel. The Arab states fumed, terrorist groups threatened reprisals. Nevertheless, he plowed ahead. Early September, Carter whisked Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin to Camp David, intending to lock them up until a deal had been struck. I asked Fred what I could contribute and he told me to draft something about the implications for oil supply, particularly if the Arab nations moved against Egypt.

Twelve days later the men emerged, all smiles. Israel agreed to withdraw its Army from the Sinai, evacuate some 4,500 civilian settlers and return the land to Egypt. It was guaranteed free passage through the Suez, Egypt free passage to Jordan. Diplomatic relations would be established and armed forces limited in border areas. The U.S. committed to billions for the two countries. A vague statement dealt with an autonomous Palestinian authority in the West Bank and Gaza. No agreement on Jerusalem.

It was Carter’s finest hour, though for Sadat and Begin the consequences were more complex. Egypt was expelled from the Arab League and its headquarters were shifted to Tunis. More pragmatically the Arab states complained that Egypt failed to get anything meaningful for the Palestinians. Though most Israelis supported Land for Peace, the nationalists continued to oppose return of historic and holy land. Many settlers simply refused to leave their homes. Violence was widespread as the government moved ahead with evacuations and the handover. Israel had agreed to halt new settlements but Begin caved to pressure and authorized their expansion in the West Bank and Gaza.

The two leaders would go on to share the 1979 Nobel Peace Prize. They also would run afoul of domestic hard-liners. In 1981 Sadat would be assassinated by an Islamist group. Begin, forced to resign over fallout from his 1982 invasion of Lebanon, would live out his life in isolation, dying within the year.

One evening later in the month, I made my way to the Columbia campus. Ed Said’s magnum opus had just appeared and I was pleased to be invited to his book party. I found him in a meeting room in the Faculty Club, surrounded by well-wishers. I purchased a copy and perused as I moved ahead in the line. Finally I stood at the table.

Paul! So good to see you! Thank you for coming!

Wouldn’t miss it for the world, though it was close – I’m off to Riyadh tonight.

Ah, yes, your oil beat. Let me say your series was excellent, many favorable comments, though one colleague takes issue with you about the role of market power.

I nodded. Nothing new there. As he signed my book I looked at the line. Let me catch up with you later.

When I finally cornered him I asked what his take was on Camp David. Much credit to Mr. Carter, though I do fault Sadat for not doing more for the Palestinians. However if Carter’s framework proves fruitful that will be a very good thing.

It seems Sadat has lost his Arab friends.

He pointed at the book I was holding. That’s what my book is all about – the mistaken belief that all Arabs are the same. Sadat proves the point.

Sometimes it takes a military man to make peace.

A general speaking of peace is listened to, not so professors or journalists. By the way, I received a note from our mutual friend Hamid Rashid the other day. He says you and he see each other from time to time. I hope he keeps up his writing, he is quite good.

He’s working on something in Arabic this time.

Good for him! When I meet a young man like him it reminds me how I have been caught between two stools, as it were. Too Arab for my western friends, not Arab enough for my Arab friends.

I’ll read your book on the plane. May I give you a call when I finish?

By all means, he said, turning to a young woman tugging at his elbow. You may wish to know I have altered my opinion – I now have some hope for you. You show signs of becoming one of those rare journalists who reports knowledgeably on Arab and Moslem life. Let us visit when you return.

THAT SUMMER, JIMMY CARTER and his diplomats had a full plate. Camp David, of course, plus strategic arms talks with Russia and discussions on normalizing relations with China. And following a summer of mutual vituperation and violence, Khomeini’s thirteen-year exile in Iraq ended as, at the behest of the Shah, he was expelled, finding refuge in a Paris suburb. Strikes, demonstrations and riots were taking their toll on Iran. Oil production and export fell precipitously. I collaborated with our Cairo-based Mideast team, discussing the effect three million barrels lost each day was having on world supply and price. The Shah installed a military government and some production was restored, but the general in charge suffered a heart attack and events continued to spiral out of control. Charlie Stebbins commented that U.S. policy was rudderless, with no clear plan for an Iran without the Shah, in fact no plan at all.

At one point I called Hamid to take him up on his offer of introductions. I wanted to see first-hand what was going on. Too late, he said, too risky. My sources have dried up, even my father is in hiding. You don’t want to be a westerner in that country. You could always visit Khomeini in Paris.

I doubt he’d be interested in talking to me.

You never know, he and his crowd look more like a government-in-exile every day.

How’s your new book coming?

You’d better get your Arabic together – I mean to finish it by next summer. It’s a book of poetry, a modern update of traditional Persian themes.

Despite a hectic schedule I caught most of Peter’s Little League games and was pleasantly surprised at his athletic ability, more than I ever had. Soccer in the fall was even better. The skill level was rudimentary, and only as the season was far along did theory and execution establish any sort of connection. Peter’s other big activity was preparing for his First Holy Communion. One night I picked up his catechism expecting to visit with an old friend, but instead found a slick paperback with oversized print and colorful drawings. It had Qs & As all right, but gone was the majesty, the sternness, replaced by encouragement and support. I flipped through the book and, dismayed, put it down. Later that evening it dawned on me, maybe I’m the one out of step. These days, fear is out, love is in. Positive sentiments are what it’s about. Counsels of perfection? Apparently too burdensome for an unruly youngster but, I thought, what about the times he really needs a kick in the pants? For some reason the old Marines saying came to mind. If you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow... even, I figured, small balls and small minds.

AFTER A SHORT ILLNESS, in August Pope Paul VI died. Two weeks later the world was startled to learn his successor – Karol Józef Wojtyła, first non-Italian since the sixteenth century and first-ever from Poland, who took the name John Paul II. I was interested to learn of his youth under the Nazis, his friendships with Jews and his efforts to protect them. As a young man he’d been a hiker, a skier, active in a theater troupe, and author of poetry and plays, continuing to write even after ordination. I looked forward to what he had up the papal sleeve, not only for the Church but his country, chafing under the Russian Bear.

My main point of contact with the Church was our local parish. With the demands of my job I didn’t volunteer for anything, but somebody asked if I’d give a talk on my work as a reporter, part of a public affairs series. Well-received, this made me a target and I had to turn down a request to work on the new church building fund drive. Frankly, I saw nothing wrong with the old one – it had adapted well. A large table stood where the communion rail had been, serving as altar. The priest faced the people, guitars and flutes did their thing in the shadow of the disused pulpit, but this wasn’t good enough. In keeping with the new theme of sociability, seating would be in the round. A multi-year project, the goal was four million dollars. The old brick church where Diane and I were married would be razed for parking.

I’d never considered myself old-fashioned, but the busy-ness of the new liturgy got to me. Singing and responding in English, shaking hands with your neighbors, Sunday no longer afforded peace or the opportunity for quiet reflection. And when the stately drone of Latin disappeared, the element of mystery was diminished. I knew the new generation would accept these new forms, never miss the old days, never even know about them. Confession wasn’t what it used to be either, the boxes shuttered and replaced by face-to-face encounters with a priest or group absolution following a penitential service. Uneasy with this innovation, my solution was to partake less frequently. And when was the last time I prayed the rosary, the old friend that helped me through Vietnam? Where was mine, even?

Sin wasn’t what it used to be, but that I counted an improvement. A new emphasis on conscience, doing right by the people who matter – family, neighbor. Sitting in the bench one Sunday, thinking that nobody talked about Hell any more, I wondered how Father Ronan had come through the changes. I should get hold of him, reconnect. Father Trần, too. What I got myself into wasn’t their fault.

From time to time I reflected on the state of my old mainstays. True, John XXIII had spoken out against the war. I should have paid him more attention, but so should the American bishops. But for them the lure of patriotism and politics was too strong, and they lagged behind even Martin Luther King. Why was that? And why do I say even? If I’ve learned anything, it is that Catholics have no monopoly on truth or virtue or courage. There had been Catholics against the war – I’ve mentioned James Miller, the Dorothy Day group, the Berrigans – but the mainstream relegated them to the fringe, to the same league as pinko agitators, certainly nobody a Cardinal Spellman would embrace. And now, such wholesale changes in the life of the Church.

It still hung on, but this icon was teetering. Church attendance was down, priests and nuns leaving the ministry in droves. A lot of older Catholics were upset and confused. One elderly woman I greeted on Sundays confided, I don’t feel holy any more. Am I still a Catholic? she asked me, I feel more a Protestant all the time. Kinder and gentler today’s God might be, but fear had been a more salutary part of the mix than the reformers credited. Folk songs and happy talk aren’t enough. The new Pope would visit New York in the fall. I had no desire to add to the Yankee Stadium crowd and thought perhaps I could find a more personal way to meet him. I’d talk with our Religion Editor, Gabriel Griffin (that’s right, Gabriel!), see if he had an idea how.

As for America the invincible, our confidence was in tatters and my automatic patriotism a thing of the past. Americans wondered whether they could ever again trust their leaders, but now at least, Carter gave us a glimmer of hope. Though not always consistent or effective, having a decent and forthright President meant a lot. Whether enough remained to be seen.

My personal darkness was mostly behind me, though occasionally I caught a glimpse. Sudden noises still made me start. Whenever I filled the car, the smell of gas put me in mind of Firebase Tango. I couldn’t pass a panhandler without giving him something, especially if he had a Vietnam Vet sign. And of course Mr. Stumpy was a constant presence, though we had long since made our peace. When I thought of Vietnam, it was more the moral questions. My answer – and it is no defense – I had been under the sway of the patriotism that had shaped me. Even my college immersion in moral inquiry wasn’t enough to loosen its grip. Only later, when my eyes adapted to the dark realities, did I see patriotism for the false prophet it is.

As for my work, I didn’t like being defined as a business expert, yet there I was, focusing on big money issues. Thank God for the politics and the foreign policy, the fascinating people and places, but at bottom it was about the money. Also troublesome, as our lives went forward, I had come to see how different Diane and I were. Financial games and status were as captivating to her as they were turn-offs to me. Not long after our big production, Fred mentioned the top brass was interested in grooming me for an editor’s job. Tom O’Connor also told me so at the Christmas party after we’d had a couple too many. No thanks, I told them, I don’t need the headaches. The field is where I belong, plus an opinion piece from time to time. I had to laugh – the Army thought I was officer material, but that suit didn’t fit either.

INSANITY WILL ALWAYS BE WITH US. As the year drew to a close a freighter two weeks at sea carrying 2,500 Southeast Asian refugees was refused entry by Malaysia. We and the Times gave the story a big play. France, Canada and the U.S. agreed to resettle the passengers and the ship was allowed to dock. And the refugees kept coming. I was gratified to see Church leaders make these new arrivals welcome. Too late to cry over the mess we made but at least we were helping to clean it up.

Less than two weeks later, nine hundred members of a California cult and its leader, the Reverend Jim Jones, committed revolutionary suicide by drinking Kool Aid spiked with cyanide. A few days before, a delegation led by Congressman Leo Ryan along with reporters and television crews, arrived in Jonestown, Guyana. After visits and interviews, as they and several defectors were about to depart, Temple stalwarts opened fire. Six people including Ryan and an NBC reporter were killed, nine wounded. Panicked, Jones assembled his followers around a vat of poisoned Kool-Aid and encouraged everyone to drink. If you can believe it, mothers used syringes to squirt the liquid into their own babies’ mouths. Jones was found with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Another field day for the media.

FINALLY, IRAN. With Khomeni-inspired turmoil cresting, two weeks into the new year the Shah left his country, saying I am feeling tired and need a rest. He would never return. The country went crazy, Khomeni followers filling the streets, waving pictures of the Ayatollah. Headlines proclaimed THE SHAH IS GONE. Welcomed by Sadat, Egypt would be the Shah’s first stop, but he would wander the rest of his days and die a pariah.

Iran’s oil industry had basically shut down. I collaborated on front-page stories as the price of oil shot up. Talking with Hamid, he said Khomeini’s talk about killing foreigners is a bit much, but the fact is, they won’t want to stay. The secularists will be no match for him. His followers are too numerous and, Paul, they are rabid. As for the great mass of people, they blow one way then the other. They are fed up with the Shah and will welcome a change, but they have no idea what they’re getting into. There was a pause on the phone. "Times like this I praise Allah that I am not in your business. I get up, write six hours, meet friends at a café, talk, have dinner, go home, read, go to bed. Unlike you, I do not worry about the world’s problems. And my work goes well... oh, did I tell you? Warner Brothers have optioned The One-Eyed King."

That’s fantastic! I hope they did well by you.

I have no complaints, but my hope is they actually make the film. Optioning does not guarantee that, I’ve learned to my sorrow.

How are your Arabic stories coming along?

Very well, in fact I am including some poems too. The Arabic language cries out for poetry and of course, Persian poets are among the world’s finest, rivaling even Shakespeare.

On February 1, a Thursday, we led with a banner headline:

KHOMEINI RETURNS

HUGE TEHRAN WELCOME

TELLS FOREIGNERS TO LEAVE OR ELSE

Our man in Iran, Ray Jessup, reported from Tehran’s Mehrabad Airport as the turbaned, bearded 78-year old religious leader made his way through the city in a triumphant motorcade. The crowd was put at six million. Shapour Bakhtiar, leader of the three-week old provisional government, angrily denounced demands that he step aside, but Khomeini stood firm. I shall kick their teeth in. I appoint the government by support of this nation.

We reported that the State Department was taking his warning seriously and was beginning to evacuate dependents and non-essential personnel. Within ten days Khomeini had appointed his own prime minister, armories were seized and the military withdrew its support from Bakhtiar, whose government promptly collapsed. By the end of March a nationwide referendum passed with ninety-eight percent supporting an Islamic Republic. That night I found a succinct message from Hamid on my answering machine.

Told you so.

SETTING ASIDE THOUGHTS OF SEEING TEHRAN any time soon, I refocused on the oil beat. Following our success, Fred had expanded my territory to energy issues more broadly. I explored oil from shale rock, tar sands, synthesized from coal. I dug into the prospects for greater use of domestic natural gas. I reported on wind farms in Alaska and at Altamont Pass, site of the disastrous 1969 Stones concert. I visited an experimental tidal energy plant in the Bay of Fundy (shades of New England river mills!) and laid plans to see one on the Brittany coast. I visited an Arizona shopping center powered by the sun and a solar housing development in the hills above L.A. But these technologies were having a hard time gaining traction. Every time the price of oil dropped, investors blinked and put their wallets back in their pockets. The venerable coal industry was still a significant part of our energy mix, especially for big-city electric generation, so I spent a few days tramping around coal mines in West Virginia, glad I didn’t have to do that to make a living. Then, of course, there was nuclear power, which was finally taking hold in the U.S. as well as certain European countries and the USSR.

At the end of March, Jimmy Carter’s Middle East virtuoso performance was capped by a White House signing ceremony. Following the initial euphoria, it took half a year of head knocking to bring Sadat and Begin around. Normalization of relations would come next year. Carter had exactly three days to savor his triumph. My first word was a call from Fred. Get your bag together, you’re on your way to Harrisburg P.A.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania on the Susquehanna River. Steel, farming, railroads. What’s going on?

"You see China Syndrome?"

Last weekend, in fact. A good film, though I cannot abide Jane Fonda. You’ll find tickets and dinner on my expense report, category of research.

"We’ll see about that. Meantime, take a look at the TV. A nuclear powerplant there is coming unglued. You’re on an eleven-thirty flight. See Sandy. Ciao."

During the short flight I flipped through the folder I had grabbed racing out the door. Nuclear means clean, abundant power, predictable if not low costs. Also, down the road, the prospect of cutting loose those who take our money with one hand and stab us with the other. The protest industry’s cause du jour, nuclear’s risks had been blown way out of proportion.

Ambitious politicians like Teddy Kennedy were lining up against, and they’d have a field day if the incident toward which I sped was as serious as first reports indicated. To me it was the height of irresponsibility to ignore the issue – what is the alternative? My own view, nuclear has been haunted by its horrific first use, also by our anxiety from living so long with the threat of nuclear annihilation. As for the nuclear genie escaping the Big Power bottle, if peaceful technologies could be diverted to military use, that was a legitimate concern.

Our landing approach gave me a good view. On the sandbar called Three Mile Island were not one, but two nuclear powerplants. No dense white clouds of the kind that typically belch from the cooling towers, only a few wisps of steam. I picked up a rental car and made the short drive to the plant. Press pass in hand, I worked my way through the crowd of police and security guards and found myself in a cramped conference room converted to a media briefing room. There were plenty of us, radio, TV, print reporters, photographers. This had been the day’s top story since coming across the AP wire around nine.

The facts were sketchy. Shortly after 4 a.m. pumps supplying water to TMI-2’s steam generators stopped running – it wasn’t known why – then safety systems shut down the turbine and the generator it powered. But the temperature continued to rise, decaying radioactive materials still heating water around the core. Water carries heat from the nuclear core and creates the steam that spins the turbines that produce the electricity. As this water is heated, the reactor is cooled, otherwise it overheats and, in the extreme, melts down. A faulty water pump may not sound like much, but it is a big, big deal. Metropolitan Edison’s spokesmen said they’d there has been no radiation leak, everything is under control, no danger exists to public health and safety. But why did the water pump stop running? What were they doing to identify the problem and contain it? Short answer, they didn’t know. Maybe tomorrow. Not a hundred yards from what might be a nuclear time bomb, this was not reassuring.

About eight I checked in at the motel and began writing. They were holding the lead position on page one. Our Washington bureau would report on the federal response and Governor Thornburg’s reaction. On CBS Walter Cronkite dipped into doomsday language several times. Before filing I flipped channels to see whether local news might have spotted anything I had missed. Next morning over room-service breakfast I perused the Times and a Patriot-News from the gift shop. For the Gazette a joint byline, yours truly from Middletown, Pa, and Al Starkey from Washington, under the headline –

PENNSYLVANIA NUCLEAR ACCIDENT

RADIATION LEAK PROBED

Some residents were heading for their in-laws, others stayed put behind closed doors. Most businesses remained open, hoping for the best. It turned out, the problem was from mechanical failure and human error, a common combination. Radiation leakage, not a threat outside the facility, was massive inside the reactor building. Cooling system failure had allowed nuclear fuel to melt and contaminate the coolant, which escaped and flowed into the basement of the reactor. On the third day NRC experts reported that a hydrogen gas bubble was trapped in the pressurizer above the reactor core. Asked if a catastrophic explosion was possible, the scientist admitted it was. Governor Thornburg issued a recommendation that pregnant women and children under two evacuate for five miles around.

As Kennedy and the critics attacked, Jimmy Carter tried desperately to shore up nuclear as a mainstay in our drive for energy independence, visiting Three Mile Island at the height of the emergency. Several days in, the experts defused the hydrogen bubble and ended the immediate crisis. TMI-2 was shut down, and when their operating license expired in 2014, both units would be decommissioned.

Back in New York I reported on the political fallout (sorry). A march on the nation’s capitol demanded an immediate shutdown of all nuclear plants. The NRC stopped issuing new nuclear plant permits and New York state banned all construction. Anti-nuclear was part of a growing national preoccupation with danger and harm prevention. Some called this paranoia, I reported, noting that things go wrong, machines fail and hurt people, chemicals have side effects. Cranberries, no. 2 red dye, saccharine, seat belts, bike helmets, now the ubiquitous warning label. And a spate of environmental laws – Endangered Species Act, National Environmental Policy Act, clean air and water legislation. Not only was the Robert Moses era dead and buried, today it is inconceivable. No longer is it possible in any reasonable time to gain approval for even clearly beneficial projects.

THE BIG LOSER WAS JIMMY CARTER, nuclear engineer, champion of technology. Protestors, public opinion and panicked politicians excised his alternative energy program’s vital core. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The turmoil in Iran would deny that country’s oil to us for an indefinite time. Inflation raged as people watched their paychecks and savings fall in value. Can do was an echo of a distant, quaint time, supplanted by gloom and pessimism. It was un-American, a betrayal of our social compact, that what you worked all your life for could just slip away.

His approval rating below twenty-five percent, Carter decided to go on the offensive. In a nationally televised speech, he asked the nation to join him in overcoming its crisis of spirit and adapt to a new age of limits. Carter scolded those who tend to worship self-indulgence and consumption. This floored me. Saying that to a nation built on producing, selling and buying! A strong reaction set in against what became known as Carter’s malaise speech. Two days later he asked his entire cabinet to resign and several who had clashed with him, including James Schlesinger, found theirs accepted. Charlie Stebbins said Carter meant to signal a new start, a breath of fresh air. Instead it came across as bumbling and incompetence. The people wanted leadership, not preaching.

ON A DREARY AFTERNOON some good news blew in and cleared the skies big time. We won the Pulitzer! The newsroom saw it come over the wires, and as I dragged in from an interminable press conference my colleagues stood and cheered. I reached Diane at her office – she’d just heard. Tom O’Connor called our team together, one thing led to another and the day ended in a fizzy celebration. I wonder how many goofs made it into the next day’s early edition. We won for Public Service, granddaddy of the journalism Pulitzers, for a distinguished example of meritorious public service by a newspaper. The citation made a point of noting several energy policy initiatives launched within months of the series. As customary, the paper was the named winner but Fred, Alan and Charlie were singled out, and I was credited as lead reporter. Lead reporter!

Friday afternoon, Fred told me to clear my calendar for an important assignment but he refused to tell me anything more. About seven he came by and steered me in the direction of our local watering holes, not normally a venue for breaking news. Turned out to be a party at the Spike, part celebration of the Pulitzer, part my nine-and-a-half year anniversary with the paper. In his speech Fred said no matter how valuable I was, the Gazette could afford only one party. Thoughtfully Fred invited my Kells crowd and Diane too, which I appreciated.

The highlight was Ray Archibald’s presentation of a skin-tight Hydrocarbon Man outfit, red and yellow and blue, specially tailored for me. Of course I had to model it, and it was so hard to get off I just left it on. It made for a warm and clammy evening but yielded some great pictures. Diane had engaged Kristen for the weekend so we stayed in and celebrated, playing at being adults for the first time in a long while.

First week of May we celebrated Peter’s First Holy Communion. I was relieved Diane went along, and with apparent good humor. She came to the ceremony and even her parents showed up. I hadn’t seen Jim or Catherine for some time. When I called them a few weeks before, Jim begged off but Catherine accepted. She and Stan and the girls arrived the day before and we put them up in our guest room, their two on guest beds with Emma, their adopted sister. The night before we had a gala reunion and a fine meal, courtesy of Kristin who cooked well when motivated. Honoring my special request she baked a big ham. Outstanding. The afternoon before, Peter made his first confession. I had no intention of grilling him but when he came home I asked how it went. Okay, I guess.

You feel better than before?

He paused. I didn’t feel bad to start with.

Good. Times have changed, I thought, but he’s a different kind of kid, too, doesn’t take everything so seriously. A nice balance between caring and worrying. That’s progress.

When we got home from Peter’s event Diane said she needed to spend time on her work so I took the kids for a walk along the town beach. Watching the children run back and forth, Peter and Paul, unmatched twins, longish hair flowing in the breeze, Emma, now four, our golden girl. Beautiful children... thank you God for such a gift. As I strolled the beach I recalled the dense, complex society that enveloped me on my big day. It saddened me to realize my children would never experience drop-in Canadians or raucous Irish or fistfights and wrestling, or making up after. And only one set of grandparents, another sadness. For the sake of my profession, my ambition, I had distanced myself from the people and places that defined me. Time’s arrow flies away, it doesn’t curve back. But, I thought, our kids are well accepted and happy, it’s wrong to think of their scene as some lesser shadow of my own.

For Diane’s birthday I got tickets to Abba, the Swedish group we both liked. I thought it was great but in the car driving home Diane seemed out of sorts. Did you notice, we were the oldest people there, she said.

You’re a year older, you’re just sensitive.

No, I mean it, we were the oldest people there.

I’ll bet you there were some, somewhere, older than us.

I didn’t see them.

There were twenty thousand people.

That doesn’t matter. You didn’t even notice.

I noticed there were a lot of young people but so what? We happen to like young people’s music. That should make you feel good, not bad.

I shook my head as Diane lapsed into a sulk. Disheartening. But I am built to keep trying.

Several Vietnam films had appeared. I read the reviews but that’s as close as I wanted to get. No, that’s not right – I was interested, but worried how they might affect me. Same with the novels and memoirs starting to surface. I finished Going After Cacciato – its farcical tone probably helped. One day I noticed The Deer Hunter, said to be a powerful film, was playing at our local arts theater. After working up my courage I told Diane I was ready, and one Friday night we went. Good thing it was a Friday. The film laid me low all weekend. I had nightmares for a month, some nights waking up screaming. Diane had grown used to my normalcy and for the most part so had I, but the jungle is never very far off. She wanted to shield the children from my problem. One day I would speak to them about all this.

I NEED TO TELL YOU ABOUT PAUL JUNIOR. Mid-summer he was confined to bed with a strep throat. After a dose of antibiotics and taking it easy he seemed back on his game, playing outside, all the normal things. Then he began complaining of pain in his legs, his arms ached and his breathing was labored. Our pediatrician ran a series of tests. That evening as I put him to bed Paulie joked about the wires they’d hooked up to him, how the goo they used was cold and tickled. That evening the phone rang. Diane picked it up. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. Doctor Taylor, she whispered. The call went on a good ten minutes. She listened, nodding her head. When she hung up she turned to me.

He says Paulie may have rheumatic fever. They want him in the hospital for more tests. If that’s what it is, they’ll have to begin treatment.

The poor little guy. I got up and put my arm around her shoulders.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. You know, I had a feeling something bad was going to happen. She bit her lip, everything’s been going along so well. I mean, we’re just making it up as we go along. It was too perfect.

We gave Paulie the news in the morning, then told Peter who understood and Emma who didn’t but sensed something bad was happening. Two mournful sets of eyes followed Paulie who waved from the car window as we drove away.

There had been significant damage to the mitral valve. A surgical option existed but wasn’t recommended for someone this young. Handle it with medication and lifestyle. After he was released and put in his downtime, he could look forward to a mostly normal life, though no heightened physical activity at first. A steady, gradual regimen, build himself up, injections every two weeks, unclear for how long but at least five years. And always the chance some future illness, itself innocent, could trigger a recurrence or burden his weakened heart beyond its limit. Back home, Paulie picked up more or less where he had been, but as we strove for normalcy an undercurrent of fear was there that was new.

What was I to think about Diane’s intuition? I suppose if you play Cassandra long enough eventually you’ll hit the mark. I didn’t believe in hexes, anyway she didn’t tell me until after the fact.

2. Carter Agonistes

SADAT AND BEGIN DESERVE OUR THANKS. It takes courage to do the right thing, especially when you know it’ll make you enemies. Sadat’s neighbors liked what he did on the battlefield, but settling accounts across a table? No way. Something wrong with that picture. Use your strength, then put the other tools to work. Give Carter credit, too. He could have sent them packing, but he didn’t.

And look who’s nosing around now – our former acting governor, making like he’s California’s gift to the nation. Back then the last thing he wanted was for us to solve our problems. Scatter the marbles, pocket them for yourself and your friends, that was his way. Nothing’s changed. And you can’t ignore him, not the way the country’s tacking to starboard. Government is the problem, he says. Tell that to the millions of folks the New Deal saved. But memory is short, and no match for the siren song. My grand old liberals, where are you when we need you? Oil plus economy plus a committed, well-financed opposition – Jimmy is in deep trouble. Speaking of oil, I was pleased when Paul got the Pulitzer, surprised too. Shows how much I know. And the photos from that dinner I found in the file are fun.

I also was fascinated by the new Pope – political acumen and a made-to-order bully pulpit. Even then it seemed to me Europe was ripe for change and here was a guy who just might make the difference. Of course. I never bought into that Red Scare business, and to me Brezhnev was a hollow man. The USSR could still cause a lot of trouble, but they weren’t the cosmic threat we’d come to know and love. Iran and Khomeini, nothing good there for the foreseeable future. Good to see Hamid taking a stand.

I do enjoy seeing Paul dealing with his children, though that business with the middle boy was troubling – I never got to meet him. I wish I had known them better. His ex is probably still poisoning the well, though at the funeral the girl was pleasant enough and Peter greeted me with what looked for all the world like affection.

I wonder what Jonathan’s up to. As they say, no news is no news.

* * * * * * *

ONE MORNING ED REYNOLDS PAID ME A VISIT, back for one of Harlan Kenny’s unloved seminars. Still based in Bangkok, Ed had been on overload the last six months. Khymer Rouge, Boat People, and in mid-February the brief and bloody Chinese incursion into Vietnam. I treated Ed to lunch in the cafeteria and we caught up. He had nice things to say about the oil series. I remarked that we hadn’t seen each other for some time.

I’ve been here, he said, it seems you’re always on the road.

That is true, I replied. There is a lot of that.

You have plans for tonight? A guy I know just came out with a book, there’s a little celebration. Thought you might be interested in meeting him.

Sure. Who is it?

Dave Halberstam. Friend of mine from Vietnam.

That took all of a micro-second. Formerly of the Times, Pulitzer Prize for war reporting, author of The Best and the Brightest, a masterly account of how we got into Vietnam. Luckily I kept a suit and a clean shirt in my locker and found a suitable tie in my desk. This would be several cuts above my usual sport coats and corduroys. Ed whirled by at seven-thirty and we caught a cab to a steak house near Lincoln Center favored by newspaper men. A couple dozen people were standing around, drinks in hand. I recognized Halberstam – tall and lanky, horn-rimmed glasses.

At this point I offer a confession. Mid-afternoon I blasted out and picked up a copy of Halberstam’s book. I’m a pretty fast reader and for an hour I skimmed its 771 pages. Luce’s Time empire, the Grahams’ Washington Post, the Chandlers’ L.A. Times, Paley’s CBS. I knew a fair amount about the first three but the television sections really drew me in. Later I’d have to reread them carefully.

Dave! Congratulations! How the hell are you! Reynolds put his arms around Halberstam and they gave each other a bear hug.

Reynolds, you old bastard! Still in Thailand? Why don’t you get a real job?

Nobody’s hiring. But hey, when you love what you do, you stay with it. Reynolds gestured toward me. "Meet a Gazette colleague, Paul Bernard. He’s our energy guru. You’ve probably seen his work."

You did that series on the oil industry. Nice piece of work.

Thanks, I said, shaking his hand, a pleasure.

Paul and I met in Saigon. He was with the grand army of our republic.

Halberstam continued shaking my hand. Sorry about that. Looks like you made it back okay, anyway.

Pretty much, I replied. Wish I’d seen your book before I went there.

"A number of vets have told me that. A good part of it was in the Times day-to-day, not all the detail, of course."

We talked until Halberstam was spirited away. At dinner I introduced myself around the table. On my other side was a youngish guy with a down-under drawl, name of Harry Firth, said he was with the Latimer Television Network.

Does LTN get much play in Halberstam’s book? I asked.

We’re too new. But when he updates it we’ll be in there. No account of American television will be complete without LTN.

You people have a high opinion of yourselves.

Absolutely.

And your boss is quite the character.

What people fail to grasp is he’s one of the smartest people you’ll ever meet.

Rudolph Latimer’s story has been well chronicled. Flamboyant New Zealander, owner of newspapers, magazines, radio and television stations on every continent. Fiercely competitive with that other down-under media baron, though some called him a Murdoch wannabee. To position himself for U.S. television Latimer became a naturalized citizen, then proceeded to snap up TV stations including New York’s Channel Twelve, cobbling together what he called the Latimer Television Network. From modest circumstances, he had married up, then parlayed his wife’s fortune into a successful trucking empire before catching the newspaper bug. One of the world’s wealthiest men, a restless, demanding figure, his business ethics or lack thereof often landed him on his competitors’ front pages. Prolific spender on conservative causes, he had a plaque in his office, I’d seen a photo of it once – FOR ATTILA, LOOK LEFT.

He couldn’t have accomplished all he has without smarts, I said.

Of course, his smartest play is to surround himself with good people. Like myself, Firth said, laughing.

Did he bring you from New Zealand?

In a manner of speaking. He took a large sip of wine. I’m his nephew.

Nepotism at its finest.

Whatever it takes. Actually I’ve worked for Rudolph for fifteen years. Started in Auckland, then London, now New York. He believes in working your way up. Or out.

What do you do for them now?

I produce the Channel Twelve late-night news.

Interesting. I took a quick look through Halberstam’s book. The stuff about television is fascinating.

And what do you do?

"I’m with the Gazette. The energy beat the last few years, oil issues particularly."

The oil exposé, that was yours?

Yes. More recently I did Three Mile Island.

Mr. Latimer commented on the oil story. He took another sip of wine. You know, you’re good looking, you present yourself well, your voice is passable, have you ever thought of TV news? Maybe you could give Roy Williams a run for his money. Williams was LTN’s prime-time anchorman, a good if rather stuffy newsman.

After the oil story I was on some interview shows. That’s pretty much it.

Give me a call sometime. He reached for his card. I traded him mine.

Thanks. Maybe I will.

The next evening when I returned home I showed the card to Diane. I sat next to this guy at dinner last night. He practically offered me a job.

She turned the card over. Latimer. He’s very right-wing, nobody you’d be comfortable with. Though my father thinks well of him.

Why does that not surprise me?

THE MIDDLE EAST SITUATION continued to give us fits. In August, Jimmy Carter fired his U.N. Ambassador. Andrew Young had angered American Jewish leaders for calling Israel stubborn and intransigent. When he met secretly with representatives of the PLO, Carter cut him loose. Then there was Iran. Given the hostility from our support of the Shah, some sort of reprisal was probably inevitable. In the months following his takeover Khomeini and the U.S. traded barbs, then in October, against State Department advice Carter permitted the Shah to enter the U.S. for treatment of his cancer. Khomeini demanded the U.S. return him to Iran for trial. Anti-Americanism surged as revolutionary elements charged that the U.S. was plotting a repeat of 1953. On November 4, several hundred militant students broke through our embassy’s gates, overran security and captured the building, parading their hostages in front of cameras. Though planned apparently without his knowledge, Khomeini soon endorsed the action.

In the United States – outrage. With the Gazette out front, the press painted a tale of national disgrace. ABC’s The Iran Crisis - America Held Hostage: Day __ nightly reminded viewers of our shame and futility. Though Carter acted swiftly, freezing Iranian assets and banning oil imports, what little there was of them, the standoff continued. A backlash developed against Iranians in the U.S. A few weeks later armed fundamentalists seized Mecca’s Great Mosque, threatening our Saudi ally. As the Tehran situation dragged on, the Great Satan was looking less great all the time. Carter’s stature, rebounding with SALT II earlier in the year, was now at rock-bottom.

Something new on the world scene, a phenomenon which would challenge the established order, roil and topple governments – terrorist strikes by nimble bands of the disaffected whose host state will not or cannot control, and at times covertly encourages for its own ends. Anarchy with deep pockets and serious firepower. But it wasn’t only the little guys acting up. The Soviets had fielded new missile programs and were rattling the nuclear weapon saber in Eastern Europe. Then in late December came Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan. Underestimating the problems involved in taming that wild and ungovernable country, the U.S. fretted that the Bear was again on the march. Russia’s daring put a spotlight on our impotence and, of course, our bitter legacy of Vietnam.

Jimmy Carter had some answers. He canceled grain shipments to the Soviet Union. He withdrew the SALT II treaty from the Senate, though by then it was a dead letter anyway. He canceled our participation in the Moscow Summer Games and reinstated draft registration for men eighteen and over. And in a portentous act evocative of Harry Truman, he guaranteed our dependency on the Middle East for years to come by issuing what came to be known as the Carter Doctrine. An attempt by any outside force to gain control of the Persian Gulf region will be regarded as an assault on the vital interests of the United States of America and will be repelled by any means necessary, including military force. Wow.

The USSR seemed unmoved, but reaction in this country was swift. The Democrats’ liberal wing distanced itself even further from its nominal leader. Nor could any amount of hawkishness appease the burgeoning conservative movement which now smelled blood. For me, Carter had just given up on energy self-sufficiency. Disappointing, business as usual, I wrote in an op ed piece which drew a flood of angry mail. Carter had rolled back oil price controls, hoping higher prices would spur exploration and boost alternative energy. Maybe, but liberals who wanted Big Oil checked at every turn abandoned him. Hit in the pocketbook, consumers were furious. A crude oil windfall profits tax lost Carter the conservatives, and Congress repealed his oil import fee. Some of Carter’s moves did work. Foreign oil consumption fell during his term, and with domestic production on the rise, oil inventories grew and natural gas was increasingly plentiful. Though we were paying more, chronic shortages seemed behind us.

Carter’s energy program was too complex for short attention spans, though I revisited the story every month or so. People were focused on the skyrocketing cost of everything including gas. Fred’s shrinking-paycheck story was a page one mainstay, that and the impending demise of the work hard, do well ethic. Even Diane and I felt the pinch, especially at tax time, though we weren’t exactly hurting. And I had to admit we enjoyed seeing the paper profits as our house and condo soared in value.

Under tremendous pressure, in April Carter and his military advisors concocted a complex plan to rescue the Tehran hostages, but an intense sandstorm grounded three of the choppers and caused the mission to be aborted. During the evacuation the force came under attack, one helicopter ended up on top of a C-130, and they both went up in flames. Eight U.S. troops were killed, several others injured, and five serviceable helicopters had to be left in the desert. Our failure was highlighted when two weeks later, a siege of the Iranian Embassy in London was decisively terminated by Margaret Thatcher’s Special Forces.

Poor Jimmy Carter. All that worrying and all for naught. He didn’t realize that things didn’t have to be so grim. America’s best days were ahead – so said the man on horseback who was spotted riding in from the west. Ronald Reagan, left-liberal union leader turned ultra-conservative, whose political apprenticeship I had the dubious distinction of living through, upbeat television pitchman for G.E. and the free enterprise system.

If Carter was snakebit, Reagan’s timing was exquisite. Since the Sixties the tide of conservatism had been rising. The alliance of college students and business that propelled Barry Goldwater into the sixty-four nomination had regrouped and emerged strong, organized and well-funded. From college kids (Young Americans for Freedom) to think tanks (American Enterprise Institute, Heritage Foundation, Cato Institute) to big-money donors (Coors, Mellon-Scaife) to newspapers and opinion journals (Wall Street Journal, National Review, Human Events, Commentary) and business consortia (Business Roundtable) the New Right had stood the liberal playbook on its head. Led by their intellectual pope, William F. Buckley, Jr., by the late Seventies conservatives had elbowed their way into the political mainstream. The one bright spot for Republicans in the sixty-four debacle – cracking the southern bloc over civil rights and desegregation – was not lost on them. And they had discovered targeted messages, the more divisive the better, can be very effective.

Lulled by Watergate, under Carter Democrats became demoralized and disorganized, and the New Right pounced, seizing the opportunity they and their forebears had been seeking since the New Deal. The economy was a shambles. A two-bit country was humiliating us. People were frustrated and angry. Bright, ambitious and self-assured, conservatives had a new set of answers – actually a very old set – shove government and its irksome regulations aside. Let those who can, succeed, and in the wake of their success, even the lowly will thrive. We were ready for a change. It was time to feel good about ourselves again.

MORE DISQUIETING RUMORS led me to sound out Alan Mauro. You’ve come to the wrong place, son, he said, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on the desk. So how’s the oilman? The patch still treating you right?

It gets a little old but what doesn’t?

Ain’t that the truth. He ran his hand over his beard. Talk about old – can you believe I’ve been writing this godforsaken column nearly twenty-five years?

But it’s great. You don’t know how to write a boring word. How do you do it?

Damned if I know. Actually, I do. My material writes itself. It’s all in the material.

I’ve been hearing rumors about our esteemed employer. Any truth to them?

He motioned with his hand. I got up and shut the door. A. we’re about to declare bankruptcy. B. we’re up for sale. Pick one. If our esteemed publisher-in-chief is to be believed, those are our choices.

Nothing new there.

This time they’re saying we’re out of cash. Advertising’s down, circulation’s down, TV’s eating our lunch. Why waste time on an in-depth report when a ten-second TV spot gets you everything you need?

But where does TV get their news? We bake the cake, they frost it and make the sale. Why don’t we buy a station of our own?

If that’s a fix it’s sure not a quick one. Besides, all anybody here knows about TV is how to knock it. Oh, I didn’t mention – our costs are through the roof too. Inflation’s killing us, like everybody else. The new gadgetry is very expensive.

The accounting and payroll functions had been automated nearly a year. For the last month technicians had been crawling all over the City Room, installing computers, cabinets, video monitors, laying cable, endlessly fiddling, tinkering, testing. The next two weeks we were scheduled for classes and seminars. Everyone was up in arms, of course – not enough time to do your job and now this stuff we didn’t want in the first place. Made me proud of my father, though, how far ahead of the game he had been.

Alan was going on. Down the road maybe it makes sense. I don’t know – here they are talking satellites and I’m still trying to figure out the bloody fax machine. Next they’ll be replacing linotype with computers, for God’s sake. Three years it’ll all come together, they say. Just in time for 1984! Won’t that be grand!

After digesting that piece of reality pie I stopped by to chat with Fred Mueller. Keep it under your hat, he said, but Tom’s meeting with the troops next week. He’s going to announce layoffs, first we’ve ever had.

I whistled.

You and I are safe for now. They figure people who read the business pages can still afford a dime.

Where are they going to cut?

The soft stuff. Not sports, that’s sacred. Not City and Region, can’t afford to lose Joe Sixpack or Westchester. We may use wire services more for national news, close some bureaus – that’s a possibility.

Not international, I trust.

No, but we’ll be more selective. What does Sidney or Rio contribute we couldn’t get cheaper some other way?

I’ve been talking with Alan, same story. It’s been a pretty grim day around here.

If you’d just take my advice about that editor’s job. Maybe you could help us get through this mess if you were in management.

I shook my head. Not ready for that.

As advertised, the next week saw a very uncomfortable Tom O’Connor standing on a packing crate in the City Room, telling the largest assemblage of Gazette employees I’d ever seen what management was doing to save the paper. A ten percent pay cut for officers and management for starters, five for other non-union staff. He’d asked the unions for the same. Twenty management jobs axed and if the unions didn’t agree to cuts, thirty news staff as well. An early retirement package was being readied.

Fred must have been clued in ahead. Wednesday’s Food section would go, the twice-weekly Fashion spread. Society pages, Weddings and Engagements, Interior Design, to be combined in a new Sunday Life and Living section. Music & Dance would be reduced, but Obits – the Irish Sports Pages – were untouchable. We’d close ten cities, cover them from the nearest surviving bureau. Others would be downgraded – Rio, Sidney, Nairobi, Johannesburg. We’d rely more on AP, UPI, syndicated material.

Frank Flaherty stood up. The wire services are expensive, he groused, and you never know what you’re going to get.

When we need depth we’ll still send our people. I hate to do this, O’Connor went on, a sad expression on his face, but we need to tighten our belts. On the bright side, the move to computers, he waved his arm around the construction, that’ll mean significant cost savings for production, not to mention streamlining our newsgathering and editing. We’re also counting on a big boost in classifieds. They’ll be a lot easier to use.

That does it for the cuts? Flaherty asked.

For now, if things pan out. Otherwise, I won’t lie to you, we’ll be back here again.

Keep this up, Ed Foley complained, "you won’t recognize what the hell’s left. Whatever it is, it won’t be the Gazette."

We won’t let that happen, Ed. We’ll shut it down first.

What about selling the paper? I mean, that’s a lousy idea, but if you could find somebody who respects what we stand for...

Somebody with a pile of money, Ed Fiore shouted. Nobody laughed.

We’re finding those two qualities to be mutually inconsistent, O’Connor replied, but yes, we have feelers out. We’ll keep you posted, to the extent we can.

As the meeting broke up, I went over to Fred. You had it pegged.

Tom has the mistaken idea I have something to say, so they rope me into these discussions. They are no fun, I’ll tell you.

Since you’re on the inside, let me bounce something off you. About who might be our White Knight, if I can call it that.

What are you hearing?

Rudolph Latimer.

A wan smile flickered across Fred’s face. He shook his head. We’ve known each other how long, Paul, ten years?

Sounds about right.

"The day that bandit goes on our masthead is the day I walk out of here. He is the absolute antithesis of everything the Gazette stands for. At least that’s my going-in position."

Hey, I’m not promoting it, I said. The walls talk. Latimer has come up.

I won’t say there haven’t been conversations. Give that editors’ job some serious thought. The timing might be right. When things are in flux, people move up.

Battlefield promotions. Been there, done that, but thanks for the advice.

I hadn’t yet told Diane about the turmoil, but Tom’s announcement was going to hit tomorrow’s page one so I figured I’d better. After the kids were in bed I laid it out for her.

Do you think they’ll sell the paper?

It’s a possibility. Then I mentioned Latimer.

I just don’t see you working for someone like him.

Me either.

Diane got up and checked on Paul who’d been fussy the last few days with a cold. She came back with two nightcaps. You’re under a lot of strain, I’ve noticed it recently.

It’s a tough time. When the organization’s going bad it affects everybody.

There’s more to it than that. I think you’re getting bored.

That took me aback. I didn’t know it was so obvious.

I can read you. Sometimes.

I nodded. "Lately I’ve been thinking about things.