We had enough accomplished by lunchtime that Gerson and Scully were able to issue a few press releases, basically that I was now in a position to respond to the insane allegations that the Clinton-Gore campaign were hurling against me, and that I would be making a speech in front of the Justice Department Tuesday morning. We were practically daring them to come after us. By the end of the day, we had new talking points and speeches written. Increasingly, as the day wore on, the news coverage was turning our way. Several more of the guys who had dropped into Nicaragua had either been found or come forth, and all of them were backing up the story told on 60 Minutes. The MP guard who had strung me up had even been tracked down, along with his prison record and proof of employment in the late 1990s as a mercenary overseas. The story was practically writing itself!
I stayed in town that night, huddling with Scully, Frank, Marty, and Brewster McRiley into the wee hours. We figured the Justice Department was not going to be amused by my giving a speech on their doorstep. Would they shut us down? What would we do then? What if they let us go, but then tried to stop us? What if they decided to serve me with a subpoena or a warrant or take me in for questioning on the spot? I called Tucker and asked him to be there in the background just in case.
We did the speech on the side of the building on Constitution Avenue, across from the National Museum of Natural History. The sidewalk was wide and we had enough room for cameras and reporters. We provided a podium and stand for me to set up a little higher than normal, and for once, I was using my cane at a public event. Most of the time I would leave it behind and try and conceal the limp. Not today — today it was ‘proof’ of my heroism. All the networks and news channels were present, along with a number of print reporters. Off to the side and out of camera range, I could see several glowering people from the Justice Department.
I gave my speech, and then opened up for a few questions. Most were pretty much expected, and were ones that we had hammered out during the prep session the other day with Dick Cheney. I might not like the guy, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t learn from him. We got the obvious ones: Why did I think the Gore campaign was behind this? (The Clinton-Gore campaign is behind it; Bill Clinton hates me.) What proof did I have? (Doesn’t the timing seem suspicious? Who had access to classified information?) How do we know you haven’t paid the soldiers off somehow? (All of them? For almost 20 years? Without getting caught?) Why aren’t you cooperating with the investigation? (What investigation? There is no investigation?! The Judge Advocate General investigated this in 1981. Where are the results of that investigation?) Would I turn myself in to the Nicaraguans for a fair trial? (No!) At that point I shut down the idiot question session and we put an end to things.
I had a lousy taste in my mouth from all of this. I was the only guy who actually knew what I had done back then, who knew that Fairfax, the lying schmuck, had been absolutely correct. I couldn’t lie to myself. I had killed those four drug runners in cold blood. I had known what I was doing, and I had known the consequences if I failed to do it, and I had known the consequences if I got caught. At the time it seemed like I had gotten away with it. I got the men home and we didn’t get into a border incident with the Sandinistas, but now the Sandinistas were screaming for my head and we were in an international incident with them anyway. I had been able to duck it so far, but the consequences were coming back to haunt me.
Worse, what was happening to me? What was worse, that I had killed those men then, or that I was using their deaths now to gain political office? What kind of psychopath had I become?
Chapter 134: Attack Dog
The plan at that point was for me to resume a normal touring and speaking schedule, but for the time being, limit myself to strongly Republican areas where I wouldn’t be challenged on this. Matt Scully was redoing the standard stump speech and would be traveling with me to edit it as new information came in. We would work up a healthy portion of outrage into the speech based on this, with me attacking Bill Clinton at every conceivable moment. Ignore John Kerry; damn Bill Clinton; Al Gore is Clinton Light. Pound on those three items. We were flying out in the morning for stops in Boise and Helena.
I went over to my office in the Capitol and called Marilyn at the end shortly before dinner to fill her in on the latest. I told her I would spend the night in D.C. and then fly out west in the morning. After that, I worked several hours making phone calls to various committee chairmen to let them know I wasn’t dead yet, and was in fact showing surprising levels of life. Then I went home. I ordered in a pizza and decided to have a few beers for dinner. It had been a long day. Then it got a little strange. My cell phone rang and when I answered it, it was an Army colonel. “Congressman Buckman?”
“Yes.”
“I am Colonel Andrew McFaggin from the Chief of Staff’s office.”
I could feel my brow wrinkling at that. “Who?”
“Colonel Andrew…”
“I got that part, Colonel. Which Chief of Staff?”
“General Shinseki, sir. The Army Chief of Staff,” he explained.
“Not Shelton?” Hugh Shelton was a four star general and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the most senior leaders of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines. Eric Shinseki was currently the Army Chief of Staff, one of those senior leaders.
“No, sir, not General Shelton.”
“How can I help you, Colonel?”
“Sir, can I come over to see you?”
What was going on? “You know where I live? Come on over. I’m having some pizza and beer. Hustle and it might still be warm. The pizza, I mean, not the beer.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” The colonel hung up on me and I was left to ponder what the Chief of Staff could want with me. For the life of me I couldn’t remember much about Shinseki. I must have met him at a cocktail party or something, but if we had ever actually had a conversation, I couldn’t remember it. Shelton I remembered as being a bit more politician than general, but I suppose at that level you have to be. The same was probably true of Shinseki.
About ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and an officer in a dress uniform was shown into the kitchen. “Congressman Buckman?”
I stood and shook his hand. “Colonel. Welcome.” Before he got started, I turned to a cabinet and pulled a plate out, and slid it across to him. Then I pulled another beer from the fridge. “Here, have something to eat. I’ll never finish this, and I’m flying out in the morning. You can help.”
“Uh, thank you, sir.” I don’t think the colonel had been actually expecting pizza and beer, but he put a slice on his plate and opened the beer.
I pointed at a bar stool. “Sit. What can I do for you, Colonel?”
He swallowed the bite he was working on and said, “Congressman, I am here on behalf of General Shinseki. He asked me to give you some information, and he asked me to ask you to come to the Pentagon in the morning.”
“Well, I’m all ears, Colonel, but I’m on an early morning flight to Boise in the morning. I’m scheduled for a campaign tour,” I told him.
“Sir, the General was hoping that you would change your schedule.”
“You’d better explain that, Colonel,” I replied.