In front of the TV set in Frank Simon's office, Hugh Ulanski of the UPI snorted. "What the hell is this, anyway-a new weather forecast program?" The crowd of reporters snickered. Simon growled, "Shut up, Hugh."
I would not take your time today for anything less than a question of grave concern to every American. For some of us in the White House, this has been a week of heavy trial, and in some respects of heartbreak and deep disappointment. There are three matters on which I felt it was my duty to report to you without delay.
In an Italian mountain village, Vice-President Vincent Gianelli sat at an ancient wooden table in a café. Gianelli cocked his head in puzzlement as he listened to the President on his little portable radio. What was this all about? That Gallup Poll must've shaken Jordan Lyman up more than he realized.
First, I must announce with regret that I have today asked the Attorney General to prepare to go into court on Monday morning to seek an injunction to end the missile strikes. I realize that responsible segments of organized labor-and that includes, of course, the vast majority of working men and women, as well as their union leaders-are as distressed about these work stoppages as I am. I appreciate the efforts of President Lindsay of the AFL-CIO and his colleagues. But the strike still continues, and it is my responsibility to protect the national interest. In this critical time there can be no gambling with the safety of the United States.
In his new, rambling home in suburban Maryland Cliff Lindsay rose from his chair in a flush of anger. "Double-cross," he muttered to himself. "He gave me until Monday and now he's beat me out of forty-eight hours." Lindsay stamped to the telephone to call the head of the Teamsters on the West Coast.
In his bombproof underground office at Vandenberg Missile base, General George Seager, overseer of the nation's intercontinental missiles, nodded his head grudgingly. Cancellation of the alert had come last night, and this morning a rumor came through the Air Force grapevine that Jim Scott had been fired. But, thank God, the President was showing some steel at last on these strikes. It was about time. Seager moved his chair closer to the TV set. What about Operation Preakness?
Second, my fellow Americans, I must inform you that a most critical problem has arisen with regard to the nuclear disarmament treaty recently ratified by the Senate. It is so serious as to raise doubts whether the implementation of the treaty can begin, as scheduled, on July first.
Senator Frederick Prentice of California listened to his car radio as he drove his Thunderbird convertible along Route 9 toward the Blue Ridge-and Mount Thunder. He had spent the night at his hilltop cabin north of Leesburg, a retreat without a telephone where he went to relax. Now, by prearrangement with General Scott, he was on his way to Mount Thunder to help give the nation the firm leadership it deserved. It will not serve you now, Jordan Lyman, to have second thoughts about that treaty. The fat's in the fire, and you're too late.
Security prohibits me from discussing the exact nature of this problem. All I can say now is that I hope to resolve it. We must resolve it, and do so quickly, if we are to be able to see this treaty, for which we all have such great hopes, go into effect. Therefore, two days ago I asked our ambassador in Moscow to request Chairman Feemerov to meet me at once. He has agreed, and I plan to meet him Wednesday in Vienna.
At the office of United Press International a few blocks from the White House a news editor swung away from his TV set and shouted to a teletype operator waiting a few feet away: "Bulletin. President will meet Feemerov in Vienna Wednesday." In the Associated Press office on Connecticut Avenue two precious seconds were saved, for the bureau chief himself sat at the "A" wire teletype. When he heard Lyman's announcement, his fingers hurried over the keyboard:
FLASH
LYMAN MEETS FEEMEROV
IN VIENNA WEDNESDAY.
The bureau chief turned back to his TV set-but stayed by the teletype.
I shall be accompanied by the Secretary of State and others of my associates. We go with concern, of course, but I say to you-and to others who may hear me- that we go without fear. I have every hope that the meeting will resolve the problems that have arisen, and that the treaty will go into effect at Los Alamos and Semipalatinsk as planned on July 1. I regret that I can say no more on this matter at the present time.
In his office at the Central Intelligence Agency, across the Potomac River in Virginia, Saul Lieberman nodded his head approvingly. Just right. The odds are ten to one against success, but we can try. Lyman was good on this one. He's a real clutch hitter, all right.
In a Louisville hospital room Doris Lyman reached over to the bed and took her daughter's hand. "Oh, Liz. I should have gone home yesterday." Elizabeth replied quietly: "You go this afternoon, Mom. I'm all right now."
In a long, high-ceilinged room in the Kremlin, thin shadows stretched in the fading Moscow twilight. Premier Feemerov cocked his bushy head to listen to the translation. The satellite relay system was working perfectly today, and he could study the American President's features on the television screen as the interpreter spoke rapidly. Does Lyman know of Yakutsk? No, that's impossible. He must have some trick of his own up his sleeve.
And now I turn to the third subject which I must discuss with you today. I do so with a heavy heart, for an event has occurred which has disturbed me more than any other since I took up the duties of this office.
It is no secret to any of you that the ratification of the nuclear disarmament treaty inspired a national debate even more vigorous than the one over the original signing of that instrument.
Stewart Dillard, sitting on the porch of his fashionable Chevy Chase home, turned to his wife and chuckled: "It sure wasn't any secret around this house. Lyman should have heard the ruckus Fred Prentice kicked up on the lawn Sunday night." Francine Dillard pouted, "Well, I got nothing but compliments on the party next day, Stew."
Morton Freeman sat in his New York apartment and glowered at a TV set. Wait'll Lyman hears doll-baby MacPherson tonight, he thought, and he'll think the last couple of months have been a finger-painting duel in a nursery. Why wouldn't that Fascist bastard let me have a look at his script for tonight? Somebody ought to castrate him.
It was not the argument that you carried on in your homes and offices, nor the public debate that took place in the Senate, that disturbed me. That is the way this country decides, and we pray that it may ever be so. But hidden from public view, there developed also a bitter opposition to the treaty among some of our highest military leaders.
"Here it comes," Milky Waters whispered to the reporter sitting next to him in Simon's office. "Ten will get you twenty General Scott gets the ax." His colleague looked at Waters in bewilderment. "Scott?"
In the Cabinet room, Clark watched Lyman and thought: Don't rush this now, Jordie, or you'll panic them. Take it slow and easy.
I should take a moment here to explain my own concept of the civilian-military relationship under our system of government. I deeply believe, as I know the overwhelming majority of Americans do, that our military leaders-tempered by battle, matured by countless command decisions, dedicating their entire lives to the service of the nation-should always be afforded every opportunity to speak their views. In the case of the treaty, they were of course given that opportunity.
Admiral Lawrence Palmer, seated at his desk in the Pentagon suite of the chief of Naval Operations, nodded to the aide who sat beside him. "He's right about that," he said. "I testified against it at least five times." The aide protested: "But, sir, they were all executive sessions." Palmer agreed: "Sure. But I got listened to where it counted."