The President of the United States doesn’t just go somewhere. Security is simply crazy! The assholes who want to kill him are numbered in the thousands or more. When he flies off to someplace, it’s not just him but an entourage of hundreds of people. For instance, my flight to Jackson for Harlan’s funeral (the closest big city to Buckminster) would involve the following. An advance team of Secret Service agents would head down a couple of days before to scout out Jackson and Buckminster. The local cops would be called in and informed about what was happening and what would be required. The Secret Service got first call on all resources. If the locals were chasing a crazed serial killer and the Secret Service wanted the manpower, the serial killer would be left on the loose.
I wasn’t planning on staying overnight, but if I was, they would find a room and set up security. That would probably involve agents investigating every employee and guest of the hotel and checking his or her name against various watch lists of local wackos. Rooms would be cleared out, reservations would be cancelled for other guests, and service deliveries would be investigated. Dozens of agents might be involved.
Prior to Air Force One showing up, one or two C-5 Galaxies would arrive, carrying the armored limo and a bunch of armored Chevrolet Suburban security SUVs, known as ‘War Wagons’. Fuel would be bought for the planes, tested for safety, and then stored in tanker trucks with armed guards around it. Helicopters for local flights might be ferried in or packed into the C-5s for reassembly on site. Doctors would be present. In some places food and water are brought in. This was all choreographed to look seamless — the Big Man flies in and things are ready to go. Mind you, this was for friendly visits. If I was going someplace unfriendly, it was worse! Then, it would all be packed up and leave for the next trip to someplace else.
It could be worse sometimes. George Will once reported that when George Bush came to his house for a dinner party, advance teams of agents descended on his neighborhood and ordered his neighbors, under pain of arrest, to leave their yards and go inside their houses and stay there. It was insane. As a result, the President is practically a prisoner in the White House. There is a reason they have a movie theater in the White House — it is incredibly difficult for the President to actually get in a car and take his wife to the movies otherwise! It’s actually cheaper to build him a theater than it is to go out on the town.
It isn’t this crazy for the Vice President. He’s just another spare part, nice to have around until the machine breaks. Otherwise, one is as good as another. There had been plans to get rid of me and bring in somebody more docile, or smarter, or more bloodthirsty. Now I had to get my own spare part lined up.
On Sunday Marilyn and I took Marine One up to Camp David. I had never been there before. The Presidential Retreat is actually a rustic cabin complex up near Thurmont in the Catoctins. That I wasn’t invited before was due to two factors. First, Presidents are pretty picky about who goes there; they tend to think of it as their personal playground. Second, I was not on the favorites list with Bush and his closest people. He might have to put up with me in Washington, but not up there. Once there it was the first chance we had to see the Bush family since the tragedy. Everybody was present, George H.W. and Barbara, Laura and the girls, and most of the other kids and grandkids. George told me that they would stay up there until the Thursday ceremonies, and then go back to Texas. Laura and the girls wouldn’t be coming back to the White House. I replied that we wouldn’t move in until after the ceremonies. There was no point in being rude about it. I did have a chance to talk to Jeb and a few of the older grandsons, some of whom seemed interested in getting into politics on their own. This family was the Republican version of the Kennedys, though without all the drama.
The schedule that week was, for want of a better word, horrid. I would be officially mourning the entire week, from Sunday on, speechifying, shaking hands, looking somber, meeting every dignitary and VIP under the Sun, at least 25 or 26 hours every day. The current plan was to do Harlan’s funeral on Monday and fly back that afternoon. The official Bush funeral ceremonies would start on Tuesday and conclude Thursday. The only one I really wanted to be at was Harlan’s, which was the one I got the most grief over from everybody else on the planet. How dare I visit a private funeral this week? How could I pick this funeral and not any of the others? What makes this guy more deserving than anybody else? I dumped it into Ari Fleischer’s lap. He could tell people that while I knew there were going to be thousands of individual ceremonies and sendoffs, my duties would allow me only two, one for a ‘common man’ — Harlan — and one for a ‘great man’ — the President. He needed to polish that turd up and get a few people to start spinning the story.
Monday morning Marilyn and I flew out at the crack of dawn. The girls were back in school in Hereford and Charlie was back at Camp Lejeune, and everybody probably had lots of stories to tell. Tessa was staying at the house keeping an eye on the girls. We were met in Jackson by the Governor of Mississippi, a fellow I had never met before named Ronnie Musgrove, and all the Mississippi Senators and Congressmen. None of them had ever met or heard of Harlan until I came to bury him, and all of them had wonderful things to say about him. I almost lost my lunch. I whispered to Marilyn, “Do you hear that high pitched whirring sound?”
She gave me a confused look. “No.”
“It’s the sound of Harlan spinning in his grave, and he’s not even there yet!”
That simply earned me a subtle nudge in the side.
From Jackson we rode in a convoy to Buckminster. I allowed Musgrove and an aide to travel with me. The rest of them could find rides of their own! They actually had a couple of deluxe motor coaches, giant luxury buses, to haul their important butts around. I knew there would be cameras and video crews and press around for this, and I had warned Anna Lee that by my showing up, things could get crazy. She still wanted us there, and said that she’d throw people out if they got out of control. I was traveling with Carter, on his first foray into press control. We came up with a few rules. A single video camera inside the church, along with no more than a half dozen reporters. Anybody who acted up would be escorted to the local jail, where they could call their lawyer. The same applied to the politicians. I mentioned this in passing to the Governor, in a joking manner, but I wasn’t really smiling and I suggested he pass it along to some of the other dignitaries.
I wasn’t really surprised to find that there was a real zoo outside of the Buckminster African Baptist Church. As I looked out the window as we pulled up in front, I could see a line of State Troopers and local cops keeping a solid wall of reporters back. Hovering around everything was a cloud of Secret Service agents, all looking important, wearing dark sunglasses and talking into their sleeves. One of the agents in the limo began talking back, and after a bit, we were allowed out. Needless to say, everyone started yelling questions at me, and needless to say, I just ignored them. I did, however, notice a face I needed to speak to, in a small group near the door to the church.
I turned to the Governor and said, “Gentlemen, I am sure you can find a seat inside. Meanwhile, I need to talk to a few people first.” Then I turned away, dismissing them. It might have been a little rude, but I couldn’t deal with any more bullshit today. I took Marilyn by the hand and went towards the little group at the door.