Blind Ambition: The End of the Story Read Free Page A

even glancing at my face. I stopped at the top of the boarding ramp to look back at the crew while the chopper pilot gunned the engine. I decided I had handled my escalating headiness fairly well. I had been cool, had controlled my excitement, yet had managed a little hustling. Well, I thought, if nothing else came of this trip I could at least call the stewardess whose name and phone number I had managed to acquire. I figured I wouldn’t have any trouble getting a date—she must be wondering just who I was. I was wondering the same thing.
    The pilot asked me if I’d ever been in a helicopter before. I told him yes, in military helicopters much like his, except not as plush. Shortly after I went to work at the Justice Department, the senior officials had gone through a nuclear evacuation drill, and a helicopter had whisked us to a secret subterranean retreat where we would operate the government in the event of a real attack. Also, I had once surveyed an antiwar demonstration from a helicopter. I preferred not to think about those previous trips, because now I was relishing the glamour without the unsettling idea of living like a mole under scorched earth or of watching police bang heads.
    As we headed south toward San Clemente, the pilot pointed out landmarks and towns along the coast: the drydocked Queen Mary, being converted into a hotel but looking from the air like an old and rusting toy; the indistinguishable beach towns of Newport and Laguna; and hundreds of white dots on the water, the luxury boats marking the leisure and wealth that abound in Southern California. We landed at a helicopter pad a few miles from the Western White House, and I was driven to “the compound” by another Marine corporal. The grounds and the buildings looked like the campus of a well-endowed small college. I heard my driver receive instructions on his two-way radio to take me to the “admin building,” where Higby was waiting.
    Higby asked if I would like to freshen up before I met Mr. Haldeman. My God, I thought, I’m meeting with Haldeman tonight. As I splashed cold water on my face, I realized I was tired from the trip and from the meal and the drinks on the flight. I began thinking, maybe I am really too interested in this job, maybe that’s the wrong frame of mind. I suspect it is the fear of failure or rejection that sets off this defense mechanism in me before any interview. I wanted to make a mental adjustment. I would have to collect my thoughts fast, and I would have to start telling myself I did not even want to work at the White House.
    I was still working on convincing myself later in Haldeman’s outer office, when Haldeman emerged. We had never met before, but when he saw me he bounded across the small reception area, his right hand extended, a broad smile on his face. Athletically built, with crew-cut hair, and deeply tanned skin, he looked like a college football coach recruiting a new player—not like the awesome ramrod of the President’s guard I had heard so much about. And he seemed genuinely pleased to meet me, which caught me off guard.
    “I’m Bob Haldeman,” he said. I was faced with a split-second decision on how to respond. I didn’t want to become trapped as I had with Mitchell, whom I still called “Mr. Mitchell” or “General.” Even though our relationship was now informal, I could not pull myself over the mental hurdle to call him John. I doubt that he would have been offended, but he had never invited me to change, either. The pattern, I thought, had been fixed at our first meeting. I wanted to do better with Haldeman. His unexpected pleasantness pushed my resolve over the edge.
    “Bob,” I replied, “it’s nice to meet you.” That took care of that.
    Since he did not seem put off by my informality, I was heartened enough to comment on his suntan.
    “Well, don’t get the idea that all we do out here is lie around in the sun,” he said with a smile. Haldeman usually managed a tan.