The crisis of the Mayaguez was the old-fashioned variety, the kind that men of power in Washington, most of whom are graduates of the cold war, could understand and relish, and they did.
It was a lovely bit of rascality—brief, definable, rightly punishable and done on the high seas, where U.S. men and machines still reign. The White House in its spring splendor looked like a Hollywood set. With somber visages and firm jaws, the actors hurried through the mellow night in their sleek black limousines. House Speaker Carl Albert, 5 ft. 5 in. tall, seemed at least 5 ft. 8 in. as he pondered American prestige on the White House steps. Senator John Sparkman was besieged by reporters after the President had told him the scenario for recapturing the ship and its crew. Others—Milton Young, Bob Wilson, Tip O'Neill, Robert Griffin—slipped off into the dusk with their beautiful secret. They whispered for everyone to wait a couple of hours—then we would know. It was going to be an American kind of show.
Men in tuxedos appeared on the White House lawn. There was to be a formal dinner for Dutch Prime Minister loop den Uyl. That too is in the finest crisis tradition. Uniforms, charts and black coffee gave way to starched white shirts, champagne and music. Life goes on. Where was F. Scott Fitzgerald?
Marvin Kalb, Rod MacLeish and other pundits were there, stoically abandoning the Georgetown dinner table and families for duty and the whiff of uncoiling power. For two crisis days, Secretary of State Henry Kissinger had been in the Midwest, marinating in the heartland legend of Harry Truman. No better preparation for the moment of action. He had visited Bess Truman in the old family home in Independence, Mo., and heard a Truman neighbor shout: "Give 'em hell, Henry!" On the big crisis night, Kissinger, back in his Washington office, paced, ordering, listening, waiting. He flashed the V sign out the window once, and then, humor fully restored in the exhilaration of action, he made a lunging movement toward the window as he began to peel off his coat—Henry K into Super K. Deep laughter from the onlookers, buoyed up by the old-style American confidence, echoed up Pennsylvania Avenue.
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In the Pentagon, as the generals and admirals went briskly about something they understood, long, languorous James Schlesinger, Secretary of Defense, paced and puffed on his pipe. He quoted Shakespeare and wore a melancholy mask some of the time because in his world, men would have to shed blood, not clichés.
"They [the Cambodians] take one small step," he said, rising from his chair and taking one step in demonstration. "And then if they get away with it, they will say," the Secretary cupped his hand and shouted in muted tones, " 'Hey, look at us!' Then they will take another step." He took a larger step in front of the huge table that had been used by William Tecumseh Sherman, the man who ravaged Atlanta. "Hey, look at me!" he shouted louder.