In my very first childhood memory, my father made me stand at attention and salute the television set. The funeral of President Kennedy was on the screen, and being the exact same age as his son John-John, I was told to repeat the little boy’s heart-wrenching tribute as the flag-draped coffin rode by.
Ever since that day, I’ve been fascinated by the life and times of JFK. What follows is an excerpt of a story I’m working on, which prominently features you-know-who:
Hunter Hawthorne was staring at a gilt wall-mounted eagle in an anteroom of the West Wing when a fetching young secretary appeared out of nowhere and uttered the words that produced an instant lump in his throat: “The President will see you now.”
Without hesitation, Hunter stepped into the Oval Office and stood perfectly still before the leader of the free world. The man behind the Resolute desk continued going over some papers and gave no acknowledgement of his visitor. He then abruptly pulled back his chair, and subjected Hawthorne to the unsettling scrutiny of his piercing blue eyes.
After a seeming eternity, the Commander-in-Chief flashed his famous grin and inquired, “Hunter Hawthorne?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Hunter, what time is it now? Quarter to noon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Close enough. Grab yourself a Heineken and pull up a seat. They’re in that little fridge over there. And get me one too, while you’re at it.” Whatever tension there was in the air evaporated with a wink. Jack Kennedy knew how to work a room even when there were just two people in it.
After clinking bottles, the two men got down to business. “Hunter, I’ve been hearing good things about you from my people at Langley, and they better be true, because this is a job that demands success. No other outcome will be acceptable. Are you interested?”
“There’s nothing else I’d rather do, sir.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” There was that grin again. “Now Hunter, you know my fondness for the space program. The best public relations gift of all time. I love those boys. They’re fearless. We zip ‘em into silver suits, strap ‘em on top of ICBMs, and then we blast ‘em off into orbit.”
“Incredible, sir.”
“You’re darn right it is. And we’re winning! We’re winning the goddam space race. We were so far behind it wasn’t funny. A national disgrace. They caught us with our pants down, and now we’re pulling ahead, fair and square. And guess who isn’t too happy about that.”
“I would say the Russians, sir.”
“Yes, our good friends are at it again. The Russkies are a permanent boil on my ass. I’m still perturbed about that last little stunt they pulled in Cuba.”
“You handled the missile crisis exceptionally well, sir.”
“LeMay wanted to send ‘em to kingdom come. His SAC bombers were ready to go, but I wouldn’t authorize it. Khrushchev would wipe out the entire Eastern Seaboard first. “Not a good quid pro quo. Besides,” JFK said with a gleam in his eye, “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor, sir.”
“No truer words were ever spoken. But here’s the thing. The rigor of spaceflight puts my boys under tremendous pressure. They have to exceed the limits of physical and mental endurance. So, they can be forgiven if they want to let off some steam with some female companionship from time to time.”
“I completely understand, sir.”
“I should hope so. I’ve been known to seek the same sort of relief for my migraines—especially when Jackie’s off to Europe on one of her shopping trips.”
“You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, sir.”
“Indeed, I do.” This time, the smile was bemused. You could see his thoughts trail off for an instant, contemplating the statement’s truth, only to snap back to the matter at hand.
“Hunter, I’m giving you an undercover job. I want you to keep tabs on who our astronaut corps is spending their time with when they’re off the clock. I’m not asking you to be a chaperone. But I do want you to make sure things stay discreet.”
“Got it, sir; you want to keep their after-hours out of the press.”
“There’s more to it than that. Life magazine only prints what we tell them to. I’m more interested in preserving state secrets. We all know that the Soviets have spies installed in and around Cape Canaveral, just like they did at Los Alamos. It’s the burden of living in a free society.”
“Any knowledge of who they are, sir?”
“No, but you’re going to find out. Even though security is tight, I wouldn’t doubt they’ve infiltrated NASA. They could be on the government payroll. Or they could be locals. And some may be wrapped up in a very pleasing package. Even though they’re sworn to secrecy, my boys are only human. I don’t want any late-night pillow talk getting back to Moscow.”
“I’ll be your eyes and ears, sir.”
“Excellent. When you get back to the Farm, Winston Sloane will brief you on next steps. Then once you’re down at the Cape, I want a detailed report on my desk every week. If a Russian operative lets out so much as a fart, I want to know about it. I can’t allow anything to sabotage this program.”
“Mister President, you have my word.”
“That’s all for now, Hunter. But I do want to leave you with one last bit of advice—the same advice my father gave me when I landed this job.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“Don’t fuck it up.” A final wink.
With a firm farewell handshake, the meeting was over. Striding past the White House lawn, Hawthorne assessed his marching orders, and the man who just gave them.
He couldn’t believe how impossibly cool that man was. He was a war hero. He never took a bad photograph. He had a glamorous wife, two beautiful kids, and as everyone in Central Intelligence knew, he was more than friends with Marilyn Monroe.
Even that indiscretion was somehow patriotic. At the pinnacle of fame, Marilyn wasn’t just the biggest star in Hollywood. Like Coca-Cola, she was America itself. And as Chief Executive, Jack was all too willing to make sure her needs were answered.
