Everyone soon piled into a fancy Marine helicopter for the trip to Camp David.

The low man on the totem pole has some advantages. For starters, he can observe; he doesn’t have to show off who he is. So Horner relaxed in the helicopter and watched Schwarzkopf and Powell do a power dance together, as they worked to establish their territory and power base, and made sure that they were recognized for their expertise in military matters and that, in the meeting to come, the Defense Secretary wouldn’t take off on his own. Though Cheney was in charge, the senior uniformed types (as always) did their best to keep the civilian leadership from making military decisions on their own.

Thus, Schwarzkopf ’s body language said to Powell, “You may be the Chairman, Colin, but the Middle East is my theater and I work for Secretary Cheney.” Thanks to Goldwater-Nichols, the CINC had a direct, unmediated working connection with the Secretary of Defense, making the Chairman hardly more than an adviser—though an extremely powerful and influential one. Powell’s body language, on the other hand, said to Schwarzkopf: “Norm, let me guide you through this political maze.” And to Cheney: “Dick, don’t reach any conclusions about using military force until I get a chance to convince you about what should be done. And for God’s sake, don’t go to Norm direct” . . . despite the chain of command. All the while, Horner wondered if his own body language said what he hoped it said: “Here’s the Joe Cool fighter pilot delighted to have such a beautiful day to fly up and see George, Dan, and the boys in the cabinet. Hope they’ll like Chuckie.”

CAMP DAVID

Camp David turned out to be comfortable, but not luxurious—it had earth-tone colors, a musty odor (like a mostly vacant summer cabin), government-issue hardwood tables, overstuffed brown vinyl sofas, and brass lamps. Since the windows were small and looked out onto the surrounding forest, and their light was only partially supplemented by lamps on end tables, it was dim inside.

Soon after their arrival, Horner and Schwarzkopf went into the conference room to check it out before they had to perform—to reconnoiter the battlefield. As Horner remembers it, the room was wood-paneled, with a neutral-colored office-style carpet on the floor. The meeting table could hold about twenty to thirty people around it, and there were chairs along the walls for straphangers (like him). An overhead slide projector sat on a small table near the right forward edge of the main table, and a portable screen was parked a few feet away in a corner of the room.

While the CINC stepped out to find a breath mint (their mouths being in full rebellion against the previous night’s coffee and stress), Horner was alone until the first attendee entered. He knew the face . . . it was remarkably youthful; the man looked to be about seventeen years old. True to his Iowa upbringing, Horner did as his mother taught, crossed the room, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, Dan, I’m Chuck,” to the Vice President of the United States, Dan Quayle.