…to whom it may concern:

     Even computer printers have their limitations. The attached letter takes 35 minutes to print, hence cannot be customized too greatly except at the cost of lots of times.

     For this reason, I have chosen to Xox the letter detailing my recent adventures, which was set up for my next "gotta" correspondence.

     If this makes me appear a cheap bastard, well, I've been called worse.

     Hi, Guys!

           ... Well, back to the continuing adventures of Tom Clancy, boy-writer. … I had lunch in the Pentagon, with VADM N——— T———, OP-02 (Deputy Chief of Naval Operations for Submarine Warfare). They reserved me a "mall entrance" (demi-VIP) parking space, and I went diddy-boppin' over. I still say that the Pentagon is the IDEAL place to play Dungeons and Dragons, a thoroughly depressing building. Some nice paintings and ship models, though. The security force is not marines, but rather the Federal Protective Service, looking very militant in their FPS baseball hats and SWAT-type uniforms. Right. They might frighten off the Fuller Brush Man.
      OP-02 occupies room 4E524. Fourth floor ("deck"), E (outermost) ring. Actually a small suite of rooms. He does not have the gollywog display system, of course, but does have a largish map (12x12) of the world, and another of the Arctic Ocean--"we're doing a lot under the ice now. It's public information that we've had four boats surface in the ice this year."
      Oh?
      T——— is 50ish, taller than my 6-1 (must have left his blood on lots of submarine hatches), and manifestly has enough confidence to run a small galaxy. He gave me a largish (and quite heavy) plaque with a pair of brass dolphins on it, making me an official honorary submariner. I was surprised. Stunned. And pleased as hell. His aide then ran it down to my car.
      So, we went off to lunch, down the E-ring. Suddenly a captain pulled open a door, and in I went to find five (5) other admirals (****, ***, ***, ***, and ***, plus my *** escort). The CNO Dining Room. Captains and dogs not allowed. Where did that leave me…
      SCOTTIE, BEAM ME UP!  
      Nobody warned me.
      I got a glass of sherry--thimble glass, you just get used to the bouquet and it's gone; but good stuff--to steady down, and started answering questions from the Vice-CNO (James Watkins was out of town) and other luminaries.
      Guys, I'm talking stark terror. There I was, a culture on a petrie dish being examined by the professors of Johns Hopkins Medical School. All looked different, but , of course, alike too. Mid-50s, stern-looking--these are people accustomed to having their whims performed with alacrity--but civilized. Very tough-minded chaps. I made a quick sweep of the salad bars and counted a pair of Navy Crosses and enough Silver Stars to handle the smartest first grade class in history. One stark impression: If you want to play cards with them, leave the checkbook home. Well, they liked my explanation for why the Russian subs spend so much time on the surface (cabbage), and my two favorite Lawyer jokes. I asked a few judicious questions, and got very interesting answers. (of course, you listen most closely to what is not said, right?) On the whole an interesting, though somewhat tense, hour or two it was. Glad it happened: Now I know I can handle meeting Ronnie. Sure, he's more important, but there's only one of him!
      Went immediately to Annapolis to show them my trophy--I am hugely pleased with that 30-pound monster! Got caught by an AP interviewer there. Time runs it this week. The guys in Annapolis lit off the 5th printing, and we've had a nibble from a movie producer. One of the things I asked T——— was whether he'd cooperate with a movie/TV production of Hunt. He answered with a qualified yes.

     The next week passed unremarkably. This week, 3/4-8, turned out to be a busy one. On 3/1, after my regular Friday morning trip to the local Crown Books, I found a message on my desk to the effect that one R——— C——— (or something like that) had called me. She books people for Good Morning, America. Oh, shit.
      So I called her, and she wanted my hot young body on nationwide TV the following Tuesday. I gasped and said…Okay, then called Annapolis to make sure they had come through proper channels. They hadn't. They'd called me direct on the strength of the Time article. So my NY publicist and the Institute conferred and said to proceed. Okay.
      Called G——— S———, asking for pharmacological help, and he prescribed 5mg of Valium. Sorry to wimp out, but, shit, I was scared. I mean, 22,000,000! People watch this show every AM. And I got myself mentally prepared (Instructions: one tab at 2200L night before, not that I'm a damned addict!) and came to work Monday ready to take the train to New York. Got a call early that morning, a late-breaking news story bumped me back to Wednesday. I already had a radio talk-show Wednesday. But…
      Recycle 24hrs. Came to work Tuesday, got myself a haircut, and got yet another call from the Apple. Bumped to Friday. (Ever wonder how Caryl Chessman felt?) (I know.) So I rescheduled the Wednesday talk show, and did it. No big deal. Their call-in phones didn't work!
      Next day I had a half hour with Marvin Mandel on WNAV, Annapolis. A charming little guy for an ex-governor cum convicted felon (I always thought they got him of a very strange--and very bum?--rap). Afterwards told me about two trips to the USSR he made for the State Department. I think he likes Josef Mengele better than the Ivans. He met Yuri Andropov. You remember Yuri, the closet liberal who liked good scotch and cool jazz. Mandel said that he got chills looking at the guy before he found out he was CINC-KGB: "A thug, obviously a bastard, even when he was trying to charm us."
      Okay, came in Thursday, READY to go. ABC was so contrite at having bumped me that they offered to bring W——— up, too. Fine, we left at 1315L and caught a 1440 choo-choo for the Big Apple. The trip was unremarkable, we arrived at dusk, rush hour. Rush hour in New York is something to behold. Went past a place that advertised "LIVE GAY BURLESQUE." I don't even want to know what that is.
      The cab ride was, well, I've already expounded on these kamikaze school rejects. Bumper cars, played with real cars.
      ABC had us booked into the St. Moritz-by-the-Park at 50 Central Park South. Expensive. We got room 2018, facing the park, which actually looks like a hell of a nice place. I mean, really a nice park…except for the local carnivors. Besides, it was drizzling. Anyway, from this 20th floor vantage, New York actually looked like a decent place. Those hansome (sp?) buggies were collected in front of the place. I wonder how many horses are killed every year by that city's traffic?
      Had dinner in their dining room with my agent and his fiance--well, informal fiance, I gather. An Irish girl (from Connecticut), a bright, sweet kid. Anyway, after a listless attack on a mediocre steak, topped off with a largish glass of Harvey's Bristol Cream (ABC footed the bill, thank God), we retired for the evening. And I popped my 5mg tablet. (The heart in the center is a nice touch.) Slept reasonably well until the 0530L wakeup call.
      Damned wakeup calls, always on time. Woke up to a drizzling pre-dawn gloom. I will never know whether it was my Irish backbone, or the lingering effect of the funny pill with the cute heart in the middle, but BY GOD! I swore to myself that I wouldn't screw up. Normal morning routine, and went downstairs for milk. The restaurant was closed until 0700, when the limo was due to arrive. Grrr. Went out into the Indian Country of 6th Avenue, found a deli and a pint of milk to occupy the upper GI for the next few hours, back to the 20th floor. Buoyed by a pint of vitamin-d 4% butterfat milk, and a few, I regret to admit, cigarettes (sorry, M———, but the stress was really tough!), I was READY! We proceed down at 0655L, and the limo was waiting for us.
      Can't fault ABC for the service. The drive to ABC HQ was by Lincoln Towncar. Traffic was light (amazingly light). Arrived at 0715±L.
      The building was rather a disappointment, on one of those narrow sidestreets, in the east 50s, I think, plain block walls, very plain inside, almost like a warehouse. We were taken to the green room. Which wasn't green anyplace. 0725 I went upstairs for hair and makeup. They left my hair alone, and I got some itchy, powdery shit put on my face. I couldn't tell the difference visually. Back downstairs. Wait. The hardest thing in all the world to do is--waiting.
     0732, a stage-crewman comes in and waves for me to follow. Into the set through two soundproof doors.
      The set is about the size of a basketball court. I won't bother with a detailed description, though the place had enough lights for a football stadium. They sat me down, pinned a pair of mikes on my jacket, and got me a coffee cup of water (my mouth was a little dry) (like an Egyptian cotton field). 0739, David Hartman comes over.
      Taller than I am, mid-40s, rather a nice chap, one of the reasons they pay him $1,500,000 per year. Said he hadn't read the book yet, but was looking forward too. He might even have been talling the truth.
      The cameras close in. 0741, David goes into his intro. Gave it a hell of a buildup: "Blockbuster…sweeping over the capital like a tidal wave…" The little red light on the near camera clicks on. Show time.
      And I just blanked.
      That is, afterwards I could only remember one remark. The rest of the performance was a VOID (well, almost…a little poetic license). Then it was over. Everybody said I did great. The black guy who set up my mike asked if I might have been a little scared. "No, terrified! [General laughter throughout the set]." W——— said I did great. We left via limo back to the hotel. I immediately called the Institute. They said I did very well.
      Breakfast. Check out. Escape from New York.
      Got to the office about 1400. Did some work, had a lot of calls to meake. Everybody said I did great. Finally left and got home to see the video tape of myself.
      I didn't know I was that good-looking!
     I really did do great!
      Answered all the questions lucidly. Didn't throw up, had my fly zipped even. Now, was it the valium, or me? I'll never know.
      One other thing. We now have (3) invites to 1600 PA Ave. More to come.
      Well, the 5th printing had been ordered some 2 weeks earlier, and on the weight of the Time article it virtually evaporated. A 6th printing of 10,000 was ordered, then upped to 15,000 (for a of 75,000 printed copies a day later.
      The first paperback printrun I learned from Agent G———, will be 850,000. We're getting into some fairly serious money here.
      3/11/85
      Tough work day, lots of crap left over from last week's chaos. Learned that Hunt will be #15 on the Publisher's Weekly BS list (this translates to #6 for fiction) on 3/22. Our first nationwide list. Wowie-Zowie!

      Wednesday, 13 March

      I woke up thinking that THIS was THE DAY, and so it was. Usual morning routine, dropped off the girls at school, got the wagon filled up, got to the office. Mail was light. A few routine phone calls. We left for D.C. at 1020L.
      Usual drive up, Rte 260 to Rte 4, left onto the Suitland Parkway into D.C., across the South Capitol Street Bridge, north to the Mall, left onto either Independence or Constitution--never can keep them straight--then right on 17th, north towards the White House. We were early, so we circled the White House once, then approached the gate. There were two, so of course I drove into the wrong one (an exit from the Executive Parking Lot), had to back up onto Pennsylvania, then went 20 feet to the Northwest Gate. Stop, get out, go to the guardhouse. I identified myself, they asked for ID. Had a bitch of a time getting my driver's license out, and the guard went in to query a computer terminal.
      We cleared the first hurdle, and I was instructed to pull through the gate. A fairly sturdy gate, though it might not stop something heavy and determined. I couldn't decide how thick the vertical bolt (into the pavement) was. Okay, now W——— and I both had to show ID and pass through a metal detector. It pinged on me twice, but tolerated my belt-buckle, gold pen, and tooth fillings. Next a German shepherd had to inspect the car, sniffing for explosives, I guess. I had mints in my briefcase. The dog queried them, but had only passing interest. Okay, we got our passes. As we later saw, even senior officials had such passes: "AA" superimposed and inverted diagonally, gray and black. We were told to pull down and park behind the limo, then to enter the door with the Marine.
      Decided I didn't have to lock the car, even though this was D.C.
      The Marine corporal (E-4) was so spiffy-looking in his dress blues the only reason he can't be on recruiting poster is that they might end up enlisting queers by mistake. He stands at parade-rest, hands in front. As we approached the door, he snapped to and saluted: "Good morning, Sir. Good morning, Ma'am." Gee, my first salute! And from a Marine! (He probably needs the salutes, even for wimp civilians, to protect his arms from atrophe). And like a good Marine, he opened the door, then went back to parade rest.
      Into the west-wing receiving/waiting room. There was a nice 45ish secretary who logged us in, asking us to sit and be comfortable. Well, we carried out half of her instructions.
       You know the famous picture of Washington crossing the Delaware, standing in the boat? That's what W——— sat under. An antique clock on the wall gave the correct time, 1130L. On a sofa by the west wall of the room sat a black chap with a do-dad in his ear and his coat unbuttoned. He pretended to read the paper. I probably have two circular red spots on the back of my neck from his eyes. The security force, uniformed and plain-clothes, is integrated, of course, with a high proportion of blacks. They all look alike: About as relaxed as a thoroughbred racehorse in the starting gate; as relaxed as the first pathfinder in the first stick of a combat parachute drop; as relaxed as Secret Service troops whose president, code-named "Rawhide," has already taken one in the chest.
      N——— C——— R——— showed up at 1145L. A very charming, though rather aggressive (in a very charming way) lady who gave Rawhide The Hunt for Red October for Christmas. She took us east, where we met Mike Deaver, a senior presidential aide (deputy chief of staff). 50ish, 5-8, slim, looks like he works and worries too much (just coming off a medical problem; kidneys, I think), nicely dressed, coat buttoned. He led us eastward through the building, about a total of, oh, fifty feet. Started noticing people, all men, all tall, all alert, none of whose coats were buttoned, all of whom had do-dads in their ears (do-dads, clear plastic ear-pieces with wound cords disappearing down their jackets; one would speculate radios, unless they like listening to music on the job…); looking me over like a confirmed child- molester who just got out on a technicality despite a bloody videotape of the 18 little boys and girls I wasted. There were A LOT of such people, practically a physical barrier in the narrow corridors. The President, one said, was in the bathroom. Seemed like a good idea to me, too. [Joke.]
      Got to the secretary's office. In a side room off that was an Apple Macintosh. "Hey," I said brightly. "A Mac!"
      The Oval Office is in the West Wing, not part of the portico. A SS agent watched through a peephole in the door. The President evidently finished what he was doing. The SS guy opened the door. Deaver led us in.
     You know that scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy goes from the wrecked house into Munchkinland? The transition from the secretary's office to Ronald Wilson Reagan's office was rather like that. You go from real-world to magic-world.
      The same scene you see on TV, exactly. The President of the United States was seated at his antique oak desk. Almost-navy-blue suit, white shirt, red tie with spots. We entered.
      I had prepared myself for this mentally--despite this, well, quite a moment, guys.
      An inch shorter than I am, exactly what he looks like on TV. Ruddy cheeks, potato-lump of a red nose, twinkling blue eyes, chest like a beer keg. There is gray in his hair if you look REAL close. Handshake firm but not overpowering.
      Initial impression: This is a mensch! I expected Presence. I expected Star-Quality. I expected Charisma. There was more than I expected, by an order of magnitude. Partly this was my own reaction, of course, but part of it was an objective reality, three feet away.
      Second impression: This guy could charm the fangs off a cobra. It envelopes you like a cloud, his charm.
      Third impression: this is not an old man. He must have real Alpha+ genes, must drive his docs crazy. No 74-year-old man should move like this. I expected this, too, from reading about the guy--but it's still astonishing to see.
      OBSERVATION: If he can't charm Garbage-ov, Ronnie can probably drive him into the pavement. No kidding, this guy looks like he could play ball. So he asked me where I got all my technical facts, and I said the really hard part was figuring the people out. He asked about the next book, and I told him WW3 at sea--had to repeat, he might be; well, he is a tad deaf, though W——— says that I was speaking rather softly--and he asked, "Who's wins?"
      "The good guys," I replied. General laughter. N——— R——— had some anniversary presents for him, some saddle blankets and a cowhide. I helped unfold the latter. A nice cowhide from Argentina, different coloration from his own herd, he explained. While all this was going on a still photographer was blasting away on a Nikon, and perhaps also a video camera. I could feel the two SS officers behind me. I can dig it. The man is worth protecting.
      A few more things, and someone reminded him that Henry Kissinger was waiting to have lunch with him. "Oh, [sigh] I guess that we we have to talk about the Russians."
      The guy really is like the image. Soft voice, very relaxed manner. Hard to imagine him angry, though that must be impressive as hell…from a safe distance. And smart. Dumb people have dumb eyes. His had the twitchy alertness of a fox. In short, this guy didn't get the job by mistake. And I am pleased that I voted for him 4 of 5 times (in the 1980 primary, God forgive me, I voted for Bush). (NOBODY'S perfect, guys!)
      I guess it all lasted 5-10 minutes (relativity at work) and we were ushered out. I went to the wrong door, the one that looks like a door instead of the one that disappears into the wall. Oh, the windows to the Oval Office are THICK and multi-layered, as though to stop a RPG-7. God help the SOB who launches it. Or not.
      Next we had lunch in the Roosevelt Room (Teddy, not Franklin). On the east-wall mantle is his Nobel Peace Prize (1907), and about the room are various wildlife bronzes, some rather--hell, expensive as God-knows-what. Present were Mrs. R———,, Mr. & Mrs. Deaver, Senator Mark Hatfield (rather a dovish chap, though polite enough to ask me to autograph his book), SECNAV Lehman, SECENERGY Herrington, LGEN Brent Scocroft, Charles Wick (USIA), Time, The Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Times. Jim Brooks, who did "Terms of Endearment," and had flown from California to be here, and, one suspects, a few other things. A total of 18 folks, all of them hanging on my every word, or polite enough to seem so.
      The discussion ranged from my book (Lehman's first reaction to my book, he said, was, "who cleared this!?!?!" and he was positive that no naval officer could have written this for security reasons; he said that Hunt is universally admired in the Navy [I kvelled]; I talked about the Crazy Ivan Turn, and how the USN never, of course, trails Soviet vessels, that they are, of course, engaged in "Oceanographic Research" [the official euphemism], "Counting the whales for Greenpeace" [laughter]), to the SDI (I voiced my approval since it adds a layer of uncertainty to the nuclear equation; general approval), to nuclear weapons use (here General Scocroft and I differed a bit; I don't think a controlled nuclear was is possible; he does; Hatfield agreed with me; I hope nobody ever finds out).
      When lunch broke up, N——— R——— told a cute story. Seems she represents the US at some international women's rights thing, and last week attended her last such meeting in Vienna. Her Russian counterpart is a man (of course), named Anatoly. She likes Anatoly, though she evidently regards him as a nerd--and a commie nerd at that! He always bugs her, she says, about disarmament, "like I'm going to fly right back here, barge into the Oval Office, and tell the President what to do, right?" This time he harranged her about Arkady Shevchenko--the defector whose recent book, Breaking with Moscow, is pure dynamite--promising to lay off the arms stuff.
      "'He was a boozer and a womanizer!' Anatoly hissed," she said, doing a mimic number that my words cannot approach, "'And nobody like him! He did terrible things to his wife--but even he said in his book that we don't want war!!!' Of course, he broke his word," N——— smiled.
      "'Anatoly, I said," she said. "'This is the last time I'm going to see you, and I want to give you a present [holds up a gift-wrapped package]. This book is all over Washington. The President loves it, and I'm sure you'll like it!'" A positively evil (but very charming) smile concluded the story.
      "Well," I replied. "If the KGB comes to kill me, it's your fault!"
      Next I talked with a girl named A——— S———, from Time. Ever see the Ann Klein II fashion commercials? That's how she dresses. Well, the package was nicer than the wrapper, but who am I to comment on fashions? She was concerned that someone might have wanted to nuke Moscow after the 007 incident. (Over lunch it was said that lots of nasty things were discussed in the White House at that time.) I tried mightily to persuade her that nobody seriously--or unseriously--suggested nuking Moscow (!), or even making a Tu-95D "Bear" disappear on its way to Cuba. ("In the real world, you don't do things like that.") I don't think she got the message. I really don't.
      I guess we left around 1330L. Had to loop the car under the-portico, canopy, whatever. The marine saluted me again. I returned it.
      We dropped off the passes, they opened the gate, and as our 1982 Plymouth Reliant station wagon left, some people on the sidewalk looked at us, wondering who in hell we were to have been in in the White House, no doubt. I would.
      Got back to the office to learn that Hunt will be on the New York Times best-seller list (#10 or 15) on 3/24/85. A good day, all told.
      3/14/85
      The 6th printing took the printrun to 75,000. the 7th was ordered at 30,000, and today was upped to 50,000 for of, gasp, 125,000 copies.
     The bad news is that a movie offer which was in this letter until I <COMMAND> <X>'d it away, was withdrawn. Well, there might be another, right?

     (3/17/85, I heard yesterday that the actual 7th printing was ordered finally at 80,000, argh and is 155,000+! Eek.) Had another performance yesterday, at St. John's College in Annapolis. This is getting tiring. (Having the flu didn't help a bit.) Tuesday, we head to the White House again. Coffee with special guests of Mrs. Reagan at 0930, then greet the President of Argentina on the south Lawn. Head home, then back to D.C. again for a state dinner. Be glad when it's all over.
     3/19/85
     Another day at the White House. Well, the usual morning routine--got up at 0630 instead of the normal 0655. Get paper, switch on TV, drink a pint of 2% milk + Instant Breakfast, out the door at 0805 for the trek to D.C. Same route as before, and the traffic was amazingly light.
     This time we went in the East Visitors' Entrance. This used to be a real street entrance, now blocked with those pre-cast concrete abutments and (large) circular flower pots filled with dirt. (Those damned Shiites--hmm, interesting how that looks in print, isn't it?) A bunch of folks were there. We butted through the mob and identified ourselves. A Secret Service agent hustled us inside, leaving the peons in our wake [POWER!]. Nice chap, he had a bandage on his right index finger ("Squeezing the trigger a little hard, guy?") (No, I didn't say that). Through the metal detector--it pinged real hard on him--past another group of peons, and into a ritzie waiting room, where we waited.
     Quite a room, dating back to the 1940s. Solid, honey-colored (maple?) paneling, more Early American (junk!) furniture. (Well, real Early American, hence expensive junk.) Also present were Mr. And Mrs. Mark Russell; Arnold Schwartzenegger (CONAN the BARBARIAN!) and his mommie (I'm 0.5 to 1 inch taller than he is, though he's rather wider across the shoulders); Guilermo Villas (tennis star from Argentina); Gina Lollabrigida and escort; and assorted others I don't know, including, possibly Lyn Nofsinger (wrong, turned out to be Pete Fountain, the jazz clarinetist, see below), former presidential gofer and political operator. Nobody had coffee but Conan, who looked relaxed. (I have to wonder if the local SS contingent measured him up in their .357 sights, or decided for something heavier…like an M-72 LAWS rocket.)
     Headed out to the South Lawn about 0952. Lot of people were already there getting cold. We were actually in the White House basement, going through a corridor with marble everywhere, various portraits of Presidents and their ladies, including Mrs. Peanut. Finally we arrived at yet another room with antique furniture and murals on the curvey walls. Herr Russell said the door we went out was the Moving Van door, the one to which the vans pull to move in/out the arriving/departing Presidents. Saw Ron's military aides--you can tell at a glance, since their staff aigullettes ("loafer's loops") are on the right, rather than the left, shoulder. The Marine 0-3 looked especially formidable. Conan could have stood inside that guy in all dimensions. Finally we went outside to join the peons.
     Nice, brisk March day, clear sky, 15-knot breeze, about 40°F. The honor guard was composed of (left to right) Marines, Navy, Army, Air Force, each in about platoon strength, looking very spiffy indeed. The color guard was--I mean, God damn! Impressive, all those streamers!
     They do Parade Rest different from the way we did it at Loyola ROTC. The officers have their swords grounded. They might have been breathing, but I'm not sure.
     The press photographers behind us (mainly the lady from Time who did the shot for the article) asked me to move--"You're too tall." Well, it's nice to be recognized!
     Mark Russell then said: "Remember everybody, today it's the Malvenas!"
     I nearly gagged. (That line rattled about in my head until the end of the friggin' ceremony: Don't laugh, Don't Laugh…!) Mrs. Russell (30±; he's 50±) commented: "I can dress him up, but I can't take him anywhere…"
     The Drum & Bugle team came out. Army, I think. 14 trumpets, two drums, one director; they settled on the bottom level of the South Portico.
     Show time:
     Honor Guard snaps to like one robot. When they ORDER ARMS, one (no crap, ONE) click. (I bet there's only one real rifle there, all the rest being made of rubber…)
     Ruffles and Flourishes!
     The Honorable Ronald W. Reagan comes out the moving van door.
     Hail to the Chief.
     21 guns from the Washington Monument.
     His Excellency the President of the Argentine Republic arrives. He and Ronnie mount the stand, about 15 feet from me. The national anthem of Argentina.
     It's too long, and changes cadence too many times, but the local Argie community sang it with restrained gusto on the other side of the lawn. Next came ours. Mark Russell sang it. Me, too. Rather a special feeling, what with Ronnie only a few feet away. Gee.
     The "Old Guard" Fife & Drum of the 3rd Infantry did a fife-by in their white-powdered wigs ("perukes," if you want the proper nomenclature), red coats and linen tubular pants. (I remarked to Russell that, given the guest, they might have worn blue coats this time.) "The World Turned Upside-Down," something I didn't recognize, and "Yankee Doodle."
     CO, Honor Guard, says, "Sir, The Honor is concluded."
     The speeches were the normal diplomatic stuff. Took about eight minutes each. Trans:
     Hi, how are you? Glad you're here.
     Fine, thanks. Glad to be here, let's talk some.
     Sound great, let's.
     CO, Honor Guard, says, "Sir, the ceremony is concluded."
     The Army Honor Guard (easy to spot, they have "Honor Guard" flashes instead of something useful like RANGER) is noted for its severe haircuts. They'd have to grow a couple of weeks to be mohawks. Actually, it's a real bunch of soldiers. In a recent exercise, quoath Larry Bond, they beat a unit from the 82nd Abn. [!] I bet there was hell to pay down at Bragg after that.
     And that was that. We left the way we came. One final task, in the waiting room, everyone is supposed to sign an egg for the Easter Egg Roll. Back tonight for dinner.
     3/20/85 The Day After.
     I look pretty decent in a penguin suit. Vest instead of cumberbund--you don't have to button the coat. Arrived at the same place as that AM at 0720±, walked to the same gate, had to show my driver's license, and we got waved in by a black SS man in normal clothes. (No metal detectors this time…hmm…) After that all were in black tie, and therefore rather more difficult to pick out of the crowd. The way in is actually a basement (the White House grounds roll off a bit to the east). Lots of uniforms. Honor Guard (3rd Infantry Regiment) at the east entrance (unlike marines, these army guys don't salute, the pigs). Inside it was all officers, except the musicians. All services, all 0-2 to 0-4, all in full dress. (NOTE: The Marine full dress [Head Waiter] outfits win the militant fashion contest because of the blood-red sashes. Sorry, squids and doggies.) A Navy flutist and harp greeted us (both 4.0 female E-6s), and a string of officers guided us to the coat room (You Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy fans, our number was 42. I believe in fate.)
     (Further note on fate: The idea for Hunt hit me the Monday after Argentina assaulted the Falkland Islands, the day on which I had lunch with [now] CDR R——— C———, USN; the President got the book because a chap named O——— [editor on The Washington Times] sent his copy to one Mr. Ruiz, our ambassador to Argentina, and the courier, Mrs. N——— C——— R———, read it on the plane, and liked it so much…; and the functions I get invited to  --the arrival of His Excellency, the President of the Argentine Republic. And people wonder why the Irish are supersticious???)
     Proceeded west down the corridor, stopped by a LT, USN. Gina Lolabrigitta was just ahead of us, in the Press Gauntlet. For the first time, we were announced: "Mr. & Mrs. Tom Clancy!"
     The Press Gauntlet is a line of photographers and reporters. Two ladies (USA Today and someone else) questioned me--oddly they take notes without looking at their pads; they look at you with upturned faces and open mouths, rather like the witches in MacBeth--and the cameras snapped. We escaped. Further west down the same corridor as in the morning, right (if you please, sir, quoath a handsome young officer) up some stairs to what is actually the White House's first floor.
     At the top of the stairs, we got our table cards. I was Table 4. W——— was Table 1.Then did an extended U-turn past the Marine Corps Band in the main lobby to the East Room. A room of perhaps 1,000 sqft, white walls, high ceiling, hardwood floor, lots of people. Got announced again, this time with a microphone.
     "My Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen! Mr. & Mrs. Thomas Clancy, Jr." (A little poetic license there.)
     I mentioned earlier Michael and Carolyn Deaver. Mr. Deaver is the outgoing Deputy Chief of Staff for the President.
     Be it recorded here that he and his wife are fine people; and that to anyone who knkows me and who should ever have a chance to be of service to these people, be ye advised that in doing so ye do service also unto me. These are important folks yet with a surfeit of kindness and humanity. Yea, verily, the Lord God has not made better these people than these, and W——— and I are beholden to them.
     In other words, with all the really important people around, they came to us, and verily we spoke, and verily they are genuinely nice, decent people, hence (so far as D.C. is concerned) entitled to federal protection under the Endangered Species Act. Damn, this sort of thing will renew one's faith in humanity.
     I didn't want to drink. I had Perrier. It's French water, and it tastes used.
     Other people present: Irene Cara, a lovely little pixie every bit as overwhelmed to be there as I, and when I met her later, thoroughly nice; Armand Hammer, his first time in the White House since Carter, and it must have been a mistake; Lee Trevino; Doug Flutie; all those I saw that morning; a total of 120 guests. About the time I finished my French Fizz the music in the distance changed. The Presidents were coming. First the colors, then the folks. The waiters (more about them later) discretely collected drinks (I skillfully pocketed the napkin), and an amorphous line generated itself to file past the host and featured guest. Ronald Reagan didn't look all that great that AM in a brown suit--just not his color. In a tux, he's dynamite. Shook hands again. Charm, firm handshake. President Alfonsin is a shorter guy, darker, mustache, with dignity. Mrs. Reagan is so friggin' skinny she practically isn't there. Mrs. Alfonsin was quite attractive. Past the receiving line, we went into a side room then back to the main east-west corridor heading to the West Room.
     (NOTE: Inside, the White House isn't all that large--perhaps the cleaning staff thinks differently. In fact, it seems almost small in the building proper, as opposed to the administrative additions.)
     In the West Room, we split up. Table 4 was in the S/E corner. W——— was right at the exit at the N/E one, Table 1.
     Dinner.
     The White House Staff (that is, the serving folks) is entirely black (at least all those I saw were; W——— claims to have seen an Anglo or two, and maybe some Filipinos). Rather an irksome thing, times having changed since emancipation, nevertheless these are the most consummately skilled people I've ever seen. A neurosurgeon would do well to have such technique. Under crowded conditions, with numbers of self-inflated people, their service was quite simply 4.0, 100% perfection itself. Never have I seen anything like it. Period. Maybe white people just can't cut it. Maybe, like with the Chesapeake Bay Pilots Association, you have to be born into the job. In any case, I hope they get paid enough. They earn it.
     Mike--excuse me, Mr. Deaver was at my table, but the boy-girl-boy-girl seating prevented conversation. Found myself between Mrs. Pete Fountain (jass clarinet, he played later), and an aristocratic lady from Brazil who'd endured a nine hour flight to be here.
     Dinner was: (photocopy attached)*
     The salmon was garbage, but everything else was spiffy.
     While I was speaking with two rather nice ladies, W——— at Table 1 was between Bud McFarland (National Security Advisor) and some Argentine asshole who could not understand A) why an author was here, and B) why an author's wife was here. I suppose Argentina needs additional work on democracy … Not to mention manners--I mean, it is OUR house!
     Dinner ended on a nice note: the Army band's Strolling Strings serenaded our Gis (a cute blond E-6 played at our table; she was obviously tired; I gave her a me-too smile, and got one back [Clancy, champion of the working man, and working woman; I also complemented one of the waiters]) with violins, two cellos, a bass and an acordian (?), then came the toasts. Etiquette is that you stand when it's finished. Some Spanish-speaking photographer in his haste to get his Nikon fed shoved W——— back into her chair. W——— endured the indignity (one doesn't make waves in the White House). When Alfonsin's turn came, said Nikon jock practically leaned on her. A good thing I wasn't there, bur our guardian angel of the evening, Carolyn Deaver, noted this, gestured to an aide, a pretty girl in red, who approached photographer. Photographer, of course, ignored her. (ASIDE, the girl was too pretty to be ignored, and I thought the Spanish had an eye for female persons.) What followed is called, I think, escalation. A small gesture from Mrs. Deaver, and the next person to touch the photographer was one of those serious-looking chaps with a do-dad in his ear. There is just something about their manner that says: GO AHEAD: MAKE MY DAY! No words were exchanged: said SS man simply moved the bastard five feet about the way I move T———. Except that the Nikon jockey behaved a lot better.
     We exited to the Blue (I think; maybe Green) room. This is the one that bows out the south side of the building (the Jefferson Portico, I think). Yet another staff chap held out a box of cigars (did you like it, Mike?). Others circulated with coffee (small cups) and cordial glasses, while another held a tray with brandy (Hennessy!), etc. (Sorely tempted, but I had to drive….) Met and spoke a few minutes with Mrs. Reagan. Dear God, she's skinny. I wonder if she has a shadow? Takes her charm lessons from her husband, I suppose. Got "shot" shaking hands with her, and the photographer (one of "ours") came over to say that, indeed, everyone in the White House has read my book, "And I liked it, too!" Gee.
     Next met Bud McFarland, the President's National Security Advisor. He is not at all like Jeffrey Pelt in Hunt, and said so jokingly. We exchanged views on sea-power and mobility. (That sounds haughty. I floated an idea that he liked, no big deal.) Nice wife--in red, that must be the current "in" color. Went east to the Green (maybe Blue) room then back around to the westernmost colored room, Red (I'm sure of this). Lots of pictures of presidents, etc. Spoke with some of the officer-guides. W——— 's feet were sore by this time, she informed me.
     Entertainment back in the East Room, Pete Fountain and his group played some cool jazz for a while. Excellent.
     Final act was dancing and general carousing in the lobby. Ronnie and Nancy danced, then made a graceful exit. As did we. I thanked Mrs. Deaver for being such a nice person. She said that Arnold Schwartzenegger had been approached to be in the film version of my book. [?] And we left, escorted all the way by relays of spiffy young officers. And floated home.

     And that's the end of the tale.

     For now.

     [signed] Tom

     [*Photocopy was not with letter and presumably has been lost.]