Nine Key Moments

By Richard Stengel

1 Dole is on a roll, but a tough Bush ad called "Senator Straddle" trips him up in New Hampshire

Helicopters buzzed, limousines purred, and George Bush waved. But Iowans didn't care one bit for the imperial vice presidency. By the time he left Iowa for New Hampshire on the day of the caucuses, he knew he had been beaten in a state he had won eight years before. That night, in the Clarion Hotel dining room in Nashua, N.H., Bush had a somber supper with Barbara. Later, chief of staff Craig Fuller told him he had placed third, with Dole a cocky first and Pat Robertson a surprising second. "It's a humiliation," Bush said.

At a Manchester plant gate the next day, there was precious little flesh to press. More reporters hovered around him than workers. Bush seemed bewildered and out of place. At a high school, he blurted out, "I'm one of you" -- an outright appropriation of Dole's Iowa slogan that appealed to working-class voters. At the end of the day, Bush retreated to Washington for clean laundry and fresh ideas.

Peggy Noonan, a former White House speechwriter and Reagan favorite, was driving with her mother from a supermarket in suburban Virginia when she heard a radio sound bite of Bush's "I'm one of you" quote. She felt her stomach sink. She called Fuller, who told her to be on Air Force Two the next afternoon for Bush's return to New Hampshire. Sitting next to Bush on the plane, she tried to make sense of what he was trying to say about himself. His hands fluttered near his chest, as if seeking his heart, and he said softly, "I guess we've got to get more of me out there." Working all night in her hotel room, Noonan cobbled together a stump speech that revealed a new Bush persona, later known as the "kinder, gentler" George. "Here I stand, warts and all," she wrote (attributing the phrase incorrectly to Abraham Lincoln). "I don't always articulate, but I feel."

Meanwhile, media adviser Roger Ailes arrived with a tough anti-Dole ad titled "Senator Straddle." It showed a grim-faced Dole waffling on various issues, notably taxes. Campaign manager Lee Atwater was for it, but two other advisers, Nick Brady and Robert Mosbacher, demurred, noting that it violated Reagan's "eleventh commandment" -- Thou shalt speak no evil of a fellow Republican. At first, Bush sided with them.

But with only three days to go before the vote, Bush had little momentum. Dole had picked up Alexander Haig's endorsement. (When a Bush aide later read him a Haig quote saying "I did all the damage I could," Bush stared out a window and muttered, "That's sick.") That Saturday morning, Atwater told Bush he was dead even in the polls and that only the "Straddle" ad would put him over the top. Bush looked over at pollster Bob Teeter and said, "I thought you said I was 5 or 6 up!" Teeter shrugged. New Hampshire Governor John Sununu, Bush's state chairman, assured him the voters could handle the ad. Finally, Barbara Bush chimed in, "I don't see anything wrong with it." Bush decided he had no choice but to go with the ad.

The campaign immediately went into motion. Ailes called a friend in Boston and arranged for air time there. Sununu telephoned the Channel 9 station manager at his home in Manchester, and within hours, they had bought every available 30-second spot through Tuesday.

The Dole campaign was sitting tight. At a strategy session on the Wednesday before the primary, it was decided not to use negative ads. By Saturday, Richard Wirthlin's tracking polls showed Dole going from 5 points behind to 5 points ahead, and at one juncture Wirthlin referred to Dole as "Mr. President." The Dole campaign was unable to put together a new ad in time to get it on the air over the weekend. When they wanted to use an old ad, they were told that the air slots were already filled.

Bush won New Hampshire by 10 points. The timing of the "Straddle" ad was crucial. "It wasn't because we were geniuses or anything," Atwater said later. "It was just because the decision came so late that it worked out that way."

2 Dukakis comes to Koch seeking help, but luckily Hizzoner anoints Gore instead

After running a disappointing third in Iowa, Michael Dukakis had won New Hampshire, then captured Texas and Florida on Super Tuesday. His bland but upbeat style had outlasted all of his opponents except Al Gore and Jesse Jackson. New York State was the last hurdle: either Dukakis would win and eliminate Gore, or the nomination would be up for grabs. Dukakis decided he needed the endorsement of New York City Mayor Ed Koch.

When Mike and Kitty came calling at Gracie Mansion one night a week before the primary, Koch served his favorite chocolate-chip cookies -- the same ones, he told them, that he had pressed on Mother Teresa. Dukakis talked with the mayor for 40 minutes. Koch was polite but distant. He asked about Jackson, and Dukakis responded with the usual boiler plate about disagreeing with Jackson on some issues but treating him with respect. Koch was not pleased. Only a week earlier Koch had, with his grating candor, said any Jew would be "crazy" to vote for Jackson. Just before the end of the discussion, Kitty interrupted. "Ed," she said, "if you want to go with a winner, you go with - this guy."

Gore, during his low-profile session with Koch, played the charming tutorial student. He allowed that no matter whom Koch endorsed, he hoped they would remain friends. Koch smiled. That was precisely what he had once told former New York Governor Hugh Carey. Gore replied he knew that, having just read Koch's memoirs. Koch smiled again. A contrarian by nature, Koch surprised his advisers by choosing Gore.

Lucky for Dukakis. At the endorsement ceremony, Koch spent less time praising Gore than attempting to bury Jackson. Standing like an uncomfortable visiting nephew at Koch's side, Gore was splattered by the flying mud. On primary day, he got only 10% of the vote, thus assuring Dukakis the nomination.

3 At a strategy summit in Maine, Bush reluctantly decides to accentuate the negative

Memorial Day weekend was scheduled to be the Bush campaign's holy synod, a meeting of all the chosen at Kennebunkport, Me. Things were not going well; Dukakis had a 10-to-12-point lead. Dukakis was gaining stature by beating Jackson week after week, Bush seemed like a gawky figure on the sidelines. Bush was still campaigning on the Reagan agenda. He felt an inability to assert himself until the convention, when the torch would pass from Reagan to him.

The day before the weekend meetings began, Teeter arranged for a marketing company in Paramus, N.J., to put together two focus groups made up of people who described themselves as Democrats who had voted for Reagan, but were leaning toward Dukakis. Brady, Ailes, Atwater and Teeter peered through a two- way mirror at people who had been paid $25 each to discuss the candidates.

The participants, it turned out, knew almost nothing about either candidate. Most thought Dukakis was a Governor, but only three of twelve in one group were aware he was from Massachusetts. Everyone knew Bush was Vice President, but that was about all.

The moderator began asking rhetorical questions. What if I told you that Dukakis vetoed a bill requiring schoolchildren to say the Pledge of Allegiance? Or that he was against the death penalty? Or that he gave weekend furloughs to first-degree murderers? "He's a liberal!" exclaimed one man at the table. "If those are really his positions," a woman added, "I'd have a hard time supporting him."

The aides were galvanized by the results of the Paramus focus group. While no single issue swayed voters, the cumulative effect was devastating. Dukakis was a blank slate in voters' minds, and Bush had to be the first to write on it.

At Kennebunkport that weekend, the strategy took shape. Sununu held forth on Dukakis' weaknesses: the furlough program, Boston Harbor, overcrowded prisons. Bush adviser Richard Darman dubbed the Massachusetts Miracle the Massachusetts Mirage. The message was clear: Dukakis should be tarred with the "L" word.

But Bush was uncomfortable with that advice. Conventional wisdom, he knew, suggested that a candidate's own positive qualities should be established before he attacked his opponent. On the final day of the long weekend, Fuller sketched two scenarios on a yellow legal pad. One outlined how Dukakis would be ahead by 20 points if the Vice President waited until after the Republican Convention to attack the Governor. The other showed how Bush could reduce Dukakis to a single-digit lead by the Republic Convention. "Let's get started," said Bush.

4 Dukakis flirts with others, but his heart leads him to Bentsen and the 29 electoral votes of Texas

In the midst of his very public auditioning of vice-presidential prospects, Dukakis traveled to Ohio. There he teased an excited audience as well as an overeager John Glenn when he said, "Wouldn't Senator Glenn make a great Vice President?" Glenn by then had abandoned any pretense at coyness; he wanted the job and let Dukakis fund raiser Bob Farmer know it.

But Dukakis, at his advisers' prodding, had decided his running mate should be from the South. That would echo John Kennedy's selection of Lyndon Johnson, and Dukakis had an almost mystical belief in the parallels between his campaign and that of 1960. Lloyd Bentsen would simply be a less obstreperous L.B.J.

By early July the list was down to Glenn, Bentsen, Gore and Congressman Lee Hamilton. Dukakis had reservations about Glenn, notably because he had been sloppy about paying off his campaign debt, and Hamilton was too reserved for the rough-and-tumble of a national campaign.

When Dukakis trekked to Texas, Bentsen took him aside and asked a favor: that he not repeat the remark made in Ohio. "Mike," he said, "don't do that to me." Bentsen had been burned by Walter Mondale, and he was still smarting. He wanted the nomination, but he would not jump through a hoop to get it.

Bentsen and Dukakis barely spoke. But Dukakis liked Bentsen and saw him as a statesman. Yet Dukakis worried about their differences on contra aid and defense spending. On Monday, July 11, Dukakis convened a meeting of top aides at his Brookline, Mass., home. The vote for Bentsen was unanimous.

At the last moment, Dukakis had a final twinge about Gore. The Tennesseean's youth and personal force were appealing. Dukakis dismissed Gore's taunting remarks in New York as legitimate political sparring. But in the end, Dukakis went with maturity and Texas.

5 Jackson begs for a serious hearing and a real role in the campaign, but Dukakis stays aloof

"The coat you're wearing don't fit, Jesse!" The Rev. Cameron Alexander was fuming. An Atlanta preacher and longtime supporter, he had gathered with other members of the Jackson Old Guard in Atlanta at the end of August for an old- fashioned gripe session about the faltering Dukakis-Jackson partnership. "When are you gonna blow up at him?" he asked.

Jackson, in his own mind, had already taken more than his fair share of slights. In early July there had been the dinner in Brookline when Dukakis served poached salmon but no meat-and-potatoes talk about the vice presidency. Then there was the Phone-Call-That-Never-Arrived after Bentsen was chosen. Nor did the relationship improve after the convention. When Dukakis visited Neshoba County, Miss., he neglected to mention the three civil rights workers slain there in 1964. Jackson deeply wanted a private meeting with Dukakis, but the Governor resisted. At one point Jackson told a friend, "They're afraid of me."

By the time of the late-August meeting in Atlanta, Jackson had been on the road campaigning for Dukakis for a month, but the two men had barely spoken since the convention. In the midst of the session, campaign chairman Paul Brountas telephoned Jackson. What was going on down there? Jesse explained that he felt frustrated because Dukakis was not consulting with him. "One of the problems," said Brountas, "is that you've never unequivocally endorsed the Governor."

Jackson was stunned. He could hardly believe what he had heard. Censured by his supporters for doing too much, now he was being reproached by Brountas for doing too little. When Jackson told his friends what had happened, they were adamant: Give it up, they told Jesse. With insurrection in the air, they adjourned for soul food at Paschal's.

No sooner had they arrived than Jackson was informed that Dukakis himself was on the phone. Jackson and an aide moved into the kitchen to take the call. , Jackson was uncertain: "I don't know what to say to him." His adviser replied, "Tell him you understand that he feels there has been no unqualified endorsement."

"What will he say to that?" Jesse retorted.

"He'll have to call you back because he won't know what to say."

Jackson and Dukakis exchanged a few pleasantries before Jesse got to the point: "I understand that you all don't think that I've given you an unqualified endorsement. Governor, just name the time and place and I'll be there." Dukakis was silent for a few moments and then asked if he could call him back. Jackson hung up and turned to his adviser: "I've always prided myself on my ability to communicate. I'm obviously a miserable failure." Five days later, Dukakis' newly rehired aide John Sasso flew to New York for a three-hour meeting with Jackson. Jackson was gratified, but it was too late. He was already following his own agenda: registering voters and promoting Jesse Jackson.

6 Defying the odds, his advisers and the press, Bush chooses the young and untested Dan Quayle

Haunted by a reputation as a loyal deputy unaccustomed to making decisions alone, Bush saw the vice-presidential selection process as a way of showing he was his own man. He played his cards close to the vest. He never quizzed the prospective nominees, but he seemed to interview just about everyone else.

Of the finalists, New York Congressman Jack Kemp was vetoed by Robertson and Dole. Alan Simpson and Dick Thornburgh were ruled out by Bush's staff because they had resisted overturning the Supreme Court's decision legalizing abortion. Bush was fond of New Mexico Senator Pete Domenici, but he smoked and his health was in doubt. Dole would have been a strong choice, but he made everyone nervous. He was nasty and unpredictable, and Bush just didn't like him.

On the Monday before he left for New Orleans, Bush invited 20 associates to his residence for dinner and convention watching. The aides were worried that the upbeat message scripted for the convention was getting lost in all the speculation about the vice presidency. Bush needed to make up his mind quickly. Later that evening, Bush heard a television reporter say that Dole had called the waiting process "demeaning." Bush threw out his hands in exasperation, and said, "My God!"

On the plane ride to New Orleans, campaign chairman James Baker talked with Bush. Still no decision. Teeter and Baker were convinced the choice was between Kemp and Dole. Teeter asked four other senior staffers to join a betting pool to guess the nominee: none selected Dan Quayle. As the plane began its descent, Bush made up his mind. "Let's try to announce it today," he said.

As Bush bade Reagan a symbolic farewell at the Belle Chasse Naval Air Station outside New Orleans, the Vice President whispered in his ear, "It's Dan Quayle." In a bedroom of the air-station commandant, Bush gave orders to the White House operator to call the also-rans. Bush took Baker aside and told him, then the rest of the senior staff. Quayle was the last to get the news. "You are my first and only choice," Bush told the Indiana Senator.

But the process soon spun out of control. Because Bush had kept everything to himself, no one had thought of how to present Quayle to the press. Expecting the choice to be Dole, Bush's senior staff enlisted the veteran Reagan adviser Stu Spencer to keep Dole under control. But Spencer proved too domineering for Quayle. He called him Danny and treated him like a college freshman. At Quayle's first press conference, the Bush staff was relieved at his ability to handle the issue of Paula Parkinson, the onetime Playboy model who very briefly shared a Florida vacation house with Quayle and two colleagues, but they were not prepared for the brouhaha over Quayle's decision to join the National Guard. Nor did anyone coach Quayle through the television interviews that night; he came across as woefully inadequate.

Later that night Bush's senior staff gathered in the lounge outside Baker's office on the 38th floor of the Marriott. Baker, his tie still crisply tied, led the proceedings from a chair in the center of the smoky room. Aides were sent scurrying for information. The mood was somewhere between a wake and an all-night cramming session. Nothing much was accomplished, but no one wanted to leave. Dumping Quayle was only fleetingly considered. "We all knew that would be suicide, the end," said a Bush aide.

7 His campaign stalled, Dukakis calls back an exiled adviser

During his eleven months in quiet exile, Sasso had only sporadic contacts with the man who banished him for leaking a video exposing Senator Joe Biden's use of lines from a British politician. He and Dukakis talked, but rarely about politics. Even when Sasso attended the Atlanta convention, staying at the same hotel as Dukakis, the two men never saw each other. That did not keep reporters from repeatedly asking if Sasso was coming back.

Shortly after Super Tuesday, the Governor called Sasso and requested his thoughts on the campaign. Sasso was primed: In-depth polling was required to determine the campaign's theme. TV ads should begin in August. The campaign staff needed strengthening.

Dukakis was impressed. He asked Sasso to put all this in a memo and report back in a few weeks. A week later, Dukakis changed his mind. Newspaper stories speculated that Sasso was about to be recalled. Spooked by all the media attention, Dukakis got word to Sasso to forget about it.

But in August, as Bush found his voice, Dukakis appeared lost.. His negatives had climbed above 40%. He needed a coherent structure, and none was in place. Dukakis had no choice but to turn to Sasso. It was embarrassing for the self-righteous Dukakis; he was publicly going back on his word.

Brountas called Sasso at Martha's Vineyard, where he had just begun a holiday with his wife. Could Sasso come to Boston immediately? Around Dukakis' kitchen table in Brookline, Dukakis asked Sasso to return and "run" the campaign. He "could kick himself," Dukakis said, that he hadn't done this earlier.

Sasso found the campaign in disarray, the advertising a shambles. He quickly signed up surrogates like Arkansas Governor Bill Clinton and New Jersey Senator Bill Bradley to stump for Dukakis. Soon Dukakis began to fire back with his populist message of fighting for the middle class. But it was too little, too late.

8 Unwell but not unprepared, the Duke loses the second debate

After the first presidential debate, a private discussion went on at Dukakis headquarters in Boston. Yes, Dukakis had done well, but the second debate was the clincher. Stories were already appearing, outlining a Bush Electoral College victory. So, should Dukakis come out fighting, Duke as Rambo? Or should he accentuate the positive, Duke as teddy bear? The issue polarized the staff. By the time the Dukakis camp arrived in Los Angeles for Round 2, everyone agreed that it should be the Duke as Rambo. Everyone, that is, except the would-be Rambo.

Before lunch in the Governor's suite at the Westin Bonaventure the day before the debate, campaign manager Susan Estrich, Sasso and Nick Mitropoulos, a longtime Dukakis operative, all advocated aggressiveness. Ted Sorensen brandished a column by David Broder of the Washington Post arguing that Dukakis had to hit back at Bush. "I don't see it that way," Dukakis said. "I'm going to try to be positive." He countered his staff's boxing metaphors with one of his own: the marathon.

Finally, Dukakis' aides got him to agree on a specific battle plan. He would attack the Vice President on six subjects: Quayle, Iran-contra, abortion, patriotism, drugs and Boston Harbor. He was also supposed to dare the Vice President to look directly into the camera and tell the American people that J. Danforth Quayle was best qualified to be Vice President.

On debate day Dukakis woke up feeling ill. His throat was sore, his head congested. At 6 a.m. two doctors were summoned. The three-hour morning debate practice was canceled. Instead, a small group sat with the Governor and ran over details. After going for a sound-and-light check in the debate hall, Dukakis went to his hotel and dropped off to sleep again. Another discussion was planned for 2:30, but when his aides returned, Dukakis was still asleep. They were astonished; Dukakis rarely napped for more than 20 minutes. He woke at 3, told his aides he wanted to rest a while longer and then slept fitfully until 5, only an hour before the debate.

In the holding room offstage, half an hour before the debate, Dukakis was boning up on his answers, rehearsing prepared lines. Then the phone rang. It was Mario Cuomo. Dukakis took the call and spoke to him for 20 minutes. Aides say it kept him from gathering his thoughts and focusing on his strategy.

Then, less than a minute into the debate, came CNN anchorman Bernard Shaw's harsh question positing the rape and murder of Kitty. Dukakis never recovered. He raised only one of the six planned issues. As soon as the debate was over, he marched offstage, looking as if he were about to cry. He knew he had blown it.

9 Bush resists overcoaching, and Ailes keeps him loose for the final debate

George Bush was disconsolate after the first debate. "I missed a lot of opportunities," he told his advisers. He had been stiff, nervous, ineffective, and he knew it. His advisers chose not to humor him. "Don't worry. I'll do better next time," Bush said.

The following morning, Bush made a simple request. Each day he wanted a cogent briefing paper on a single topic likely to be raised in the second contest. That was all. He would prepare himself from that. Before the first debate, Bush had been prepped by as many as ten different coaches, each - offering advice. Watching Quayle's stiff and programmed debate performance also convinced Bush that less would be more. Debater, prepare thyself, was Bush's new motto.

Bush gained confidence as he studied each memorandum. One morning, when the scheduled summary did not arrive, he testily told an aide to get it within an hour. On the plane to the second debate, an aide wandered to the front of Air Force Two and discovered the Vice President talking out loud to himself, conducting a spirited, imaginary dialogue with his Democratic opponent. Bush's new self-teaching method, said one aide, allowed him to "concentrate on being himself, being natural."

As the chief debate coach, Ailes took the blame for Bush's being tense during the first debate. "It was my job to get him relaxed and confident, and it didn't happen," he conceded. On the morning of the second debate, Ailes got a call at 6:45 from Bush saying that he wanted to see him at 8. When Ailes arrived, Bush was already going over his briefing papers. Ailes gave him a "pepper" drill, rapid-fire questions and answers to test Bush's reflexes and the shape of his answers.

Later they toured the debate site, and Ailes, the modern master of muscular advertising, became the clown prince of debate prep. He joked with Bush, teased him, made him laugh. He told Bush at one point, "If he brings up Iran- contra, just walk over there and deck him." When Bush returned to the Beverly Hills Hotel, he received a massage and spent the final 45 minutes before the debate with Ailes.

As the two candidates stood in the wings of the stage, Ailes and Bush looked across at Dukakis and his debate coaches Bob Squier and Tom Donilon, their faces half shrouded by darkness. Ailes waved flamboyantly to his opposite numbers, and Squier raised his hand. Dukakis frowned and folded his arms tightly across his chest. Seeing Dukakis' tenseness, Bush smiled.

With reporting by Robert Ajemian, David Beckwith, Michael Duffy, Michael Riley and Alessandra Stanley