GENERAL LETDOWN

By NANCY GIBBS

THE MOST INTERESTING DECISION IN MODern American politics was made, in the final days, not once and for all but over and over again. On Thursday night Colin Powell was poised to run. All the stars were aligned, the polls plump with support, the money hovering, ready to land. And then there came Newt Gingrich, who slipped away from his handlers and arrived in secret on Powell's doorstep, bearing the flame of the conservative revolution and telling him, in effect, "Do it."

So close he came, and yet by the next morning the fire had gone out again, and by Monday night the decision was definitely no. But after he returned from a speech in Philadelphia, he was back on the fence. Alma Powell told her children that she wouldn't believe he was really getting out until he stood before the cameras and said so.

When he finally did, on a cold Wednesday afternoon in the kind of soulless hotel ballroom where campaigns go to die, his friends had never seen him look so sad. In his graceful exit speech, they heard all the qualities and contradictions that have made Powell's character and career so fascinating: a military man with a social conscience; a black New Yorker who attracted white Southern voters and Wasp CEOs like lint; the man who kept gays out of the military but endorsed gay parents as long as they create a home with love and discipline; a geology major who became, in the words of Gerald Ford and the view of many others, "the best public speaker in America"; the product of one of the most rigid, hierarchical institutions in American life who had a chance to realign political parties and reinvent race relations; a relative political unknown who inspired huge trust; a black man on a white horse.

"I have never in my life seen him so torn up about something," admits Powell's son Michael. "You have to remember, this is a soldier. This is a warrior, who does not like walking away from a fight. It's not fear; it's not self-doubt. Every instinct in his bones says, 'Do it.'"

This is the story of why he didn't.

THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO WEIGHED THE decision with Colin Powell agree that there was no one factor and no one moment that tipped the balance--not even the obvious ones. His family heard the rumors that they had somehow vetoed his running. "There was a lot more to it than that," says Michael, as he pauses, lets out a sigh and begins to tell what happened. "I hear 'It was Alma' all the time. Well, it wasn't just Alma. This is a much more sophisticated, subtle story than that."

In fact, he says, for all the reports of family powwows during the final stretch, Powell never even put it to a vote.

As for Alma? There was never a veto. Powell never asked her.

You have to understand how this family works, Michael explains. Everyone who knows Alma says that if her husband had chosen to run, she would have supported him, however opposed she was to the whole idea. And that's why he never came out and asked her, but tried to read the signals instead. "My mother would look at him and say, 'If you want to do it, I'm in,'" Michael says. "The kids would say the same thing: 'We're in.' Because we've done this before. We're always in. That's a cardinal rule in this house: We're in if you really want to do it. See, he never would ask us to make this decision."

That doesn't mean there weren't long family conversations, weighing the pros and cons. But they were conducted in the Powell family style. "We're not the Brady Bunch," says Michael. "Nothing ever really got resolved." Michael generally leaned in favor of a run; his mother and sisters against. They would talk about the chance to do something really thrilling. "Then we'd make jokes about the funny things we were going to do to the White House," says Michael. "We were planning to shake up the place. We'd laugh again, and then my mother might say, 'This is really profound.' And we'd reflect on how truly historic it would be. Then nobody would say anything for a while, until one of my sisters said to my father, 'What do you want to do?' And he'd say, 'I don't know.' And that's the way it would end. To this moment--and he and I have had some of our warmest father-son talks over this--he has never said, 'What do you think I should do?' Never."

This was not the first time Alma and the family had wrestled with hard choices about service and sacrifice. "She has been down this road many times before," Michael says. "So has the family. When I was born, the man was in Vietnam. I met him when I was almost one year old. Four and a half years later he went back. Not knowing whether we're going to hear any day that he was never coming back--that's a real aspect of military family life. So how we went about this decision was unique, but not foreign to us."

Powell had lived, for roughly the past year, in the Haze. The crowds kept growing. Their praise and pleas were a river carrying him swiftly past all the rules and rites that attend a race for the presidency. Pundits talked of his star quality, the ability to make a room go quiet when he walked in. But it was not the bright beam of a supernova, a demagogue's dazzle. It was more infrared, the kind that warms without burning. He seemed comfortable, respectable, most of all normal--too normal to run for the White House, which meant that he became the most popular candidate on the landscape without lifting a finger or spending a dime.

It was an easy adoration that could have worked like a drug, even with Powell's political immune system. Michael watched his father wrestle with it. "I was very, very proud to watch him say, 'I've got to step out of this cloud for a moment and look inside myself.'" A race for the presidency, however easy the start, would become very, very hard. The general was enough a creature of the capital to know how it works. "The people who are sucking you in today will stick a knife in your back tomorrow if the boat starts to go under," Michael says. "They have personal interest in being attached to a phenomenon." His father had to be careful not to let that sweep past his instincts.

And as everyone now knows too well, those instincts are, above all, cautious. Campaign veterans observe that deciding to run for President is fundamentally an irrational act. Colin Powell, for all his candor and appealing humanity, has never been given to irrational acts. He decided to marry Alma only when she threatened to break up with him as he was heading for Vietnam. And so he went about weighing the White House bid very carefully. One of Powell's 13 Rules is "Check small things." He reviewed every pro and con, every poll, talked to a wide circle of friends and advisers. None of those details could ignite a fire in his belly.

The public speeches he gave to make a living always elicited questions about whether he would run. His stock answer was an adroit pirouette about not having made up his mind--but he also flicked in allusions to his possibly grand future. At a speech in San Antonio, Texas, in January, he made approving noises about the new Italian Prime Minister, selected precisely because "he has no politics and he has a government of technocrats. Interesting!" As the months passed, he gradually gave longer, more thoughtful answers, speculating in public about his future in just enough greater detail to give reporters reason to think he was steadily inching closer to a yes decision.

As the Powell for President boomlet grew, the general did nothing to stop it. Draft Powell committees sent him memos explaining how he might actually win the Republican nomination and presidency; he sent word back to keep up the good work. He met with his old friends and associates Kenneth Duberstein and Richard Armitage to game out how both an independent run and a Republican run would work, what the timing would be, how much money they would take. Duberstein prepared memos on filing dates and election laws. On May 24 the three of them met at Powell's McLean, Virginia, house to review the prospects. Duberstein summed up Powell's state of mind at that point: "It's fair to say that he's not waking up every morning saying, 'I want to be President, and how can I get there?' But he's enjoying the hell out of his speeches. At every forum he goes to, people are coming up to him and telling him he must run, that it's his duty to serve. He can't escape it."

BUT DURING THE SUMMER SIMmering, there were signs of Alma's reluctance. One day she walked into the dining room to find the general, Armitage and Duberstein huddled over takeout chicken and mashed potatoes and talking about the future. "What are you boys up to?" Alma asked. "Seeing if we might screw up the presidential race," Armitage replied.

"That's just great," she said, joking, noncommittal. He asked her if she would go on camera during an interview scheduled with Barbara Walters. "No way," she said. "I don't do that." Armitage smiled. "That's good," he kidded her, "because then we don't have to worry about your sitting in the background giving the finger and sticking out your tongue to the camera. We won't have to slash your tires so you can't make it to the studio." She did eventually do the interview--and through it all, she never flatly vetoed the idea of running. If elected, was the message, she would serve.

As his book tour approached, Powell prepared himself for the publicity blitz by honing his positions on the major issues of the day, one more sign of his growing comfort in the eddies of presidential politics. Before the Barbara Walters interview he sat down with friends to rehearse possible questions and answers--then deliberately used the interview to show a lot more leg on controversial subjects, including abortion, affirmative action and gun control.

Meanwhile an unofficial Powell organization took shape. "We knew from the people who had called us who was available for what," says Armitage, a former Assistant Secretary of Defense under Reagan. "We weren't just sitting on our hands." Powell tapped the G.O.P.'s best organizational minds for advice, pressing experts for details about deadlines, delegate slating, issues and policy questions, staffing and fund raising. Duberstein, a former Reagan chief of staff, reached out to a score of G.O.P. political operatives, asking those who were unaffiliated not to commit to any other campaign, even inviting those who had committed to stay loose.

All the while, Powell's fax machine, mailbox and home mail slot were flooded with unsolicited resumes, offers of volunteers and policy papers. Journalists faxed over speech ideas; several volunteered to quit their jobs and join the campaign. Fund raisers drew up financial timetables. ceos called, urging Powell to run. Congressmen pledged their silent support; some sitting Democratic lawmakers quietly pushed Powell to jump into the race, even as a Republican, because the Democratic Party, they said, was beyond repair. Governors indicated they were ready to endorse. Duberstein's rabbi pulled him aside before service one Saturday morning in September and asked, "Is he going to do it?"

Literally, it seemed, everyone was waiting for Powell, but even those whose advice he trusted most, such as former President George Bush, who spoke with him several times by telephone and once in person, could not be certain afterward about which way he would go. The consensus of all the advice Powell received, says Armitage, was that a candidacy would be good for the country but hell for him.

It was only after the book tour that Powell addressed himself to the hard question of actually deciding what to do. "There were times of great enthusiasm," says Armitage. "He'd get fired up, enthusiastic for the task at hand." But then the urge would die down. On Saturday, Oct. 28, Powell decided he was going to run. The next day he got up and concluded that he couldn't.

In the final week Powell tightened his circle of advisers to a group of three: Alma, Armitage and Duberstein. At one meeting early in the week, Powell was close enough to a yes to discuss the creation of an exploratory committee. Duberstein talked to two lawyers about how to set it up. The group also considered talking to Charles Kelly, who ran Citizens for Colin Powell, about tapping into his organization, but they decided to hold off until Powell was firmer about saying yes.

Then some heavyweights helped push Powell further. On Wednesday, Nov. 1, Duberstein was calling old associates of Powell's to make sure they could drop their lives on short notice and come to Washington to help him run. The next day, Powell met at his office in Alexandria with Republican Party chairman Haley Barbour, who talked favorably about a candidacy. But there were other voices just as determined to be heard. A group of conservatives called a press conference to blast Powell and warn him against running. Christian Coalition leader Ralph Reed had done the same, via letter.

But the real sign from the right came that night after dinner. Newt Gingrich told his staff he was attending a function in Chevy Chase, Maryland. Afterward he slipped onto the Beltway to McLean, where he arrived at Powell's front door sometime after eight. If Powell wanted some protection on his right flank, Gingrich would be essential. For weeks the Speaker had made positive if guarded comments about the general. But he had not done anything to actively push him into the race.

Until Thursday. In their meeting that night, Gingrich did nothing to discourage Powell from running. The two men repaired to the library, where they talked for two hours about the demands of a race and the toll it would take on Powell's private life. Gingrich believed a campaign would succeed--but only if Powell wanted it very badly. And as the Thursday night session ended, Powell was ready to go.

But when he awoke the next morning, the thrill was gone. The next five days, between Friday morning and the final decision Tuesday to pull the plug, were an emotional roller coaster. Powell arrived home Saturday afternoon to find his house staked out. Everyone knew a decision was coming. He spoke with a few friends by telephone that afternoon, and running was still a possibility. He even picked the announcement day--Nov. 22, the anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination and the eve of Thanksgiving, America's family day.

AFTER DARK, POWELL SLIPPED over to Duberstein's house, and once again they surveyed the landscape with Armitage. Duberstein didn't push Powell to run; in fact, he reminded him of the downsides. The team exchanged drafts of announcement statements--both for and against. But to Armitage, "it was clear that he was probably going to pull the plug." At that point Armitage too was trying to be a friend, not a cheerleader. "I can't help you, buddy," he said. "It's the most frustrating thing in my life that I can't. If you make a decision, I can help you. But in the end this is your decision--not mine, not your kids', not even Alma's."

Powell recalled seeing Dan Quayle on TV one night saying that if any member of your family is against your running, don't do it. Powell knew that for the first time in 33 years, his family had a husband and father, someone who was around for the grandchildren. In the final days, it was also becoming clearer that Alma's opposition was "deep, heartfelt, immutable," says Armitage. "And without his family's being squared away, I don't see how he could develop the necessary passion."

There is no way to understand what happened without listening to the people who know the man best. "I think he'd say the showstopper wasn't family vs. public office; it was 'Who I am to myself at this moment in time?'" says Michael. The power of the expectations was frightening in itself. "One person is supposed to heal 200 years of racial divide," says Powell's son. "You're supposed to moderate the Republican Party. You're supposed to create a foreign policy in the vacuum left by the cold war, solve Bosnia and lead us to a new era of prosperity and growth--all because you were a successful general and won a war." It is a charming but dangerous habit of voters to romanticize those they admire, even to the point of destroying them. Says Michael: "As George Will once put it, this is a hell of an entry-level job in politics."

It was in this final stretch, with Powell still on the fence but leaning toward no, that the news came of the assassination of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, a fellow soldier turned politician, who was also a family friend. Though the timing was excruciating, it didn't tell the Powells anything they didn't know. The security issue had never been as important as the privacy issue, and here the family had already got a taste of what was to come. The reports of her depression didn't especially bother Alma, but some other ugly rumors did. "She is less bothered by the truth than by fiction," Michael explains. "The public may have a right to know about her condition. But when you're being hurt by lies, which are the hardest kind of thing to rebut because they're hollow, then you realize how much you're going to be hurt for no reason whatsoever in this race. And fiction travels faster than truth."

By Monday, four days after his advisers had widely leaked a weekend decision, Powell was feeling the pressure to declare one way or the other. He admitted at one point during the day that he felt duty bound to respond to the call from all the people he had met, all the book buyers he had signed for, all the enthusiasts for his candidacy. He was honored by the ground swell and felt it to be genuine. So he met again with Duberstein at home and decided to decide that night. Armitage canceled his plans, and the three men gathered at 7 at Powell's house, in his library, for a meeting that lasted two hours and 15 minutes. Alma joined them after an hour or so.

The four talked about everything, went over all the issues, asked all the big questions about why Powell wanted to run, what he would do, what liabilities he faced. And over the course of the session, Duberstein said, "We all started talking no." At one point Duberstein asked, "Is it over?" Powell replied, "It's over." As they left the house, Armitage put an upbeat spin on the closure: "This is the beginning of the next chapter in your life."

But Powell swerved one last time. On Tuesday he gave a speech in Philadelphia to an ecstatic crowd. He was back in the Haze. Upon his return, he wondered aloud--one last time--about running. He was deadly serious. That's why Alma was waiting to hear the words herself, over the mikes, in front of the cameras, where there was no turning back.

Powell made a courtesy call before appearing in front of the cameras with his decision. It was not to Bob Dole, the now vastly more potent leader of the party Powell was at last about to join. It was not to Gingrich. Instead the heads-up went to a man whom Powell knew not only as the master of the courtesy call but also as a proven secret keeper: George Bush.

Afterward there were calls to friends and supporters, but the general decided to stay away from the talk shows. He had said what he had to say. There were critics who saw in his record a careful careerism and goaded him that he didn't have the guts for a fight. Michael has watched him do battle all his life, and so sees it differently. "Military history will show you that there are eager generals who rush into every battle, and then there are the wise leaders who know when to pull back to fight another day. I count him among the wise ones."

Pulling back, Powell realized, does not mean disappearing. There is a middle ground, and that is what he will be searching for as he seeks ways to serve and shape the race he so dominated until last week. He hadn't even caught his breath before people started asking about the vice presidency. In his remarks, he seemed to rule it out, though that is almost a requirement for getting the job. And Dole's team was practically printing up bumper stickers before the day was over. Campaign manager Scott Reed called the idea of a Dole-Powell ticket "orgasmic."

And so when Newt and Dole met the next day, Newt picked up the phone and dialed the general, then put Dole on the line. "I talked to him briefly," Dole told Time. "I told him I hope he thought I conducted myself properly. I never said anything but good things." Powell, Dole says, replied, "No, you've been a prince." The Powell folks on the other end remember things a little differently; and the word prince, they say, was never used. But both sides agree on one thing: the vice presidency never came up.

That doesn't mean that it never will. "He doesn't want to launch a whole new round of expectation and speculation," Michael says. "But that's not saying that come August, if asked by the candidate, his answer would be absolutely no. I wouldn't be surprised one bit if he was in government again as secretary of something or even Vice President. And I'm not entirely convinced he wouldn't run in 2000. He's only 58. In 2000 he'll be 10 years younger than Dole will be in 1996."

--Reported by Michael Duffy, J.F.O. McAllister and Eric Pooley/Washington

With reporting by MICHAEL DUFFY, J.F.O. MCALLISTER AND ERIC POOLEY/WASHINGTON