The Presidency

By Hugh Sidey

NOT AIR FORCE ONE NOW, BUT AIR FORCE 28000. MISSION 1443. Presidential authority stripped, code changed for the last flight. Yet the same 747 jumbo jet that had taken George Bush more than half a million miles around the globe. The power wand of the Oval Office. So much the same but everything different.

Bush sat at the plane's window last Wednesday afternoon and watched the placid fields of Texas rise to claim him again. "Feels good," he said. No argument from his companions, many of whom had joined him when he began his presidential quest in 1978.

The pain of electoral defeat had eased. He wore his old, dark-blue Air Force One windbreaker. He held a new biography of his hero Theodore Roosevelt, given to him by Vic Gold, an aide and companion in his political struggles. No presidential briefing papers. No tense parley waiting. Heading home.

"We are going to have a small, simple home," Bush said. "Bar is going to do a book. But I have made no firm plans." Then his eyes drifted off over the long horizon, back toward Washington. "I've done what I could," he said. "Time to get out of town. I intend to do everything I can to honor the office of the presidency . . . I feel good that I have handed over the office so that Iraq is no problem for President Clinton now . . . He was very gracious to us all day. I really wish him well."

And Bill Clinton had paid tribute in his Inaugural Address to Bush's "half- century of service to America." Bush was touched. "I wrote ((down)) my thoughts on the privilege of serving this nation," he said. "What an honor it has been." At least some of those thoughts he sealed inside an envelope and laid on top of the desk in the Oval Office.

It could have been a tough day, Bush said. But it wasn't, thanks to the Clintons and to the American people. He was awake at 5 a.m., long before first light. He and Barbara walked with the dogs, Ranger and Millie, listening to city sounds. "We love you, Mr. President . . . You did a great job," shouted a burly fellow at the fence. Bush was startled, then delighted.

He made his way to the office to clean up the last business. When he entered, he thought, "Nothing happening. Nobody there." But somebody had been there, his devoted assistant Patty Presock. She had the papers declaring 10 flooded Arizona counties to be a disaster area. Left-handed signature. Business done.

Bush wandered around the South Lawn, looking, absorbing the beauty and the meaning. The Washington Monument shone with the eager sunlight. Farther on, the Jefferson Memorial glowed warmly.

He thought he could handle the farewell to the White House switchboard operators. But, as he put it, "I overflowed." They had been for so long so diligent, so patient. John Kennedy had said, "They could raise Lazarus." They had hooked Bush up to the far world's leaders like no other President.

His toughest test was with the housekeeping staff. Ron Jones, assistant housekeeper, who had rounded up a horseshoe team and beaten the Bushes, father and sons, presented the President with two wooden horseshoes. Everybody cried and hugged.

When the Clintons drove up to the White House for the ride to the Capitol, the Bushes were surprised that the new residents had brought along their Hollywood-mogul friends, Harry Thomason and Linda Bloodworth-Thomason. The Thomasons had been particularly harsh about the Bush Administration. Linda walked up to the President and said, "We voted for you last time." He began to feel easier.

Bush had heard the stories that in 1981 the defeated Jimmy Carter, riding up Pennsylvania Avenue with Ronald Reagan, had not waved to the crowds. Bush was determined to avoid any hint of sourness. He waved spiritedly. Along the avenue, in the midst of the sea of adoring Clinton fans, was a sign thrust high, THANK YOU PRESIDENT BUSH. Clinton spied the placard first, pointed it out to Bush, and they laughed and waved together at the brave survivor.

The Inaugural stand could have been tense. The Bushes and the Quayles were on the high ground, surrounded by the victors, every facial tic and gesture being beamed around the world. Bush searched for friends. The Joint Chiefs of Staff, such stalwarts through the Persian Gulf and now in Somalia and Iraq, were nearby, and he leaned far over to shake hands. Suddenly, from behind them, came the face and hand of Admiral William Crowe, the former Chairman, who had made a splashy stand for Clinton during the campaign. Warm shake. Nice words. Hostilities contained.

Bush scanned the crowd spilling down the Mall. "Huge," he thought admiringly. He spied South Carolina's Republican Governor Carroll Campbell Jr., who had fought hard for Bush. The fading President was feeling even better.

Then high up on the camera scaffolding in front of the stand, Bush caught the greetings of a couple of technicians who had been on the long White House march in the glory days. "Hey," thought Bush in his last moments as President, "this isn't so bad."