Red Moon Rising Sputnik and the Rivalries That Ignited the Space Age - Matthew Brzezinski [104]
In Congress, delighted Democrats heaped scorn on the administration’s refusal to recognize or respond to the Soviet challenge. They accused Eisenhower of “penny-pinching” on missiles, of “complacency” on satellites, “lack of vision” on both, and “incredible stupidity,” in general. Republican lawmakers, sensing the shifting tide in public opinion, toned down their defense of the White House and prepared to weather the storm. As a Republican congressman confessed, “No greater opportunity will ever be present for a Democratic Congress to harass a Republican administration, and everyone involved on either side knows it.”
No one on Capitol Hill was more keenly aware of this than Lyndon Johnson. His chief strategist, a wily former wire-service reporter by the name of George Reedy, penned out the possibilities. “The issue of [Sputnik], if properly handled,” Reedy wrote in a sweeping memo, “would blast the Republicans out of the water, unify the Democratic Party, and elect you President.” Sputnik, he added, was just the ticket the Democrats needed to supplant integration as the major campaign issue in the upcoming midterm and presidential campaigns. The disgrace of Little Rock and the continued opposition by Dixiecrats to integration were threatening to split the party and were likely to prove costly at the polls. Sputnik, argued Reedy, presented a unique opportunity “to find another issue, which is even more potent. Otherwise the Democratic future is bleak.”
National security was that issue, and now Johnson began maneuvering to place himself at its center, to batter Eisenhower, and to elbow Symington aside. Johnson was no stranger to matters of defense. He had first vaulted to national prominence during the 1950 hearings by the Senate Armed Services Subcommittee on Preparedness, which had investigated America’s missteps early in the Korean conflict. That inquest had established the Texan as a man to watch, who skillfully deflected Republican criticism of President Truman. That Truman himself had ridden the chairmanship of the very same subcommittee during World War II to the vice presidential nomination and ultimately to the presidency had not been lost on Johnson, who now, seven years later, began lobbying his mentor Richard Russell to convene Preparedness hearings instead of holding an Air Power inquest.
Johnson started working his legislative magic, calling in favors and swapping promises. Hushed conferences were held in corridors and cloakrooms; telephone calls were placed to the right people. Elbows were squeezed; shoulders were patted. Winks and nods were exchanged on the Senate floor, as deals were brokered over power breakfasts and intimate dinners at the Mayflower Hotel. It was the famous Johnson Treatment, and no one could withstand it for long. “Its velocity was breathtaking,” in the description of Rowland Evans and Robert Novak. “Its tone could be supplication, accusation, cajolery, exuberance, scorn, tears, complaint, the hint of threat. He moved in close, his face a scant millimeter from his target, his eyes widening and narrowing, his eyebrows rising and falling. From his pockets poured clippings, memos, and statistics. Mimicry, humor, and the genius analogy made ‘The Treatment’ an almost hypnotic experience and rendered the target stunned and helpless.”
The majority leader had no rivals when it came to bending the Senate to his will. Senator Hubert Humphrey of Minnesota called Johnson’s elaborately scripted seductions an art form, “making cowboy love.” And Russell now found himself