Chapter 1: A Call to Arms
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
For db
Our little systems have their day.
—from "In Memoriam A.H.H."
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 1: A Call to Arms
Created by AB Cooper
Narrated by Michael Smith
Michael Smith here.
Thanks for picking up this book. I have a feeling you and I are kindred spirits, both eager to understand how and why things unfold the way they do.
Let me start with full disclosure. I am farm-born, bred, and fed. Think Paul Bunyan, just not as handsome.
Back in college, I majored in football at Michigan. I was the starting left tackle on the 1958 championship team. My job was simple: protect the quarterback’s blind side. Only, Michigan did not pass much back then. Our coach had one strategy: run the ball straight down the throat of Ohio State. Most of the time, I was opening holes for our running backs.
When I graduated and went to work for the Goddard family, it would be generous to say my strategic thinking was still in its infancy. I had a lot to learn, and it took a lifetime of observation and a healthy dose of hindsight to piece together the larger strategy behind the complex events I am about to share with you.
This is the story of the Goddard family’s struggle to bring Papa George’s vision of a peaceful and prosperous Republic of Hawaii to life, as best as I can understand it.
Saturday, 8 May 1965, The Goddard Ranch, The Big Island
In 1965, I was just twenty-eight years old and still drafting off my glory days as Michigan’s left tackle. Go Blue! I was serving as the private secretary to the prime minister. I called him “PM” or “sir,” but you can call him Rob. He would have preferred it that way.
We were on the Big Island, preparing for the annual Big Five meeting, though the other families wouldn’t arrive until the following week. That day, I paced like a madman on the front veranda, anxiously waiting for Rob and Sally to return from their morning ride with the kids.
Normally, I’d have been with them. The family had kept a horse for me—a big, solid quarter horse named Bulwark. Fitting for a left tackle, right? Anyway, I had to stay behind to man the landlines, including the one linked directly to the White House switchboard. No mobiles back then—no flip phones, no smartphones. Just hard lines and patience. And that White House phone had been ringing off the hook since the family left, with no sign of them returning.
I could picture their ride perfectly. After leaving the ranch, Rob no doubt led the family toward the cliffs—he liked that path. It was rugged, like him. The trail wound through patches of loose rock and tufts of wild grass, with jagged outcrops jutting toward the sky. On one side, the cliffs dropped steeply to the ocean, where waves crashed against the rocks below, sending up sprays of saltwater. Rob’s horse, a tall, powerful stallion named Stormbreaker, always handled the terrain with ease—sure-footed and steady. A fitting name for a horse that matched Rob’s commanding presence.
Sally would be following just behind, riding Zephyr, a sleek and agile horse, her hooves striking the path with a light, steady rhythm. Zephyr had a bit of a wild streak, much like Sally in her tomboy days. But they wouldn’t make their move until they reached the open stretch beyond the cliffs, where the path leveled out and widened. Then, with a quick squeeze of her legs and a mischievous grin, Sally would urge Zephyr forward, slipping past Rob and taking the lead.
Jack, the firstborn at thirteen, would be astride a sturdy gelding named Valor—dependable and sure-footed, if not as flashy as Rob’s stallion. No doubt, he’d be sitting tall in the saddle, trying to mimic his father’s posture, eyes fixed on the path ahead. Jack always wanted to impress, to seem mature, but that spark of boyish excitement would flicker to life every time they neared the cliff’s edge.
Molly, ten but older in spirit, rode a calm, steady mare named Solace. Like Molly, Solace had a nurturing presence, always keeping pace without a fuss. Molly saw things others missed and looked after her brothers when their parents were too preoccupied with running the Republic. My protective instincts have always been strongest with her. In many ways, Molly is the protector of the Goddard family, always has been. And if she’s the one protecting her brothers, then I’m the one protecting her.
Then there would be Bobby, just eight, astride his playful pony, Pepper. The two would be inseparable, both relishing Sally’s attention. I could picture Pepper trotting along happily, Bobby grinning wide, humming or chatting to his pony, secure in the knowledge that Sally’s watchful eyes were always on him.
Finally, the family appeared on the horizon. I left the veranda and started running to meet them. The stretch of land between us was wide and open, tall grass rippling in the breeze. The morning sun was already hot on my neck, staining my stiff, starched white collar. I thought about loosening my black tie but decided against it
Truth be told, it took me longer than expected to reach them. I’d misjudged both the distance and their speed. Mathematics was never my strong suit at Michigan; I always struggled with that math problem about two trains traveling at different speeds and when they’d meet. Turns out, I wasn’t any better at calculating when horses would collide with an out-of-shape left tackle lumbering toward them. Before I knew it, I was out of breath, and the family was still a fair distance away.
Rob and the boys were racing home, laughing and kicking up dust as they approached. Sally and Molly were trailing behind, deep in what looked like a serious mother-daughter conversation. Knowing Sally, it was probably a one-sided exchange, full of instructions that required Molly to nod along obediently.
When I finally met up with them, Rob had secured the lead. He pulled back on Stormbreaker’s reins, bringing the horse to a smooth stop just beside me, careful to keep the flying grass and dirt at bay. From high in the saddle, he looked down at me with that effortless, commanding presence of his. He always had that way about him, like he was in control of whatever came next. But, of course, that wasn’t always the case, as he was about to find out.
I shouted, still catching my breath. "PM, sir! LBJ’s been ringing non-stop since you’ve been gone."
Rob raised an eyebrow. "You mean his secretary?"
"No, sir. The president himself."
He shook his head, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That son of a gun."
"Yes, sir. Every time he calls, he’s gruff as hell—like you’ve done him wrong just by enjoying a ride with your family. He’s calling from the LBJ Ranch in Texas and says you’re keeping him from working his cattle."
Rob let out a low chuckle. "Figures. Well, let’s see what that old bastard wants this time, but I’m afraid it won’t be good."
He had Jack turn over his horse for me, then motioned for Sally and me to follow him back to the study to take the call together.
The study, right off the veranda, faced west. If you took a boat from the Goddard Ranch, headed across the field, down to the beach, and then sailed northwest, the first major landmass you’d eventually reach would be the southeastern coast of China. If you sailed due west, you’d hit the Philippines.
Rob’s study had dark wood paneling, leather club chairs, and a massive desk cluttered with papers, family photos, and several landline phones. Above the fireplace, a portrait of his father, Papa George, kept watch over the room.
One wall of the study was lined with books. Among them, Rob’s most prized possessions were the first editions of Herman Wouk's The Caine Mutiny, a leather-bound Paradise Lost, and a collection of Civil War books written shortly after the war. When I first joined his staff, Rob handed me a copy of The Caine Mutiny and told me to read it.
"You need to reflect," he said, "on the moral complexities, the necessity of decisive action, and the burdens that come with command."
Of course this wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order that I promptly took to heart.
Sally settled into one of the leather chairs, her composure as steady as ever, while Rob leaned against his desk, glancing out the window to the west. I sat next to a large fireplace made of polished Hawaiian lava stones. The butler entered with a silver tray, placing lemonade for Sally and me, and whisky, neat, for Rob.
Then the White House phone rang. Rob picked it up with his usual calm, casting a final glance at his father’s portrait. He flipped the switch to the speakerphone, his fingers steady, though I was as nervous as a tick.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Where the hell you been, Robbie, my boy? Only a few hours of daylight left here in Texas, and I’ve got cattle to tend before I have to squeeze into one of those damn monkey suits for another one of Lady Bird’s shindigs. Christ almighty, you'd think she’d had her fill of fancy functions in Washington, but no.”
Rob’s expression didn’t change; he'd been through this routine before. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I was out riding with my family. It’s still morning here.”
“You still got that old stallion of yours? What was it—Stormwatch?”
“Stormbreaker, yes, sir,” Rob replied, his tone smooth, unwavering.
"He’s one hell of a beast. Tell you what—if you ever want to stud him out, I’ve got a few mares down here that’d be more than happy to oblige, if you know what I mean."
Rob suppressed a chuckle, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "Yes, sir. I’ll keep that in mind."
"Daylight’s burning, son. I’ll get right to it. I need to preposition the Enterprise battle group in your waters before we send it off to Nam."
This was the moment Rob had dreaded ever since Congress passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. Months earlier, McNamara had given him a heads-up that the U.S. war machine was ramping up and that, soon enough, they’d call on Hawaii for its service to the cause.
“Mr. President, I’d like nothing more than to help, but I can’t allow nukes in the Republic’s territorial waters. Article 9 of the Constitution forbids it.”
A long pause. You could almost hear the ticking of LBJ’s old grandfather clock as we all braced ourselves for the inevitable. Then came the low rumble of LBJ’s voice, simmering with barely restrained irritation.
“Who you trying to kid, Boy? You and I both know you stitched that darn constitution together in a way that lets you bend it whichever way you want. Security reasons, right? Hell, you’ve got it easy over there. You don’t have to deal with damn Republicans breathing down your neck every damn day. You’re running a one-party show.”
Rob stayed composed, though I could see the flicker of tension in his jaw. “It’s not that simple, Mr. President. Article 9 was the compromise. It’s ironclad.”
“Compromise?” LBJ scoffed, his voice rising like a kettle about to boil over. “You scared of crossing your daddy, is that it? I’ll handle him for you if that’s what it takes.”
That hit the mark. Rob’s eyes darkened, but he kept his voice even. “Mr. President, it’s not my father that’s the issue. Article 9 is the bedrock of our republic. I’ll do everything I can to support you—except allow nuclear weapons into our territorial waters.”
LBJ was at full boil now, his tone as sharp as barbed wire. “Robby-boy, you listen to me, and you listen real good. You’ve got one week. One week! Seven days to figure out how to get around that damn clause of yours and let the Enterprise in, or I’m slapping a 200 percent tariff on every single one of your exports to the U.S. and its territories. You hear me, son?”
Rob didn’t flinch. He knew better than to try to reason with LBJ when he was in this state—like a bull seeing red.
“Yes, sir. I’ll speak with the Big Five and the party leaders.”
“You better!” LBJ barked, before slamming his phone down, the loud clank reverberating from Texas to Hawaii.
Rob stood there for a moment, then walked to the large window that framed the view of the field. Sally and I sat quietly, waiting. When he was ready to speak, he would, and not a moment sooner. Finally, he broke the silence. “I don’t see how we can compromise. That was the deal I made with Papa George. Article 9 in exchange for a flexible constitution, one that gives the party the power it needs to transform a backwater, a cluster of islands in the middle of the Pacific, into a first-world nation.”
Sally, ever practical, said, “The Big Five won’t go for a 200 percent tariff. They weren’t thrilled about Hawaii becoming an independent republic in the first place.”
“I know all that,” Rob snapped, his frustration slipping through. When it was just the three of us, he dropped the filters he used when dealing with politicians and businessmen. “There must be a way.”
I took this as an invitation to offer my two cents. The PM was a good boss. He was open to listening to those he trusted. If you made sense, he’d hear you out. Sure, he had a big ego, but when it came to solving problems, all that mattered was finding the solution, no matter where it came from.
“PM,” I offered, “Keller is on your side. And you control the party. You can bring the Chinese and Japanese around. What can the other Big Five do?”
Sally shot me a quick glance of disapproval, her subtle way of warning me to tread carefully.
Rob turned back to the window, staring out as if the horizon itself held the answer.
After a long pause, Rob spoke again. “Well, the timing of the Big Five Annual Meeting couldn’t be better. Let’s see what they have to say. In the meantime, ready the helicopter for this afternoon.”
“Rob, you can’t leave today,” Sally protested. “We have a rare dinner with just the children tonight, and tomorrow is church.”
Without missing a beat, he replied, “The future of Hawaii hangs in the balance. There’ll be plenty of time for dinners and church later.”
He turned to me and said, “Schedule dinner with Keller tomorrow night at the Monarch Room and set up meetings with the Tripartite for Monday.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, already mentally packing my bag.
"Don’t you think you should speak with Papa George?" Sally asked.
He hesitated. We both knew he was trying to come out from under the long shadow of his father and didn’t want to run to him every time a momentous decision loomed. Sally bit her tongue. Smart move. If she pressed, he’d dig in his heels and refuse outright.
Rob took a slug of whiskey, then stared out the window for a spell before turning to Sally, his voice resigned. "I suppose you’re right."
He looked at me. "Michael, I’ll pay him a visit this evening—but only for cocktails."
I saluted and headed to my cabin to get ready to accompany my PM back to Honolulu.
Next on the docket: Drinks with Papa George in his study.
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