In my new role, I’d need a very capable producer. The network suggested a whippersnapper named Jeff Zucker. At just 25, he had already made a name for himself as an NBC researcher at the Seoul Olympics, where he prepared thick binders of background and trivia for Jane and Bob Costas. Jane became Jeff’s champion, guiding him toward a writer-producer gig at TODAY.
He showed up to meet me in a gray sweatshirt—the kind you’d wear in high school gym class—and lace-up Keds. Why is he wearing girls’ tennis shoes? I wondered. Beneath a mop of frizzy brown hair, he screamed nerd, but he also seemed a little cocky, especially for someone so young. Well, this is going to be interesting, I thought.
Just two months after I became national correspondent, simmering tensions over oil erupted in the Persian Gulf. Iraq invaded and annexed Kuwait; Saddam Hussein defied the UN Security Council’s demand that he withdraw. President George H. W. Bush swiftly mobilized an international coalition—by August, the military-buildup phase known as Operation Desert Shield was underway. For me, this meant a steady stream of high-octane, attention-getting assignments.
For one of the first, I went to Shaw Air Force Base in Sumter, South Carolina, to profile pilots and take a spin in an F-16 fighter jet that would be used in military operations in the Gulf.
I was zipped into a flight suit and fitted with a helmet, oxygen mask, and all-important G suit, which keeps blood flow semi-normal as the force of gravity, or number of g’s, increases. I then met the pilot who was going to take me for the ride of my life: Captain Jeff Connors, 28, straight out of Top Gun, with aviator shades and perfect white teeth. I hadn’t eaten anything that morning, so on my way out to the tarmac, I grabbed two slices of white bread that were sitting unappealingly on a random tray of cold cuts, slapped a piece of American cheese between them, and choked it down. Then I crawled into the cockpit and gave Captain Connors a half-hearted thumbs-up.
The plane had been rigged with cameras, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for my close-up. Suddenly, the engines roared and the jet shot off into the South Carolina sky.
Then came the not-so-fun part: We did loops, the equivalent of backflips, before launching into a spin, where the plane corkscrews around its axis. As if I weren’t feeling shitty enough, the aircraft then bolted like a rocket—I felt like my breasts would soon be protruding out of my back. It’s called pulling g’s, and I wasn’t a fan. Asked by my personal Tom Cruise if I was okay, I could barely form words, given the force field that was compressing my face and vocal cords, but I mustered a labored “Yes” through clenched teeth.
Finally, we landed. Before I got off the plane, I took out a plastic vomit bag and promptly made use of it. Luckily there were two, so I pulled out the second one and made use of it too. As I wobbled down the metal stairs, there was a welcoming party from the base to greet me as I triumphantly raised my arms and exclaimed, “Look, everyone! A two-bagger!”
Jeff was in the crowd, howling with laughter. It made for damn good TV and proved I was game for anything.
LATER THAT MONTH, Jeff and I were deployed to Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, where the U.S. military forces were headquartered. We bonded during the 16-hour flight as only people can when they’re about to jump into a journalistic foxhole together.
It was blisteringly hot—110 degrees. That it was a “dry heat” didn’t help. Pallets of bottled water were everywhere, providing almost no relief since the contents were as warm as bathwater.
One of our most attention-getting stories came on September 18th when I interviewed the commander in chief of Operation Desert Storm, General Norman Schwarzkopf. Stormin’ Norman, a soldier’s soldier and bona fide rock star. He talked candidly about the 150,000 troops in his care—how soon （or not） they’d be going home and how critical it was that the American people were behind them （Schwarzkopf himself was a Vietnam vet and admitted in our interview that he still felt bitter about the lack of support）。
It was a real coup. The truth is, I got lucky. The year before, I’d attended another Radio and Television Correspondents’ Association Dinner, where news organizations try to outdo each other with the bigwigs at their tables. When I asked Beth Wilkinson, a lawyer friend from the Pentagon, who’d be a great guest, she suggested Schwarzkopf, then commander of U.S. Central Command in Tampa.
We got to know each other over hotel beef and had a nice rapport, so when I came calling in Saudi Arabia, Schwarzkopf was happy to grant me an interview.
I RETURNED TO THE region in November and did a piece on how it felt to be away from home, in a war zone, over the holidays, and spent Thanksgiving with the 82nd Airborne, stationed outside of Dhahran; they were so disciplined and motivated （not to mention well mannered and well groomed）， the experience filled me with a whole new level of respect for the armed forces. A bunch of turkeys were cooked and served out of a trailer. I slept in a tent they’d set up for me beneath a celestial dome of the brightest stars I’d ever seen. Before I left the next day, the guys presented me with a T-shirt that said I SLEPT WITH THE 82ND AIRBORNE.