Decision Points

the Constitution and laws of our nation. History can debate the decisions I made, the policies I chose, and the tools I left behind. But there can be no debate about one fact: After the nightmare of September 11, America went seven and a half years without another successful terrorist attack on our soil. If I had to summarize my most meaningful accomplishment as president in one sentence, that would be it.
    * In 2010, after an exhaustive investigation, the Justice Department and FBI concluded that Dr. Bruce Ivins , a U.S. government scientist who committed suicide in 2008, had executed the anthrax attack alone.
    ** Congress named the law the Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act.

he Treaty Room was one of my favorite places in the White House. Spacious and stately, it sits on the second floor between the Lincoln Bedroom and the Yellow Oval Room. Before the construction of the West Wing, the Treaty Room was the presidential office. Its name dates back to 1898, when President William McKinley chose it to sign the treaty ending the Spanish-American War.

    Working in the Treaty Room.
White House/Joyce Boghosian
    The dominant piece of furniture is a large, dark walnut desk, where the treaty was signed and the cabinet of President Ulysses S. Grant met. I used the desk to edit speeches, read briefing papers, and make phone calls, usually in the evening after I had come back from the Oval Office.
    Opposite the desk was a large oil painting,
The Peacemakers
. It shows President Lincoln aboard the
River Queen
steamer with General Grant, General William Tecumseh Sherman, and Rear Admiral David Porter in the final month of the Civil War. Lincoln is consulting with his military commanders on the strategy to defeat the Confederacy and establish a just and lasting peace. Before 9/11, I saw the scene as a fascinating moment in history. After the attack, it took on a deeper meaning. The painting reminded me of Lincoln’s clarity of purpose: He waged war for a necessary and noble cause.
    Just after noon on Sunday, October 7, 2001, I walked into the Treaty Room to address the nation. Hours earlier, long-range bombers had taken off from Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri. American and British submarines in the Arabian Gulf had launched their Tomahawk missiles. And Navy fighter planes had lifted off the decks of the USS
Carl Vinson
and the USS
Enterprise
.
    “On my orders,” I said, “the United States military has begun strikesagainst al Qaeda terrorist training camps and military installations of the Taliban regime in Afghanistan.”
    I felt the gravity of the decision. I knew the war would bring death and sorrow. Every life lost would devastate a family forever. At the end of my speech, I quoted a letter I had received from a fourth-grade girl with a father in the military. “As much as I don’t want my dad to fight,” she wrote, “I’m willing to give him to you.”
    My anxiety about the sacrifice was mitigated by the urgency of the cause. Removing al Qaeda’s safe haven in Afghanistan was essential to protecting the American people. We had planned the mission carefully. We were acting out of necessity and self-defense, not revenge.
    I looked out the window of the Treaty Room. In the distance I could see the Jefferson Memorial, where the words of the Declaration of Independence are carved into the wall: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Across the Potomac sat the scarred Pentagon. For twenty-six days after 9/11, we had planned and prepared. Now the wait was over. America’s counterattack was under way. The liberation of Afghanistan had begun.

    Sending Americans to war is the most profound decision a president can make. I saw that in 1989, when Laura, the girls, and I spent Christmas at Camp David . On December 20, Dad had deployed twenty-seven thousand troops to Panama to remove dictator Manuel Noriega and restore democracy.
    Operation Just Cause was a success. The dictator was deposed quickly. American casualties were few. Most were in a celebratory mood. But not Dad. For the wounded and the families of the fallen—and for their commander in chief—the cost of battle was painfully high.
    I was standing next to Mother and Dad at a Christmas Eve caroling session when the Navy chaplain walked over. He said, “Sir, I’ve just returned from Wilford Hall in San Antonio, where the wounded troops lie. I