In my novel, WORLD WAR NIXON: An Alternate History of the 1970s, I ask what would have happened if President Richard Nixon had gotten away with Watergate, and had not been forced to resign ahead of being impeached. It is also a world where Chairman Mao dies before there could be an opening to China, radically altering the course of the Cold War. The story is told in the form of an oral history, one where many characters caught up in the turmoil of an alternative world where history took a much different course than the one we know. Below are the opening lines, where Richard Nixon himself, speaks.

An excerpt from WORLD WAR NIXON:

I am proud of the enemies I made during my many years in public life, and though they tried mightily to defeat and destroy me, they did not succeed, not even when they put me on trial for murder.

Who were my enemies? Too many to list by name in this space, but they could be found among the tenured professors at any Ivy League university. They were the so-called journalists who sat in front of the cameras for the big networks or pecked away at typewriters in the newsrooms of more than a few big city daily papers or weekly periodicals. They stalked the halls of Congress, many of them members of the Democratic Party, but far too many could be found among my fellow Republicans. They were the sons of rich men who had everything handed to them, contemptuous of those who had to struggle and work hard, those who made something of themselves by their own sweat and talent. They were the so-called intellectuals, smug in their disdain for their “inferiors.” They were the spoiled youth who spat upon brave soldiers returning home from an honorable war, who hurled obscenities at true patriots, who whined and complained and never appreciated the sacrifices of and advantages given them by the generations of true patriots who came before them.

They hated me because I wasn’t one of them, because I did not need them, but most of all, because my triumphs proved that the millions of good Americans who placed their trust in me did not need them either. They showered me with their sneers and insults, and not just me. Their ire was directed at Pat as well, along with Tricia and Julie. None of us were spared.

But Harvard professors and dirty, long-haired kids were not my worst enemies, not by a long shot. The worst by far were the men I trusted, the men to whom I opened the doors of power, who I thought shared my vision of a better America, for peace with honor in Southeast Asia, for an end to the endless tensions of the Cold War, and wanted to help me achieve those things, and who then betrayed me.

They were the worst.

They struck at me in the hour of my greatest triumph, a moment when America and the Soviet Union had found common ground at last after decades of rivalry that could have at any moment exploded into a nuclear conflagration that would have ended civilization. A golden future of peace and cooperation was at hand, and my enemies shattered it all; such was their hate for me.

How did it all come to pass?

I’ve written about my time in the White House in great detail, and I have read what others have written, too, especially Stephen Ambrose and David McCullough; their door stopper tomes couldn’t be more wrong in their assessment of my actions. But both men point to the fall of 1971 when my fortunes took a turn, specifically when our outreach to Communist China fell apart.

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