The document included a candid assessment from the office of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) and the Joint Chiefs, describing the impending disaster on the West Coast. As soon as they took in the information they had received, and as they measured the gravity of the situation, the chief of staff started going back over the facts quickly, in a sort of impromptu vice-presidential situation briefing.

Little by little, the color drained from Ted Rust’s face. As D’Agostino laid out the details concerning the meteor threat, the death of the president, and their own sudden change of plans, Rust stood up, mumbled to himself, then yelled at the top of his lungs, “Hold on! Stop it!”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Rust visibly struggled to come to grips with his own situation. He was running both hands through his now disheveled hair and marching restlessly back and forth across the width of the plane.

When he stopped pacing, he said through clenched teeth, “Are you telling me that I am going to go back there and take charge of the government of the United States during the worst crisis in history?”

Again, there was a long, awkward silence.

Shuffling a stack of papers on the large table, his military aide tried to speak. “Mr. Vice President—I mean, Mr. President . . .”

Rust spun on his heels and shouted abruptly, “Shut up, you!”

Everyone froze, and nervous glances were exchanged around the room. When Vince D’Agostino tried to speak, the vice president exploded once again. “I cannot handle this, Vince, and I am not going to allow myself to be put into this situation! Do you hear me? I will not be put into this situation!”

Unbelievably, tears were welling up in the vice president’s eyes. Not the tears of a man grief-stricken by impending tragedy, or even the tears of one horrified by the reported suicide of the nation’s chief executive, but more like the tears of a child terrified by his own vision of reality. The facade of self-confidence and calm was shattered. All pretense of power, leadership, and eloquence was gone. All those disaster movies, after all, were just make-believe. Suddenly Ted Rust found himself face-to-face with a real-life tragedy, a real global crisis, real responsibilities, and he could not deal with any of it.

“Get me a drink,” he barked to no one in particular. “Make it a double—bourbon on the rocks.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. “No, bring me the whole bottle. I’ll pour my own.” The speechwriter got up and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of bourbon and a glass of ice. The vice president immediately poured a double and downed it.

The group in that little room knew very well that the vice president of the United States was a borderline alcoholic. They knew also that his home life was in shambles, held together by political expediency. He sought solace through compulsive alcohol abuse and equally compulsive womanizing. Rumor had it that his wife fought back by absenting herself for extended periods of time, to engage in secret liaisons with assorted lovers—male and female.