Some of the tasks on his list were things only he could do. Others, he could delegate to his colleagues back at the White House. But time was precious.

Once he had completed several phone conversations and made a number of secure calls back to members of the executive staff, Vince went forward to the vice president’s stateroom to inform Ted Rust that he had placed a call to the president’s widow. He stayed while Rust took the call, and after the customary words of condolence, Rust hung up the phone.

“She’s really torn up,” he said. “We’ve got to get her some help.”

“You’re right,” Vince replied. Then he moved quickly to the rear of the plane, where thirty-five members of the media were waiting to attack him like a school of barracudas going after a hunk of raw meat. ABC-TV had responsibility for the pool camera on the trip. The rest were assorted print reporters hoping to get lucky, to be on the scene of an assassination, a riot, or some other diplomatic screw-up. No courtesy or respect was to be found in this crowd.

The first to launch a salvo at D’Agostino was Sven Larson of the New York Times. A sixties Marxist who had idolized Che Guevara in print, and who seemed unable to cope with the fact that Fidel Castro was finally gone, Larson was always looking for an angle. It was no secret that he despised capitalism, Western-style democracy, and particularly the free-market system that had spawned such a thoroughgoing success in Chile—especially when Marxism had failed so conspicuously in Cuba. Even though he was an editorial page writer by trade, Larson had asked for this assignment as one last effort to trash the now-dead Pinochet.

“Why have we turned around?” Larson snapped at D’Agostino. “Have you people screwed up again? Have you lost your map, or is this tub going to crash?”

Vince glanced at him sarcastically, then held up both hands to quiet the babble of questions. He started the spin control. “Ladies and gentlemen, the vice president is in his stateroom, overcome with grief at the news we have just received from Washington. The president of the United States is dead—he has just committed suicide.”

There was an audible gasp from everyone in the cabin, but before anyone could speak, D’Agostino called for quiet. “Listen, please. Obviously, this is a terrible tragedy, but the vice president’s first thought was of the president’s widow, and he has just spoken to her and offered his condolences. We’re returning to Andrews at this moment, and you all know what comes next. Vice President Rust will be sworn in as president of the United States the moment we return. There will be a brief ceremony on the tarmac at Andrews, and you will be allowed to cover it.”

Before anyone could jump in, Vince held up both hands, looked from face to face, and paused for the effect of his words to sink in. “You know, of course, that you’re very lucky to be in this position. But there is one more thing you need to know. We have been told that a huge meteor, big enough to cause very serious damage, is due to impact somewhere in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of California at around seven o’clock, Pacific Coast time, tonight. You will be fully briefed at Andrews.”