There was pandemonium in the passenger cabin. Reporters jumped into the aisles shouting questions, gesturing and waving, and demanding more information. Tape recorders snapped on, and strobe lights flashed, but Vince ducked out of the passenger compartment before any of the reporters could get to him. Once through the door, he ordered two Secret Service agents to block the passageway forward. No one was to go in or out of the media compartment until he gave the order.

Vince walked quickly back to the conference room where the speechwriter was already working at top speed on the new president’s address. Vince read the draft, penciled through a sentence or two, changed wording as needed, and marked up the text. In less than fifteen minutes, they had hammered out the best speech President Ted Rust would ever give to the American people. He pulled a large-print copy of the text from the onboard computer and, once again, entered the stateroom of the vice president.

Ted Rust’s hands were trembling visibly when the chief of staff entered the room. “Vince,” he moaned, “I need a drink.”

Vince was hard. “Ted, I told you. No booze.”

“Listen to me, Vince! This is no joke!”

“I’ll give you enough black coffee to charge up an elephant,” he said, “but absolutely no booze.” Vince sat down in the vice president’s swivel chair and leaned toward the sofa where Rust was seated. “Here’s your speech, Ted. Read through it quickly, and let’s start rehearsing your lines. There’s a place in there where you’ve got to get teary and choked up, and it has to be perfect. Can you do it?”

“You know I can do it,” the vice president answered sourly.

As Rust read through the speech, Vince took the headset and ordered the air force colonel in the cockpit to cut the flight speed to make sure that the plane would be stationed at the ramp with the stairs in place and in front of the ceremonial platform at precisely 7:55 P.M., eastern standard time.

WITHIN TEN MINUTES OF LANDING, the official party filed ceremoniously down the stairway. They waited briefly while the traveling press unloaded from the rear of Air Force Two and joined a mob of Washington press corps representatives around a podium about thirty feet in front of the steps. On either side of the red carpet were assorted cabinet members and leading members of both houses of Congress. At the foot of the steps was Ted Rust’s wife, Valery. They embraced briefly and whispered a few words in each other’s ears. Cameras captured the moment, strobe lights flashed, and the press reported to the American people that a tender exchange had taken place between two deeply devoted people.

In reality, Valery had whispered, “I don’t know how you’ll pull this one off, super boy. Just remember that everybody will be watching you from now on, so you’d better keep your pants zipped.”

Ted smiled, pinched her cheek, and muttered in return, “Thank you, Mommy dearest. I knew I could count on your support in a tense situation. Now, put on your best face, will you? We don’t want anybody to see what’s underneath that war paint.”