“I am. Dead serious. Ted Rust is an alcoholic, a coward, and a bad actor.”

“I had my suspicions,” Al said, “but nothing like this. You’ve always done such a great job of propping him up.”

“Sure,” came the answer. “If I hadn’t done such a good job, he wouldn’t be holding this office—the highest office in the greatest nation. Al, what are we going to do?”

Secretary of Defense Augustus thought for a few minutes, then spoke. “There are two keys—the new chief of staff and the new vice president. With a suitable vice president in place, we can probably maneuver an impeachment. But if we lose the chief of staff, we’ll probably lose the selection of vice president.”

Vince was growing very uncomfortable. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“I am, if you are thinking that Valery will control the selection of a new chief of staff,” Al answered. “With the chief of staff, she gets to select the vice president.”

Vince moaned. “I totally agree with you. But do you know how spooky she is? I’m not talking about her girlfriends, but all that mystical New Age stuff she’s into. If her psychic buddies get their veep candidate voted in by Congress, hold on to your hat. They could very easily pop the president and wind up owning the candy store.”

Al Augustus winced. “Ouch!” he said. “You’re exactly right. Vince, old friend, you are talking twenty-first century coup d’état. That’s a pretty sinister scenario, but, with all we’ve been through— who’s to say? The problem is that if something like that were, in fact, to happen, and if they were to get away with it. . . .” He paused. “We had better be prepared to fight. Better still, we had better fight before it happens.”

Vince leaned back in his chair. “What do you have in mind, Al?”

Al smiled. “I know you’ve been fired, Vince, but for the good of America, will you please return the calls of those panic-stricken Asian leaders who’ve been burning the wires all night?”

“I’ll do it on one condition,” Vince answered. “Buy me a pizza on the way home. I’m ravenous.”

“Done.”

WHEN JAMES WONG RETURNED from the cabinet meeting to his big corner office in the Treasury Building overlooking the south lawn of the White House, he knew what lay ahead of him—a long, virtually sleepless night. It was going to be grueling trying to calm the American markets. Having witnessed the president’s disgraceful performance, he was now plagued with his own doubts about the future of the American economy. The nation was riding the crest of the worst crisis of its history. But, on top of all that, why had fate dealt America such a cruel blow, sending a buffoon to lead the nation in such a time of tragedy?