But Glendon Rusch, vice president of the United States, had always figured it would be a distant occurrence—three or four decades in the future. He had no way of knowing the events that would prove godlike in their finality were a mere three or four minutes away.The Sikorsky VH-3 helicopter, one of only a dozen in the executive transport fleet out of Quantico, chopped its way through Virginia air space. Inside, in the relative quiet of the custom outfitted cabin, Rusch tapped his right foot, staring ahead at his wife, Macy, wanting the time to dissolve away like grains of sugar in hot coffee. Because the sooner the minutes passed, the sooner he’d know if his grueling two-year run for president would be the crown jewel in his career ring, or a nine hundred million dollar faux diamond.“Too close to call,” Rusch was told as they lifted off. But what the hell did that mean? He needed to talk with his campaign director. Just how close was “too close to call”? Was that statistical jargon for “It doesn’t look good, but we’re not mathematically eliminated”?Rusch stole a glance at Macy’s watch: could the last forty minutes have made a difference?
