DOWN TO THE WIRE

The mood on Air Force One on the last weekend was upbeat--by decree. Karen Hughes was determined to show the president as cheerful, happy, joking, no matter what. Aides told reporters that the president was cracking jokes and wearing a funny shirt that said bowling for bush. Hughes herself reported that the president had told her, "Do you think Kerry's having this much fun?" His aides made a show of clowning around. Rove somewhere found a sign that said free kittens, and hung it in the conference room of Air Force One. On Halloween, top advisers dressed up in camouflage jackets--to mock Kerry, who had worn camo to stage a duck-hunting photo op in Ohio. The president was reportedly playing a happy-go-lucky game of gin rummy, complete with a referee (deputy chief of staff Joe Hagin) to wave a yellow flag in case anyone got out of hand.

But when the president showed up to vote at 7:30 on election morning at the Crawford, Texas, firehouse, his eyes seemed puffy and he looked worn. The final rally the night before at Southern Methodist University had been lackluster and hurried. Bush's cockiness was gone. "We'll see how it goes tonight," Bush told reporters. "I've given it my all... I've enjoyed it." He thanked his old nemesis, the White House press corps, for its coverage. Laura Bush's smile was plastered on her face. She took her husband's hand and intensely kneaded it with her thumb.

The tracking polls overnight in Florida showed the race looking tight. But as they flew back to Washington, Bush told his top advisers that he had spoken to brother Jeb, the governor of the all-important swing state. Jeb was a straight talker, said the president, and Jeb felt good about his state. Bush seemed confident enough, thought McKinnon.

But McKinnon's own mood darkened when he arrived at the Bush-Cheney campaign headquarters in Arlington shortly after 5 p.m. In Pit Row, strategy boss Dowd was in his office with the door shut. McKinnon tucked his head in. Dowd looked serious, even a little exasperated. His phone was ringing constantly and e-mails were stacking up on his computer screen. Dowd was puzzled by the network exit polls. They were grim: Bush was getting crushed in Pennsylvania and losing in Ohio and Florida. But something was odd. The polls were based on a turnout of 59 percent women and 41 percent men. Maybe that was the actual turnout, but Dowd doubted it. Also, Bush seemed to be doing surprisingly well with Hispanics, winning 42 percent of their votes. But if that number was true, then Bush should be cleaning up overall. The numbers didn't seem to make sense.

Across the Potomac, at Kerry headquarters, Michael Whouley, the mastermind of Kerry's Iowa victory, was doing everything he could to get out the vote. There had been reports of massive turnout--good news for Kerry, who was counting on new voters to put him over the top. Whouley was standing in the middle of something called the Bullseye Room, snapping off decisions large and small. In Cleveland, people who had been waiting in line for hours were complaining about the lack of restrooms. An aide to Whouley dispatched Porta Pottis. More complex complaints were referred to the Breakdown Room. In Philadelphia, there was a report that when a computerized voting machine was switched on that morning, it showed 400 votes already recorded. Lawyers were dispatched; the report turned out to be a rumor. Headquarters was crawling with lawyers, most of them with nothing to do. They were dressed in jeans, not suits. "We're trying to hide," said one.

Shortly before 9 p.m., at the Republican National Committee headquarters up on Capitol Hill, the RNC's top oppo man, Tim Griffin, was feeling reborn. With Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" playing, Griffin was watching four TV sets and realizing that the early-afternoon exit polls had been just plain wrong. "We're up in Michigan!" he exclaimed. "We're gonna win Florida and we're gonna win Ohio! If we win Florida and Ohio, game over!" After a very blue afternoon, he was feeling exultant. "The exit polls stink. I could throw a dart at a map and get a better number." About an hour later, back in Arlington, McKinnon was feeling the same sense of reprieve. "Back from the death swoon," he said. "The projections were completely wrong. It's just unbelievable." McKinnon was watching the electoral map. "It looks like it's all coming down to Ohio," he said. "We're planning to have a ritual burning of the exit polls."