~ THE WEST WING
~ WASHINGTON, D.C.

The whole world watched it happen.

By the time C.J. Cregg stepped up before the White House Press Corps, the barest facts had already swept around the globe. Of course, to many minds there is no such thing as too much information - especially in a disaster. Still, not knowing is far worse. Those most tenacious minds of all - or at least the ones with the most privileged clearance - crammed into the West Wing Press Room for what promised to be the scoop of the year.

"Will you tone it down a bit?" their hostess shouted over the constant clamor of reporters vying for her attention. "If I can't hear myself, you certainly can't!"

The hubbub did lessen, a bit... but only a bit. This was obviously way too big a story for these news-hounds to show much in the way of patience.

The Press Secretary's demeanor agreed with their assessment. Normally she was unequaled in maintaining her aplomb despite the ugliness of the news she sometimes had to report. Today she looked rather less composed, despite her best efforts to hide it. No one present could accuse her of losing control, even now. However, neither could they deny that for the first time in a long time she'd really been rattled.

The only other time they'd seen her anything like this - was right after the Newseum shooting three years earlier.

"I've watched the video playback more than any of you." Somehow, her voice stayed level and firm. "But I still don't have that much information, because even COMSUBPLANT doesn't have all the information either. For those of you who aren't too big on military acronyms, that's Commander, Submarine Forces, U.S. Atlantic Fleet. They'll make the final decision on the course of action to take. Whatever I get from them, I'll pass on to you. The only details I'm not allowed to share are solely of a detailed technical nature, as I'm sure you can all understand. Defense has to be reticent on certain subjects."

"Including this one?" someone challenged from the back rows.

C.J. glared, her vision aflame, her tone chilly. "That was uncalled-for. This is a national emergency. Of course we'll keep you up to date, as much as humanly possible."

Even though she had hidden news items from this corps before, for political reasons, and even though all of them knew that, nobody doubted her today.

A female reporter standing against the side wall sprang forward. "C.J., please answer one question up front. Can you at least confirm that the President is still alive?"

The entire room went stock-still, every breath held.

It would be a safe bet that all of the viewers watching any of the represented TV stations did the same.

So did the tall woman behind the podium.

Her carefully-regulated poise, already shaken, cracked another inch. She had to pause for a deep inhalation. That told everyone what she was going to say before she said it.

From all appearances, it genuinely hurt to articulate her reply.

"No. I can't."

~ GROTON SHIPYARDS, "TRIDENT" NUCLEAR SUBMARINE BASE
~ THAMES RIVER, JUST NORTH OF NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT
~ ONE HOUR EARLIER

The large black helicopter hovered majestically over its destination before beginning the final approach, its dual rotors a blur of speed and power.

"There it is!" Jed Bartlet leaned closer to his daughter and pointed out the window beside her. He craned for a better view himself, positively beaming with excitement.

Eleanor obligingly glanced at the long dark shape far below, unmistakable, docked alone at center stage, surrounded by water and activity... but her delight was far less than her father's. "The latest in killing machines. Lovely."

"Don't think of it as war technology. Don't even think of it as defense technology. Think of it as an example of humanity's never-ending quest for knowledge and perfection. Our military leads the world in innovation."

Ellie rolled her eyes and did not reply. "Marine One" was quieter inside than almost any other chopper in existence, but the twin sets of blades directly overhead still generated enough noise to penetrate even this specially-shielded cabin, forcing its occupants to speak up. That gave her a convenient excuse not to answer.

The President didn't let her silence deter him. "There's something about submarines that's a lot like being an astronaut. It's a whole other world under the sea."

The First Daughter glanced at him askance, in no small surprise. "You like the idea of being sealed inside a tin can and dunked in the ocean?"

"It'd be worth it to explore like that. The power, the grace..." Latent claustrophobia notwithstanding - and his closest family members knew he suffered from that to some degree, although even his wife might not have been able to say just how much - he sounded quite sold on the concept. A kid in a candy store could scarcely have been more thrilled.

Seated behind them, the three accompanying White House staff members did their best to act oblivious of this personal conversation. Charlie Young had the hardest time being convincing, since he sat closest to his boss and couldn't possibly miss a word. Toby Ziegler stared into space, chin on hand, as dour as ever. Leo McGarry stayed hidden behind his newspaper, with the attitude of being at work even now.

Seated in the tier behind them, the two accompanying Secret Service agents did not move at all. Despite the fact that, until they stepped out of this flying strong box, bodyguards were rather superfluous, Ron Butterfield and his colleague maintained their eternal air of vigilance.

The executive helicopter continued its lofty descent, as graceful as any manmade flying object could hope to be.

Now Bartlet focused directly upon his middle daughter... and some of that eager joy faded, to be replaced by a deeper earnestness. "This is quite an opportunity for you."

Ellie kept her gaze on the impressive view below: the base neatly laid out, a couple of other impressive-looking ships in nearby berths, the blue river sparkling in the sun. It enabled her to avoid his eyes. She sat somewhat stiffly, and not just because of the seat belt. "You don't think it'll be too big a let-down that they're not getting the First Lady after all?"

"Well, they'd better not say so." For a moment her father looked every inch the affronted patriarch, ready and able to defend his family honor. "They're still getting the most gracious lady on the base."

"Not much competition there; I'll be the only female on the base."

"Don't count on it; equal opportunity is on the rise, even on the front lines."

Ellie's attitude remained distinctly lukewarm, not playing into this merry mood.

The President waited another couple of beats. When she showed no further sign of contributing to the discussion, his jocular air subsided. Even so, he was never one to easily admit defeat. "I'm glad you came."

His daughter shrugged. She didn't come across as just a spoiled brat, but unlike her parents or her sisters she had never possessed the gift of pretending to be interested when she simply wasn't. "Mom asked me to stand in, and I agreed."

Bartlet's eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm beginning to wonder if there was an ulterior motive to your mother's invitation. Are you trying to build up a tolerance to me?" A faint breath of amusement colored his words... but there could have been quite a bit more tint.

Ellie sighed, withdrawing just a fraction more. "More like practicing to be more sociable," she admitted quietly. And she didn't outright deny her father's theory, either.

Neither could she deny the subtle tension between them.

Neither could he. "Look, I know you're not militarily inclined..."

"That makes two of us." She was careful to keep any sharpness at bay, and to inject a trace of genuine humor - or at least pleasantness. With mixed success.

"We have a duty to uphold, and there are some loyal seamen here who don't deserve to be disappointed." An edge crept into the President's tone. He was starting to lose patience with this persistent moodiness.

Ellie picked up on that growing frustration, made more pronounced by the enthusiasm he'd displayed earlier, and she worked harder to keep things civil. It shouldn't be so difficult to at least appear to be enjoying oneself. "Don't worry, Dad. I know how things work."

"I know you do." And her father meant that. She had been the daughter of a public figure for most of her life. No matter how rocky her relationship with him might be, Ellie understood how to conduct herself around others.

With scarcely a bump, "Marine One" settled upon the landing pad.

Bartlet had no further time to spare for this taut conversation, no matter how much he might have wished to iron it out. Still, he did take one more moment to add a corollary. "I really am glad you came."

This time Ellie turned, drawn by the simple, sincere, though tentative, note.

The rotors had already begun to decelerate, their noise dropping rapidly. One of the Marines up front exited from the forward crew door, carrying a squat stepping stool. He placed this stool under the central hatch with the precision of long experience, then slid that hatch sideways to reveal a second panel inside - this one emblazoned with the Great Seal.

It wasn't just a panel; it was a reinforced set of steps, hinged at the bottom and recessed into the chopper's thick wall. It lowered like a drawbridge, stopping just inches above that stool. The Marine drew back at once and stood at attention.

The first person to disembark was not, of course, the President. A faceless man in a dark business suit and sunglasses, his name unknown yet his occupation obvious, quickly descended the steps and gave the whole area a competent once-over. He took in the honor guard of sailors, the gathered officers, the military band nearby, the knot of press contained to one side, the other black-suited agents scattered alertly around, the new vessel's tall conning tower beyond, the flags flapping overhead, and probably the number of seagulls in the sky - knowing the thoroughness of the Secret Service. He didn't actually nod in satisfaction, but his subsequent strides away from the executive helicopter signaled the all-clear.

Then Jed Bartlet appeared, to be greeted by the opening measures of "Hail to the Chief." "Marine One" did not have the sheer space of "Air Force One," nor was its doorway as wide or its functional staircase as sturdy, so he stepped down at once, briskly returning the Marine's sharp salute. This was a military display, after all, not a publicity event; he offered only one general wave of acknowledgment, mostly to the ever-present cameras, though his smile was as bright as always. Then he extended a hand back towards the portal, palm up.

Ellie moved into view, rather less confident but not shrinking. She accepted her father's hand with only a little self-consciousness, and he guided her down as a gentleman should. Then he tucked her arm in his, and together they walked along the red carpet. Towards the officers awaiting them, and towards the cameras already clicking away.

All but unnoticed, Ron slipped out next and took his place right behind them. Leo, Toby and Charlie followed, attracting even less attention. Three more agents from the ground force glided in and completed the procession.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs stood tall at the head of the welcome committee, the buttons and braid and decorations of his dress blues gleaming. As official host and representative of all sailors present, only he was to salute; he did so when his Commander-in-Chief was one stride away. Their timing coincided perfectly with the last bar of band music.

"Mr. President."

Bartlet had to release Ellie to salute in turn, mirroring that crisp gesture exactly. "Mr. Chairman. Thanks for inviting us here today. How are you?"

Admiral Percy Fitzwallace didn't quite smile, but the whites of his eyes flashed even brighter. "Well, sir, I was doing just fine... until presented with this unexpected formality, rather than your usual effort to join the common ranks." Even though there was little chance of being overheard by the press from here, he had to know his leader very well to indulge in such a joke at such a moment. "Are you feeling all right yourself?"

The President grinned even wider, not in the least fazed by this dry humor. "I didn't want to embarrass you in front of your own boys. Or me in front of my daughter." He half-turned. "You remember Eleanor?"

"Of course." Fitz extended his hand to Ellie. In fact he literally bowed from his considerable height, as polite as anyone could possibly be - more polite than any protocol could demand, in fact - and now he did smile. "It's good to have you here as well, Miss Bartlet."

Ellie's fixed public mask softened at once. Naturally she enjoyed the sweet gesture of unusual deference from her father today, even if he was the most powerful man in the world; that means more to any daughter than a stranger's regard ever could. But to be shown such esteem by this four-star admiral, the highest ranking officer of the strongest military force in human history... Despite the staggering authority and the enormous respect he commanded, he still went out of his way to treat this young woman with the utmost courtesy.

Now Fitz took a moment to look past both Bartlets. He met the eye of Leo, whom he worked with regularly in the White House Situation Room, Toby, whom he ran across often enough in the West Wing as one of Bartlet's closest advisors, and Charlie, whom he saw all the time as an executive shadow. All three men nodded back; no words were needed. Ron, whom the Admiral had also met more than once for obvious reasons, was looking in every other direction, scanning for trouble no matter how unlikely.

The Chairman started the tour. "If you'll step this way, Mr. President."

"You bet." Bartlet waved Ellie to walk beside him, not trail in his wake as though she ranked beneath him. Which she did, but he refused to showcase it. "You're really looking forward to the commissioning next month, aren't you, Fitz?"

"Whatever gave you that impression, sir?"

"You're as proud of this new ship as any father ever could be. You always are. I'm an authority on that feeling myself."

Glancing idly around and trying not to look bored, Ellie turned back, her attention captured despite herself.

"I think my fleet slightly outnumbers yours, Mr. President." Somehow, the Admiral still kept a straight face.

"Aw, my girls can take your entire fleet any day of the week." Bartlet didn't look right at his middle daughter, but that didn't diminish the strength of his words: a conviction that resonated despite the amusement. Ellie positively blushed.

"No doubt about that whatsoever, sir."

As though the truth of this statement could not possibly be denied or misconstrued as sarcasm, Fitz swung smoothly into business. They had approached the ruler-straight line of assembled crewmen, each in pristine summer white uniforms and stiffly at attention.

"Mr. President, may I present Captain Trudeau, base commander."

Where Fitz was dark, this bedecked officer was pale, even to the silver hair and beard. "It's an honor, sir. Welcome to Trident."

Bartlet couldn't resist. "Uh-oh; is King Neptune going to drop by as well?"

Fitz answered first, saving the base CO from having to scrabble for balance. "We'll send him an invitation right away."

"Can't have him feeling left out," their leader mused, grinning. "Besides, it'll add some blue blood to the party!" Then in an eye-blink he switched back to his official role. "Well, Captain, I can see that you run a tight ship here - on shore and on board."

"Thank you, sir." Trudeau straightened even more with pride. "We've arranged a tour of the facilities for you after you've seen the new boat."

"Sounds great."

Fitz moved a few steps to his left. "Sir, this is the plank crew that will be taking the 'Callanan' on her shakedown cruise." He introduced the three ranking officers. "Commander Hyde, his executive officer Lieutenant Lung, and Master Chief Petty Officer Tolkinski."

Each man saluted in turn. Hyde stood at least three inches shorter than his subordinates; Lung sported elegant Oriental features; Tolkinski, the tallest, was a startling blond.

The President returned these salutes and then offered a handshake to ease the stiffness. "Good to meet you. The Admiral and the Captain must think highly of you all, to place their newest toy in your hands." He hesitated, as though debating whether to indulge his love for obscure information or his private imp - probably the latter - then turned back to the Commander. The indicated spelling on his uniform nametag seemed to settle the matter. "Say, I know a guy named Edward Hyde. Any relation?"

Ellie raised a hand to her mouth, covering her grin. Leo gazed heavenward, Toby glanced sideways, and Charlie looked down - all three in hopeless exasperation. Anyone who knew this Chief Executive as well as they did would have picked up on that jovial note, with or without the literary connection.

The sub's acting captain could not have perceived this boyish playfulness as clearly, but perhaps he didn't need to. "Yes, sir, I think I know whom you mean." His tone was a little resigned. "He and Dr. Jekyll don't get along very well."

Bartlet had the grace to look contrite. "Sorry. Bet you hear that a lot."

"Now and then, sir," Hyde admitted. "You were more subtle than just about anyone else to date, though."

"Oh, well, I guess that's something..."

~ THE WEST WING

"DONNA!" Josh Lyman sailed into the bullpen area, oozing an almost noxious miasma of self-importance. "What's the next crisis that needs licking? I'm invincible today."

"Well, we'll cure that in a hurry," his assistant retorted from her desk, barely looking up as he passed.

The Deputy Chief of Staff ignored her barb, as usual, and kept going with his head high, as though she were quite beneath him rather than his right arm in truth. However, when he passed the office of the Press Secretary, what he saw made him brake short.

C.J. slouched in her chair, staring at the TV consoles on her office wall. Watching the news coverage of the President in Connecticut... and looking for all the world like a sulky child.

That total aberration from the norm drew Josh inside. "All right, what PR disaster is about to hit us now?" he assumed automatically.

"The next briefing." She didn't honor him with so much as a glance. "I'm going to announce that the White House is discriminating against white female Press Secretaries from California with a Berkeley degree who are over twenty-nine in age and over five-ten in height."

He exhaled, in an effort to sound sympathetic, but it came across as merely tolerant. "You're still mad that you didn't get to go."

"I was so looking forward to this," C.J. fumed, still trying to drill holes in the lucky ones on the TV screen. "The rest of them could have cared less. Leo was Air Force, not Navy; and I happen to know that Toby gets seasick! Now me - I've been fascinated with ships of all kinds for most of my life. I'd have gotten so much out of it."

Josh shook his head, abandoning all attempts to be solicitous. "You've been watching too much 'Star Trek'."

She threw him such a baleful look that he actually stepped back. "Come a little closer, Josh. I dearly want to wring your neck, but you're not worth getting out of my chair even for that pleasure."

"Leo has the military experience, and Toby wrote the speech. They were the logical choices." Now Josh sounded like he wanted to appease a dangerous adversary.

It didn't work. "Plus the minor fact that they know better than to leave you with free rein around here. Which effectively demotes me to the status of baby-sitter."

Now he looked totally insulted. "What - I'm going a great job! Just ask Donna!"

"I did. That's how I know."

Josh aimed his injured pride towards his assistant. "That traitor. I'm gonna have fun planning her punishment. I even have the clout now to do it, too."

C.J. sighed wearily. "Your power trip is most definitely helping my mood here."

"It's a big chair, but somebody's got to sit in it."

"Which might say something for the size of the ass it contains."

"Man, you try to cheer a person up..." Josh sauntered out, as though he had come to perform a significant community service and been thoroughly rebuffed.

Then he stuck his head back in. "By the way, they have height restrictions in submar - "

Instantly C.J. snatched up her desk stapler; large and solid, it would have made a dangerous missile indeed. The only reason she didn't whip it at her intended target was because he ducked out too fast.

On the way past Donna's desk, Josh issued a brief, ominous bulletin. "You are on bread and water for six weeks."

Or it would have been ominous, if she'd acted the least bit concerned. "Fine. The Perrier is getting expensive these days. I could use a fresh supply."

Fortunately for him, he was moving fast enough to pretend to be out of earshot.

From the other direction, Will Bailey stepped into view just in time to catch this exchange. Still a comparative novice to the anarchy of the West Wing and the peculiarities of its denizens, he couldn't hide his wonder.

"Um... your boss makes a habit out of threatening you?" he inquired softly once Josh had disappeared from view.

Donna grinned. "All the time. He also never hesitates to barge in where even politicians fear to tread." At Will's rising eyebrows, she clarified. "C.J.'s still upset that she didn't get to go to Connecticut today."

The newly-minted Deputy Communications Director digested this. "Well, she could have had my ticket, if I'd been given a ticket."

Donna blinked. "You weren't even invited? You've got as much military experience as anyone else here!"

He reddened a bit, in modesty or embarrassment or both. "Not unless you credit me with the total accumulated service of my whole family. I'm just a reservist. Besides, I'm still a bit new here for away missions, family connections notwithstanding."

"Point." Donna studied him in a new light. "You should wear your uniform more often."

Pause. "I don't usually get to decide that... but why?"

Her shoulders rose in a slightly coquettish shrug. "Just because." Then, before he could feel even more uncomfortable, she changed the subject. "Say, can you spare another minute? Even Josh has more military knowledge than I do, although that's still not saying much."

Will allowed a fleeting grin. "Sure. I know how interesting this stuff is, even if you have no desire to enlist."

She sat back. "Well, you pick up a fair bit from the news. I do know that this is the latest in the 'Ohio' class of nuclear attack sub..."

"Not attack sub; missile boat. They're called 'boomers' in sub slang. They aren't as fast as the attack subs, but they have a greater depth range. Besides the usual compliment of torpedoes, their primary arsenal is made up of ship-to-shore ballistic guided missiles." He pulled these details out of the air without even slowing for breath.

"Goes to show you have to ask the expert. I guess even the Air Force learns about ships, huh?" Donna smiled, briefly. "And this is the most advanced submarine yet. As if we don't have a big enough and lethal enough navy already." She sighed. "So, do they still break a bottle of champagne over the bow?"

"No, that's only for launching civilian ships. And this isn't the launching, or even the commissioning. It's a pre-commissioning: after the launch and fitting out, but prior to the plank tour." At her blank look, Will clarified. "Uh, that's the shakedown cruise. A prize crew puts the boat through what they call the 'angles and dangles.' They have to make sure everything works and everything is secured - nothing to roll around. Assuming it passes, the prize crew hands the 'plank' over to the acting captain. Then the sub is loaded with her missiles and commissioned for duty. That's a separate ceremony, anywhere from a month to a year later."

"Oh. So she's not armed right now?"

"Oh, you can bet there are torpedoes on board; no naval vessel sets sail without the means to defend herself. But they don't want the warheads anywhere near the President."

"I was wondering about that! It must be risky for him to tour any of these ships, much less a submarine."

"That's why. Besides, they sure won't allow the press aboard a commissioned sub - not after all that state-of-the-art hardware has been fully installed and operational. The media event has to be in advance." Will leaned back against the doorframe. While on this familiar topic, he displayed an easy confidence that even after some months in the White House rarely came out around his fellow senior staffers. "It's quite a PR opportunity for the President to take a pre-commissioning walk-through like this. Toby and C.J. endorsed it at once."

Donna nodded in growing comprehension. "And when those two agree that fast... Of course, military duties like this are part of the President's official role as Head of State."

"Right on. He's allowed on board the boat if she's still in dock, if she hasn't been on her plank tour, and if she hasn't been commissioned yet. It's what he's here for."

Then Will caught himself, further endorsed by Donna's attempt at a sharp glower. "Well, one of the things he's here for, anyway."

She giggled. "That's better." Pause. "I guess they'd never let him actually ride in one, huh?"

Will didn't hesitate at all. "Not a chance."

"Don't tell him that; he'll want to go all the more." They shared a knowing grin at their Chief Executive's quirky nature. "I doubt I could stand being confined like that myself."

"Seconded," Will said slowly. "If they had asked me to go along today, I'd have declined. I know nuclear vessels well enough to stay away from them."

Donna's intrigue became apprehension. "Are accidents... common?"

"Thankfully, there have been very few." For some reason, his sober attitude did not lighten up at this positive fact. "But when nuclear accidents do happen, they always happen on a grand scale."

~ TRIDENT

"The Irish rebellion of 1916 broke out right in the middle of World War I. It changed the entire socio-political landscape in Ireland, from a seeking for Home Rule to a desire for total independence."

Bartlet stood on an elevated ship's maintenance platform, addressing the rows of sailors and officers lined up neatly below, as well as the cameras to one side. His voice carried powerfully through the PA system and filled the fresh riverside air.

"The Home Rule party had encouraged many of their young lads to fight in the British army, in order to prove to Britain that Ireland was loyal and therefore deserved self-government. As a whole, Irish regiments served very well in the War. Their motives for joining up arose not only from politics, but also from the same causes that have people joining the military even today - poverty, a desire to escape their conditions, and maybe a yen for the romance and excitement that war was perceived to offer. As usual, it's only after one is committed to combat that one learns the truth behind that illusion. All of you here know that better than I do."

No matter what he talked about or how far back in time he went, this man always seemed to infuse his subjects with immediacy and passion.

"Home Rule dominance was essentially scuppered by the outbreak of the Great War, giving way to the Nationalist movement, so those soldiers that survived came back to a country about to embark on a war of independence. They became victims of a radical shift in the political climate. Their society didn't exactly ostracize them, but had little understanding or empathy for what they had experienced - an experience of veterans returning to civilian society anywhere. Even worse, they had been robbed of their original justification for joining. Also, the demobbed soldiers had another familiar problem to deal with on their return - poverty. They could, of course, have re-enlisted into the British army, but then they would have risked being asked to serve in Ireland itself, against their own people. Conversely, if they stuck with their neighbors, then they'd be fighting against the same army in which they'd just served."

Even for those in the audience who had no background or interest in Irish history, the eloquence and feeling behind the President's words captivated them all.

"Padraig Callanan was born near Galway, Ireland in 1898. He signed up as soon as he could, fought in France, rose to Warrant Officer, and lived to regret it. When he returned, he found himself caught both in the poverty trap and in the center of domestic conflict. Because of his military experience he came under no little pressure to join the fight for independence. But he could not bring himself to turn around and fight the army he'd just served in with distinction. He emigrated here while still a young man, settled in Cleveland, anglicized his first name to 'Patrick'... and the very next thing he did was join the United States Navy. He faced a lot of opposition during his career here as well, and it is all the more to his credit that he achieved the rank of Rear Admiral on pure merit, hard work, and undeniable skill. He'd already seen and experienced horrors enough for a lifetime, yet he chose to sign up again. Sure, it granted him opportunities, and he was no doubt grateful for that. But even more, he must have had a love for the service, for the comradeship it offered, and for the ideal of freedom it represents. I really admire that dedication, that desire to serve... and I know all of you do as well."

Behind and below this makeshift podium, the President's entourage waited - with varying degrees of patience - for their boss to finish.

Toby paced nonstop. "If I'd been that guy, I'd have stayed in the army," he muttered to no one. "I know the trenches were no picnic... but a continent is somewhat less likely to give underfoot. Not like ocean."

Eleanor, the only one close enough to overhear, stood gazing out towards the Thames, a light spring breeze gently swirling her skirt and her long hair. She looked even less engrossed in the speech than Toby did. Now she glanced his way in full sympathy.

"Why am I here?" he went on - not fearfully, but distractedly. "I don't even like ships. And I especially don't like submarines."

This time the President's daughter elected to comment. "You could've stayed at the White House and let C.J. come instead."

The Director of Communications ran a palm up his forehead. "She asked to switch with me. She almost begged to switch with me. I should've listened to her. Why didn't I listen to her?"

"Because you had to hear my father's speech firsthand. The speech you wrote." Ellie kept her tone fairly neutral, but the implication was still there: You have only yourself to blame.

Slowly, darkly, Toby turned towards her. She deflected his frown with a disarming grin, in which there was a strong element of her father's imp of mischief. Making an effort, he curbed his retort. Even leaving aside what the President would do to him if he obeyed the impulse to engage in a fiery argument with a DPOTUS, Ellie herself would meet him head-on - and maybe even win. She might not enjoy combat for its own sake quite as much as the rest of her family, but she did possess the Bartlet love for a good debate... and the Bartlet stubbornness. And a quiet, subtle edge all her own.

Leo interrupted this standoff, striding over and snapping his cellular phone shut with finality. "Well, there hasn't been a catastrophe back home yet, or anywhere else that we know of. Leastwise, nothing worthy of derailing an executive schedule."

Toby sniffed. "Let's see how long that lasts. I'm not taking bets."

Charlie arrived moments later, leading another young black man with a camera bag over his shoulder and a camera around his neck. "This is Johnny DeSoto. C.J. selected him to photograph the tour."

Leo looked the newcomer over. "You know that the DoD has to examine any pictures you get before you can publish them, right?"

Even though he was at least as tall and probably more muscular than any of the four gathered around him, DeSoto looked decidedly nervous. Toby had shifted his annoyance from Ellie to this convenient new arrival. Leo could be even more intimidating if he so chose. And just a few yards away was the President of the United States.

The smile Ellie gave him actually hindered more than it helped.

He swallowed. "Yeah, I know. I'll concentrate on the people, not the equipment."

"Good." The White House Chief of Staff checked his wristwatch, his highly-organized mind already moving on to other things.

Above them, Bartlet was wrapping up. "And so it is with pride that we name this fine new vessel the 'USS Callanan.' It will be a tribute to one of our own lesser-known World War II heroes, to the forgotten Irish soldiers of a past age, to the countless workers in Irish shipyards and their expertise in ship-building, and to all the Irish immigrants that helped build America itself."

Amid hearty applause from his uniformed listeners, and even from some of the gathered press, he waved and stepped down. His staffers closed in around him at once - with the Secret Service closing around them all.

Really nervous now, DeSoto hung back. Charlie kindly stayed near him.

"Well done, sir," Toby offered first, deadpan as always.

"I know you don't really mean that, Toby." The President clapped him cheerfully on one shoulder. "But let's wait until we're on our way home before you tell me all the things I did wrong, okay?"

Sigh. "Yes, sir."

Searching for a more effusive accolade than that, their leader turned to the lone woman in their midst. "So, Miss Universe, what do you think?" He ran a hand through his thick, wind-ruffled hair.

Ellie hesitated, clearly not expecting to be asked for an opinion, even as she dimpled a bit at the nickname. "Well, you'll have a lot of non-Irish Americans mad at you." As if through a subliminal cue - or a hereditary one - she automatically tucked her own hair back into place. The two gestures were almost identical... and probably neither was aware of it.

"To say nothing of Irish ultra-republicans on both sides of the pond. But having people mad at me is hardly anything new." That depressing truth failed to dampen his spirits at all. "Besides, your mother has some Irish blood of her own, so I already know how to handle it."

"With kid gloves," Ellie supplied, displaying both confidence and just a hint of sarcasm.

"You got it." Bartlet's endearing smile proved irresistible, even for her.

Leo waited quietly until his President's eye swung towards him, as he knew it would. He opted for a silent nod in reply, a voiceless reassurance that as of this moment he didn't have any political, national or international bad news to impart.

Fitzwallace, approaching with Captain Trudeau and the sub's three senior officers in tow, wasn't quite so reticent. "Way to go, sir. You do know your homework."

"It pays to be a teacher, Fitz. After you retire, you should consider it. With due respect to everyone else here, it's the best job in the world." Bartlet had no trouble poking fun at himself as well. "Even better than the job I have now!" Then he just could not resist dragging in a few more targets. "On the other hand, it also pays to have speechwriters - they're the ones who do the homework for me!"

Toby exhaled quietly, but did not comment. Aloud, anyway.

The Chairman took all of this banter in stride, as usual. "Whatever you say, sir. We're turning you over to Commander Hyde now. He'll conduct the tour below deck."

"Fine. Lead on, Commander. We landlubbers will try not to get your brand-new ship dirty."

"Boat, sir." That amendment had been absolutely automatic, almost unconscious; the distinction between "ship" and "boat" was too deeply ingrained into the mind of every sub-driver. Then Hyde squared his shoulders in mute apology for daring to correct his Commander-in-Chief. "And I'm not worried, Mr. President," he added hurriedly, no doubt hoping no one would notice his gaffe. "This way, please."

The party of three officers, three politicians, one First Daughter, one body man, one reporter and five Secret Service agents started towards the towering black steel pillar before them.

"That was a fine speech, sir," Hyde said as they walked side by side. "Not many know the Gaelic form of 'Patrick.'"

"Oh, I couldn't pass up an opportunity like that!" Bartlet announced with satisfaction. Following close behind, Leo rolled his eyes. "It's an interesting name. A lot of foreign names are; too bad so many people felt obliged to change them as soon as they arrived here. Many still do, in fact." The President adopted a shrewd look, bringing his skill at character evaluation to the fore. "Do you perchance boast some Irish roots yourself?"

"Grandparents, sir."

"I love it. A brand-new, all-American vessel... with a base commander from France, a CO from Ireland, a first mate from China, and a CPO from Russia - if their names are any clue. The Great American Melting Pot at work!"

"Agreed, sir. It was my mother's family who first told me about Admiral Callanan. He took a public stand for the Irishmen he fought with, the ones who didn't emigrate."

"It's sad. Their contribution was totally forgotten. Of course, like all social history, there are different ways to interpret everything. This has only really been acknowledged in the past five years or so. The White House is finally taking steps - long overdue ones, I'll admit." There was a reason why these details had not found their way into the official speech.

"But still welcome steps, Mr. President."

This time Leo couldn't hold back a comment of his own. His volume remained low, as though he wasn't quite sure he should take part in this conversation yet felt too strongly about it to be silent... and the words came across as more than a little cynical. "Anyone else see a parallel to the way 'Nam vets were treated here at home? By their own people."

Protocol could have jumped on the Chief of Staff for addressing such a sensitive political issue at such a non-political time. Diplomats might have frowned in displeasure; nationalists might have provoked a fight. Leo had kept it quiet enough to give Bartlet the option of pretending that he hadn't heard, if he chose not to go there. Instead, The Man seized upon this observation at once, always happy to have additional input.

"Leo's right on the money. He's vaguely Irish himself - and a soldier to boot, so he knows better than to buy into the romantic image of a struggle for independence or anything else. And he served in Vietnam. You can get seriously discouraged when you see how little had changed between World One and then. We've still got some hard work ahead to keep things changing, for the better."

Hyde spoke for all of them. "Yes, sir."

By now they had arrived at the edge of the dock and the ladder running up the streamlined submarine's very side. From such close range this charcoal vessel looked more enormous than ever, despite its total lack of sharp corners or viewing ports or projecting instruments, and despite its visible area being far smaller than almost any surface ship in the American fleet.

A straight line of select sailors stood watch on the exterior deck itself. The one on the extreme end brought forth a lanyard with a silver boatswain's whistle and ceremoniously piped the President aboard. All of the others snapped a salute in unison.

The boat's commander claimed his traditional right to make the vocal announcement. "'USS Callanan' is now 'Navy One'," he bellowed proudly, proclaiming to Groton Shipyard and to the world that the Commander-in-Chief of the mightiest military force on earth had arrived.

One by one the executive party ascended the curving hull's curved ladder, stepped aboard the flat deck and then climbed down through the central deck hatch. MCPO Tolkinski remained outside with the line of crewmen - as did three of the five bodyguards, who now mounted their own guard. These newer subs might be roomy by some standards, but there was no logic in cramming more people into such close quarters than absolutely necessary - even the United States Secret Service. Even for the President himself. Too many bodies (and guns) in a cramped (and already secured) area create more risk than protection.

Standing at a distance, Fitz and Trudeau waited until the last of the guests had disappeared below. Then the Captain made a hand signal to a junior officer nearby. "Stand easy." The rows of sailors on the parade square might as well relax, pending the President's reappearance. All of them had nothing to do now but wait.

As this order was relayed to the troops, the Admiral turned away... and headed towards the roped-off area reserved for the press.

At once every camera lens swung towards him. No one called out his name, however. Sure, you do that to the White House Press Secretary, who selects one reporter at a time to speak... and you might even risk it with the President at a particularly energetic Q&A session... but you don't accost the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

"How is everyone doing?" he asked affably. "Not baking in this sun?"

They generally replied that they were fine. Of course, he wore the full, dark uniform.

"Good. Just so you all know, the tour will last a bit more than an hour."

"Excuse me, sir," one man piped up. "We've been told that it was to be only about forty-five minutes."

"Well, that was what we originally scheduled. The President is getting the VIP tour: C&C, weapons bunkers, crew mess... the 'flashy' stuff." The Admiral's mouth twitched, fighting a smirk. "But if you people knew the President as well as I do, you'd know that he can always find something to talk about. And nothing kills time faster."

Several chuckled. None challenged that claim.

"Anyway, since I'm as bored as you are right now, I thought I'd kill some time, and offer to answer some questions."

A forest of hands shot up. Rarely indeed did a golden opportunity like this manifest itself.

"Just remember that there are some questions I can't answer. And you can interpret that any way you like."

~ NAVY ONE
~ BERTH 44, TRIDENT

"This is a Guided Missile Submarine; designation SSGN. Now, there are three different types of sub. SSN refers to attack boats. They're the fast ones, the hunters..."

"Los Angeles and Seawolf class for the United States," Bartlet interjected. "Akula/Bars and Kilo for the Russians."

Hyde nodded as they walked along side by side. They were the same height, these two, and almost the same build as well. And they both projected a quiet air of unmistakable authority. "Correct, sir. SSBN is for the standard missile boats. We like to call them 'boomers'."

"Corresponding to the Russian Typhoon and Oscar."

"Yes, sir." If the Commander found his leader's knowledge about such naval details unusual, he didn't let on. And perhaps it wasn't so unusual after all, despite the fact that Jed Bartlet had never held a rank of his own. Everyone knew what a fiend for trivia he was.

"This new modified and refurbished 'Ohio' class is the third kind: a guided missile/Special Ops boat. She's for new mission status, not just missile patrols."

"'New mission status': another fancy term for spying. But that's quite all right."

Hyde checked briefly. "Uh - yes, sir. Now, all of our boats are built by the Electric Boat Company -"

"Electric? And here I thought these things ran on nuclear energy."

Perhaps someone had warned Hyde in advance about his principal guest's taste for wit; this time, he remained unfazed. "I'll tell them that you think they should update their name, Mr. President. The boats are constructed here at Trident, but the Atlantic Fleet is based at King's Bay, Georgia, and the Pacific Fleet at Bangor, Washington."

"But there are other home ports along both coasts, aren't there?"

"Yes, sir. Those ports are where the boats pull in for leave and restocking."

"While we're on this, I've been thinking that it sounds downright disrespectful to refer to a naval vessel as anything other than a 'ship.' To me, a boat is a canoe."

"I know what you mean, sir, and after my own spell of duty on a destroyer I took some time to get used to it myself. But for reasons passing logic, surface vessels are ships and subs are boats. It's traditional."

The tour proceeded through empty gray corridors, past closed hatches and narrow doorframes leading into tiny rooms of uncertain purpose. These confining passages forced them to walk two abreast at most: the lieutenant leading, the Commanding Officer and the Commander-in-Chief right behind him, Ron and Ellie next, followed by Leo and Toby, then Charlie and DeSoto, with the second Secret Service agent bringing up the rear. The reporter had his camera almost glued to his face, snapping pictures of everyone who so much as half-turned in his direction.

The key words for submarine design are austerity and functionality. Everything was the same bleak color, no extraneous adornment to be seen, yet new and shiny, with each item in its exact spot.

What really stood out, even more than the pure economy of space, was the silence. They encountered no human traffic, and heard no voices. No equipment appeared to be running; nothing clanked or chirped or hummed. Even their footfalls could not be heard; the deck muffled every impact. The only sounds at all appeared to be their breathing and the almost inaudible rustle of their clothes as they walked.

"It's so quiet," Toby murmured, constantly glancing around as though he expected something horrible to spring upon them from out of this eerie setting.

"It has to be." It was so quiet that Hyde, several lengths ahead, still heard him. "No sounds whatsoever are allowed on an active boat, even when it's only in dock. All plating, all hatches, even the head, are designed to be completely silent. Any noise at all would interfere with our sonar - and it would also alert any other boat or ship hunting us. No one so much as drops a pencil on a boat being stalked."

"And of course, water is a better conductor for sound than air," Bartlet just had to put in, ever eager to contribute to a discussion.

"Very true, sir. The outer hull is treated with a special rubber-like 'anechoic' coating to absorb sonar pulses from other ships. Oddly enough, nuclear engines are noisier than diesel or electric. So silence is imperative."

The effect was downright spooky, like a haunted house. The visitors felt a strong urge to tiptoe and to whisper. If they stopped moving for a few seconds, they could feel underfoot the vibrations of powerful engines idling some distance off... but no matter how hard they listened they couldn't hear a thing. It seemed almost unnatural.

Long used to this, Hyde continued his technical spiel. "The 'Callanan' is five hundred and sixty feet long and forty-two feet abeam, with a thirty-six-point-five-foot draft."

"That makes for a submerged displacement of about eighteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty tons," Bartlet calculated with scarcely a pause.

"Exactly right, Mr. President." Hyde sounded impressed that even a Nobel Laureate in Economics could arrive at such a figure so swiftly. "The plutonium reactor fuels two turbines that produce sixty thousand horsepower, and drive a single shaft."

"Providing a speed of eighteen knots on the surface, and twenty-five knots submerged."

This time the Commander paused, as though deciding that his leader must have checked out these details in advance. "Yes, sir." He managed not to sound affronted that anyone could know as much about this magnificent new vessel as her skipper. "There are twenty-four missile silos rising the full height of the boat, in two rows of twelve. One Harpoon cruise missile per silo. Two of the missile silos can also be used as airlocks for Special Operations troops to leave the boat in launch and recovery situations."

"Ah, the Navy SEALs. Sea, air and land. Combat specialists."

Leo shook his head, obviously wishing that their leader would hide his light under a bushel just once. The urge to show off can be suppressed.

Like a good sport, Hyde persevered. "Yes, sir. We can house sixty of them at a time. Meanwhile, the boat carries a full crew of seventeen officers, fifteen Petty Officers, and one hundred twenty-two enlisted. There are two rotating crews: Blue and Gold. This allows for minimum turnaround time at dock and maximum patrol time at sea. Cruises normally last six months."

"Six months?" Silent up until now, Ellie's surprise couldn't prevent her exclamation.

Hyde nodded calmly. Maybe he welcomed a reaction other than the President's head-to-head competition. "Yes, ma'am." He treated her as though she were the First Lady herself. "That's nothing unusual in the Navy. And it's a busy time; every day there are missile drills and simulated strike operations, to keep the crew at a high state of operational readiness."

"Six months of tossing on the sea..." Ellie could not wrap her brain around such a thought, so totally foreign to all she knew.

"Eleanor needs to take the D.C. metro more often," her father teased. "That would teach her to handle a pitching floor." As if he were an expert on public transit. Considering that he had private cars and aircraft to take him everywhere...

"Actually, sir, boats pitch a whole lot less than surface ships," Hyde pointed out, resisting a smile. "It has to be a very large storm - close to hurricane status - before it can affect a boat cruising at a depth of five hundred feet or more."

Ellie didn't seem reassured. "And you can't even see the sky all that time!"

"No, but we dim the interior lights somewhat when it's supposed to be night. The human body needs at least an illusion of that basic biological anchor."

"Commander, I think you've just shattered my personal dream to see my daughter enlist in the Submarine Force." Bartlet sounded quite serious, but not one person present believed him.

Ellie settled for a long-suffering "Oh, Dad," clearly wishing he'd stop.

He smirked at her. "Not even as Chief Medical Officer?"

She just shook her head, but a smile crept forth all the same.

Hyde next led them into the largest open area they'd yet seen on board. "This is Command and Control; C&C or just Conn for short. It's our version of the bridge on a surface ship. We can control every system in the boat from this room."

Every inch of the inner bulkhead sported a solid mass of bright lights and display screens; no space at all had been wasted. Supportive railings circled just inside these control banks, obviously there for people to grab so that they could stay at their posts when the ride got rough. The central area included four tables, no doubt for navigational charts, but no chairs. This was a place where you worked on your feet. Only a select few positions on the perimeter merited seats: the helm officers, in front of the twin steering consoles; sonar stations; weapons control... and, of course, one for the captain.

"Now here is the real ground-breaker," Hyde announced proudly. "Please note that there is no periscope island in the middle of the Conn. Instead we have two non-hull-penetrating Photonics Masts. The Officer of the Watch no longer stands and hangs onto the periscope, looking through a maze of mirrors, prisms, and lenses." He pointed to a particular panel near the captain's chair, with the largest displays of all. "Instead, the PMs contain several high-resolution color cameras that send visual images right here. It uses infrared to revolutionize the whole range-calculating process. And it's all accomplished covertly from under the sea. Nothing above surface to alert any observer."

Ellie's mouth hung open, struck by both this totally non-traditional innovation and just the sheer amount of ultra-modern technology in such a condensed format. Her father emitted a low whistle of appreciation; even a total novice in naval warfare can grasp the point to such a tactical benefit. Leo surveyed it all with detached professional interest. Toby hung back, as though anxious to be first out the door and first back on deck. Even though the floor never moved, he did not look comfortable.

DeSoto was the most agog of all. Charlie tapped him on one arm. "No photos in here," he whispered. The reporter agreed with a jerky nod, overwhelmed by the fact that he'd been allowed to just see this marvel.

Bartlet strolled over to the helm, unmistakable in its function: two seats, each with a large double-handled console set into the compartment's forward bulkhead and surrounded by controls. "So here's where you steer this thing, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Biggest joystick I ever saw. And it takes two of them?"

"Every submarine needs two. One wheel controls the rudder at the stern: for direction, turning and surface running. The other is for the planes on the bow and the conning tower; they control depth, dive, and ascent."

"Right - you work in three dimensions."

"Correct, sir. Similar to aircraft, and unlike surface ships." Hyde sounded just a bit smug at this advantage his boat had over most other vessels.

A pause fell while the President stared intently at the forward bulkhead, mere inches from his face, as though searching for one specific thing... but of course there was no view forward.

Then, with an abrupt and totally unexpected jerk, he recoiled. Perspiration sprang out on his forehead and his eyes widened noticeably.

Everyone stiffened to instant attention.

"Dad?" Ellie moved to his side.

So did Ron. "Mr. President?"

From the rear, Charlie took a few anticipatory steps forward as well.

In the sudden, strained silence Bartlet drew a deep breath, fighting for stability.

"Whoa." His voice shook just a bit. "That feels so - wrong."

He glanced quickly about, seeing the walls and ceiling so close...

Hyde tilted his head, frowning. "Sir?"

It's bad enough to reveal your foibles before friends - but around strangers? Their President straightened, slamming himself back into full control, pushing down whatever had emerged from within. Personal pride, a touch of ego, and a strong sense of duty demanded no less. Everyone was watching him, their concern evident and mounting.

He waved a dismissive hand. "You don't have so much as a windshield to look out and see where you're going. My staff will tell you that I can't even ride a bike without hitting something." As he no doubt intended, several people grinned at that. It would be harder for them to worry about him when he was cracking jokes.

His tone hadn't leveled out completely, though, and he backed away another few steps. "The idea of not being able to see the road in front of you... I got a real chill for a moment. The guys sitting here have to drive purely on instruments. Blind.

It was a valid observation, and an unnerving one. All of the guests could feel their skin prickle at such a vivid image as their leader had clearly just experienced. Still, some of those present probably picked up the vibe that it wasn't lack of vision which had briefly overwhelmed him... but lack of space. Confining walls, around them all.

Hyde might not have deciphered that personal aspect, but he willingly pursued the diversion. "It requires a lot of training, sir. And a lot of trust in your shipmates. The charts have to be exact, the sensors have to be precise to within a few feet, and every officer has to be able to read both correctly."

Bartlet considered this. Slowly, he nodded; slowly, his tension eased some more. "Not so different from how we run the White House, I'm here to tell you."

Leo permitted a soft smile of gratitude. Toby smiled as well, a real rarity for him, his own uneasiness forgotten. That had been an executive tribute to them and their colleagues back in D.C., no matter how subtly couched - or whatever distraction it may have provided. Charlie retreated again, confident that the moment of alarm had passed.

Ellie, though - and Ron - held their places. Phobias, even latent ones, can explode without warning, they demand an instinctive and immediate response, and they can take some time to recess again.

The President must have noticed their stances. Typically, he at once shifted the subject away from himself. "Commander, I've been meaning to ask you something. Are you hiding the bulk of your crew from us, or have we just scared them off?" Equally typical of him, he supplemented his smoke screen with humor.

"They're all topside, sir," Hyde explained patiently. "There's no point in keeping them at their posts now, before we're ready to set sail even for the first time, and especially not during a guided tour when we need the extra room to show you around. As you've seen, we have to use our space very efficiently - almost obsessively. The only other crewman aboard right now is the SCRAM officer."

"I've heard of that position. He baby-sits the reactor itself."

"Right you are, sir. SCRAM is one of the oldest terms in nuclear reactor science. It stands for 'Safety Control Reactor Ax-Man.'" A few of his audience chuckled, but Hyde did not. He knew the dangerous reality first-hand. "It was given to the first man to handle the control rods for the first reactor in the early fifties. As long as the reactor's warm, he's on hand and ready - at a moment's notice - to drop those rods into place and send the nuclear reaction sub-critical. It's our most basic safety measure, and probably the most important. When it comes to reactors, the U.S. Navy is the most paranoid in the world. And I make no excuses for that paranoia."

"No argument from me, either. But speaking of safety issues, here's another question." Bartlet spun and glared at the muted groans around him. "Hey, we're all learning here! Someday you'll thank me." He swung back, not at all bothered by their lesser dedication to higher education, and probably missing the flashes of relief that he appeared to be totally back to normal. Besides, a good way to get his mind off the disconcerting and lingering sense of imprisonment was to keep talking about something else. Anything else. "I want to hear about an 'emergency blow.'"

Ellie really groaned this time. "He was watching 'The Hunt for Red October' the other night; can you tell?"

Hyde accepted the dare - not that he had much choice in the matter. "Actually, the movie only got it half-right."

"Really?" All previous unease had fled; the President was intrigued now.

"They were way too slow. An emergency blow is considered one of the greatest rides in the known universe. We're not talking about just a simple drop in ballast here. It's the one system in a boat that doesn't require power, for safety sake." The Commander pointed to a set of manual handles near the ceiling. "Turn those two valves, and supercompressed air is sent to the forward ballast tanks, the trim tanks and the stern tanks. The boat is like a cork leaving a champagne bottle - ninety-degree ascent all the way up. At once."

Toby paled at the thought. By contrast, Bartlet's blue eyes were sparkling.

"Wow. Now that would be fun!" Only he of all his companions thought so, judging by their expressions. "Does the sub really leap right out of the water when she breaches?"

"Oh, yes, sir - to as much as half her length. There are two considerations, however, depending upon the condition of your boat. If you're still 'live,' you want to make sure you don't get a stern-up, because that would pull your screws out of the water. Great way to fry your transmission."

"Uh-huh. And if it's a 'dead' boat? That has a nice ominous ring."

"Then you have no power at all, and your only priority is to get to the surface any way you can, as fast as you can. Once you're up, you just bob there and wait for help to arrive. The bottom line is, there's far less chance of rescue underwater."

Bartlet rubbed his palms together in visible excitement. "Okay - I'm making my reservation right now. The day after I get out of office, I want to try that."

This time Hyde hesitated, looking awkward. "I'm afraid I can't promise that, Mr. President. Civilians aren't normally permitted to sail on shakedown or training cruises."

"Damn. Well, can I at least go with you guys for a more sedate spin sometime?"

"That might be doable."

"Good! Up until now I didn't have one thing to look forward to when my term ends." Bartlet sounded as happy as though this had made his whole day.

Perhaps a bit too happy? Considering how he had broken into a sweat of fear less than two minutes ago, this might be overcompensation.

"Glad to oblige, sir. Now, if you'll follow me, we still have to see the lower level."

"Sure thing!" The President acted most eager to move along. Getting out of this particular chamber and the memory of a very unpleasant reaction might have had something to do with it. No one mentioned that, of course, as they all trooped after him.

Again, Charlie and DeSoto fell towards the rear of this procession.

Now that he was no longer dazzled by the Conn, or sidetracked by executive idiosyncrasies, the reporter slid back into his career niche: the hunt for new information. He leaned closer to the President's personal aide. "Hey, man, got a question for you."

Charlie shrugged. "Shoot. But I gotta warn you about a little thing called confidentiality."

"No probs. I was just wondering what it's like serving the President."

Charlie didn't have to think about it. "It's the greatest honor you can imagine."

DeSoto did not look entirely convinced. "Okay, but how fairly does he treat you? Or are you just a gofer?"

Now Charlie slowed down, so that they fell a bit more behind the others. Clearly he didn't want his next reply to be overheard. Only the extra agent trailed, as inexpressive and silent as ever.

The body man looked his interrogator in the eye. DeSoto was an inch or two taller, and far broader built. Also, he boasted a skin pigmentation darker than Charlie's own; so black that the contrast against his white shirt and red tie was dazzling.

"Let me tell you, pal. The President needs a gofer more than anyone else in the world. You wouldn't believe the amount of work he does, or the impact his decisions can have. It's a huge honor to be part of that. I'd rather follow him around than run my own company. But just because I follow him around doesn't mean I'm not appreciated. He likes me personally, and he trusts me. And there's not another man I respect more."

Then, before DeSoto could do more than open his mouth to follow up, "And before you ask, the President is absolutely color-blind."

The reporter processed that. "Yeah, I kinda guess he had to be. You were dating his daughter, right?"

He couldn't have known how raw a nerve he'd touched. Charlie fought to prevent a wince. "Zoey, yeah."

"Even after Rosslyn, too." DeSoto pondered the many layers behind that, then exhaled. "Guess he's just about as unbiased as they come."

"Take that to the bank."

In the next pause, DeSoto cast a speculative eye towards Ellie, several lengths ahead.

Charlie didn't miss that. "So I'm saying, the President would never object to you or anyone else for racial reasons. But he can always see straight through any sucking up. Besides, Ellie already has a boyfriend."

"Oh." The newsman sounded disappointed.

"Count your blessings, man. The President feels things very intensely - for his family, for legislation, for the military... for the country. For the world. You don't want to get on his bad side. Me, I'd rather face off against a nuclear blast."

~ FLASHPOINT

00:00:00

The dockyard was reasonably quiet. Sailors and band members wandered, enjoying their freedom until they had to line up again. Fitzwallace chatted casually with Captain Trudeau to one side. 'Marine One' sat unnoticed in its place, two Marines at the controls and one on the tarmac. Secret Service agents maintained their vigil, resembling black chess pieces placed upon the game board in strategic spots, ready for the call to battle. Most reporters had either cell phones or laptops out, transmitting their initial copy by one means of wireless communication or another. At least one of the large video cameras, though, was still aimed at the sub and rolling - not broadcasting this dull interlude live, but with an eye for colorful stock footage.

00:00:01

"Here's some more trivia for you, Mr. President," Hyde offered, graciously indulging an endless executive hobby. "The conning tower is properly called the 'Fairwater.'"

Bartlet cocked his head in mid-stride. "It is? Why?"

"No idea, sir. These word roots are pretty obscure. We call the back-up diesel engine on all nuclear vessels 'Clyde.'"

"Charlie, get over here and write these down! This is great stuff to spring on others back home."

"Glad to help out, sir. Now, this next place we're going - "

The Commander's words broke off. Then, abruptly, he stopped in his tracks. Of course everyone else at once did the same...

That was when they felt the rumble. They didn't hear it, but they felt it: a prolonged, uneven rumble that built up, throbbing through the boat's very structure. It still made no sound, yet it vibrated directly - almost painfully - against the inner ear and the lower jaw.

Everyone froze. Even to those who did not know subs, it didn't feel right.

00:00:06

Fitz and Trudeau turned in unison. The vibration touched them as well, buzzing around the base of the ear - and there was no music or any other kind of dominant sound to mask this curious sensation. The men standing on the boat deck also felt it; CPO Tolkinski could be seen glancing about, and conferring with the sailor closest to him.

Both officers frowned. Unexpected disturbances in any mechanical object, no matter how unthreatening or unrecognizable they might seem, were almost always bad news. When you're talking nuclear mechanics...

00:00:14

The extremely peculiar vibration died away in mere seconds. Completely.

This apparently positive detail failed to make Hyde relax. "I don't like that."

Now the interior of the sub seemed too still. Even the earlier, barely-tangible engine hum no longer tickled their feet. The Commander's quiet words carried from one end of the group to the other, so hard were they all listening.

Ron stepped forward, his duty taking precedence. "Neither do I. This tour is over."

No one even considered arguing with him.

00:00:17

Donna happened to be passing through the Communications bullpen at just this moment. One whole wall consisted of fully eight TV sets, each tuned to a different news station. Everyone in the West Wing always glanced at them, even when just passing through. It had become a learned habit. You never knew...

Now one image caught her eye: the long black submarine the President was touring today. She paused to watch it. There seemed to be some unusual motion -

Her expression flowed from curiosity to surprise, and then to concern. "Hey, Josh? C.J.? Can you come over here? I think something might be happening at the sub base..."

00:00:22

"You're right; far better to overreact in a scenario like this than treat it too lightly." Hyde switched places with the trailing Secret Service operative, who moved up to stand by their principal protectee. "We'll backtrack; it's fastest." The acting captain led the way towards the ladder-like staircase they'd all just descended.

No one else spoke; in a nuclear vessel, any possible malfunction can be serious. No one panicked, either; it seemed very minor, and it had passed.

They'd taken no more than three steps - when all at once a red strobe light flooded the hall and a hideous siren started to ring.

In the most natural human reaction, all ten braked dead. For one paralyzing heartbeat.

"SPILL!" the two officers shouted together. And the others all heard the fear in their voices.

00:00:28

That alarm must have been wired into the base communications system; it trumpeted forth on external speakers as well, right across the dock. Every single head jerked around, first towards the nearest speaker as the appalling sound's apparent source.

Then, towards the nearby nuclear vessel. The actual source.

Every single enlisted member knew what that alarm meant.

"My God," Trudeau whispered in the dread of his worst possible nightmare.

Fitz mirrored him exactly. "The reactor."

00:00:29

"RUN!" Ron's bellow rose over the alarm and spurred everyone like the lash of a whip. He seized Bartlet's right arm, the other agent grabbed Bartlet's left, and together they hauled him into a sprint. Towards the bow, not the stern.

"This way!" Lung resumed the lead. No chance of doubling back now; the radiation was chasing them forward. They'd have to take the long way out.

"ELLIE!" Politics, personal safety - everything gave way to a father's instincts. But the leader of the free world wasn't allowed any choice in the matter.

"Got her!" Leo wrapped a protective arm around his best friend's daughter. Toby closed in on the other side, offering what help he could. She didn't object, accelerating with both of them. Charlie and DeSoto crowded on their heels.

00:00:31

"What the hell's that noise?" Josh demanded, hurrying over. The alarm could clearly be heard through the camera still rolling on site.

C.J. arrived at almost the same moment. "Holy - what's wrong?"

In an instant half of the Communications support staff had gathered around as well.

Donna looked around in fright. "I don't know, but it can't be anything good -"

"Oh, no." This came from Will. He stood in the doorway, staring at the TV in utter horror. "Not that."

Everyone turned to him as their resident expert. He'd be able to explain for sure.

He did. With terrible softness. His face was ashen. "Meltdown."

00:00:33

Unlike fire or smoke or a wall of water, you can't see radiation even when you know it's there and headed your way. In a sense, that makes it all the more horrifying: you've no idea how close it is. It might not be the slowest or the most painful death around, but death it is - ghastly and merciless.

They fled. Through corridors really too narrow for this kind of evacuation. Towards access to the upper level, the same hatch through which they'd entered, and the comparative safety of the open air. Hyde slammed hatches as they passed through, creating additional layers of case-hardened steel between them and this invisible specter sweeping along in their wake.

For a moment, the lights overhead flickered. Some bulbs came back on almost at once, but most didn't, leaving them in semi-darkness. Emergency lighting only?

Then the alarm stopped.

Before anyone could voice either relief or wonder, the deck rattled again - and this time it really rattled. In fact it shook. They all staggered, bouncing into the walls.

00:00:38

The bow of the gleaming new submarine erupted into a black cloud. Everyone on its exterior deck lost their balance; some were pitched right overboard. Everyone on the dock instinctively ducked. No shrapnel rained down, but this blast hammered the air and rocked the earth.

00:00:39

Many of the White House employees huddling desperately around the TV bank cringed as well. From the way the news image bobbled and shook, the camera operator on location had been physically jarred. Even so, they saw the expanding plume burst forth where only moments before there had been pristine and seamless black hull. Several cried out at this additional and lethal complication.

00:00:42

"That was an explosion!" Leo realized, still keeping Ellie close. She was too terrified to say a word or make a move without guidance.

"And forward of here!" Toby exclaimed, struggling up from his knees, his tone as grim as his expression.

Hyde made an instantaneous decision. Radiation behind them, a detonation in front... the President caught in the middle... "No more time! Lung - SHERWOOD!"

His executive officer did not pause to question or even reply; he gained his feet and ran for a hatchway not far off, a hatchway that looked no different from any other they'd passed through or passed by so far. Ron and his colleague heaved Bartlet up and followed at once, trusting in the judgment of the senior officer for their survival. DeSoto paused to give Charlie a hand; Hyde shoved them both onward.

They all charged through: one Lieutenant, two bodyguards, one Chief Executive, one Chief of Staff, one Chief Executive's daughter, one Communications Director, one Chief Executive's personal aide, one reporter - and last of all, the boat's master. Who immediately whirled and threw his weight against the heavy metal hatch, swinging it shut. Sealing the danger out.

Sealing them in.

~ TRIDENT

"EVACUATE THE BASE! CLEAR IT! You - initiate Nova Protocol! Scramble the Otis Hotspur team! You - get me a Geiger NOW! You - get ropes and pull those men out of the water! FAST! It's April, for God's sake! And where the hell is the on-duty SCRAM watch? Get a report - if he's still alive!" Captain Trudeau was shouting orders right and left. Everyone obeyed at once; radiation is the greatest fear for the modern sailor and many civilians besides.

Amid the immediate flurry of uniforms running in all directions, the panic-stricken press and the ever-blaring alarm, Admiral Fitzwallace stood motionless for one extra-long heartbeat, his dark features horribly blank, staring at the burning submarine that had trapped his President inside.

Then he snapped back to himself. "Agent!"

The most proximate member of the Secret Service, already talking rapidly to his wrist, hurried over.

"Anything from inside?"

"No, sir." By some miracle, the bodyguard managed to preserve an illusion of calm. "We're assuming they're too close to the reactor."

"I hope we're also assuming they're still alive." Fitz said that so quietly that it was almost lost in the spiraling pandemonium on all sides. "Let me know the instant you make contact. And stay with me. I'll need a link to Washington as well."

"Yes, sir."

Fitz appraised the frenzied scene around him in a glance. "Captain!"

Trudeau's bull roar rose above the chaos, imposing some semblance of order. "You -" he stabbed a finger at a convenient seaman "- send those reporters packing! Let them bitch; their satellite links still can't outrun a nuclear explosion!" He barely paused for air. "Mr. Chairman, we need to clear the entire area immediately of all non-essential personnel - and most of the essentials as well!"

"Agreed." By now Fitz had recovered the iron self-control and cool evaluation that had long been his trademark. "And I need your nuclear and submarine expertise."

He returned his attention to the "Callanan." Smoke billowed from her ruptured bow, obscuring just how much damage had been done. The main hatch through which the tour party had entered still gaped like an open mouth fighting for air. People scurried around the dock itself, but no one stood on her deck now and no one made any attempt to board.

In fact, the vessel showed no signs of life at all. No one emerged from within.

The seconds were flying past - and still no one emerged -

"Come on..." the Admiral whispered, as though this quiet plea might somehow be heard through submarine bulkheads. "Get him out of there..."

A man ran up to Trudeau with a large hand-held device. The Captain snatched it away, aimed it at the sub and hit a trigger. Its radiation-sensitive needle leaped up the scale.

His heavy exhalation carried over even the wailing alarm. "Confirmed. It's not a detector malfunction. The reactor's hot, and getting hotter."

Fitz bared his teeth in a snarl of helplessness. "How long can they -"

"No way of knowing, sir. Depends on a lot of things."

"If they were anywhere near an exit hatch -"

"They'd be out by now, yes."

The sharp gleam in the Admiral's eye now bespoke of planning, not shock. "We can't just send rescuers in unprepared." He appeared totally composed, even though every iota of his being must have been shrieking to take steps at once. Any steps that had the remotest possibility of getting the tour party out at once.

"No, sir." Trudeau fell in with this clinical detachment. It was the only way to fight their gripping fear. "Hotspur will be alerted by now." He waved to the ranks engaged in hauling sailors and bodyguards out of the river. "Get those wet men indoors and find them some dry clothes before they catch their death! Then find out which one is the Chief of the Boat and bring him to me!"

Fitz left these practical issues to the Captain's efficient management. As Chairman, he was the last link in the chain of command: he had to see the big picture, to consider national security, to gather multiple factors from multiple sources and weld them all into a cohesive whole. His decision would be the final one. That involved reasoning, not just reaction.

And information. And a lot of confidence in his own judgment, as well as the trust others had in him.

"Looks like a torpedo blew as well. Probably touched off by a power surge."

Still sweeping his eye over the dockyard to make sure everything that could be done was being done, Trudeau merely nodded. "Caused by what must've been a reactor spike. Compounds the problem immensely. They've got radiation and fire. At this stage any survivors will have gone to ground. It's their only chance." He flagged down another passing recruit. "Radio all ships' commanders to stoke up and prepare to sail! They should be on that already!"

Fitz shook his head once, a very slight motion from side to side. It was a gesture not of disagreement, but of denial. "And if the boat goes completely -"

"ADMIRAL!"

Both officers turned. A man in an Army uniform - its distinctive brown standing out against all the other whites and the Chairman's very dark blue - had sprung from "Marine One" and was racing towards them.

"What are we WAITING for?" he gasped, skidding to a halt. He made no effort to salute, but no one was going to insist upon protocol now. "There are ten people in there, AND THE PRESIDENT'S ONE OF THEM! We've got to get him out NOW!"

"Colonel Morino." Fitz didn't bark at him per se, but the firmness of his tone locked this fellow in his tracks. "No one can go in there at the moment. Not even a doctor. Not even you. The radiation levels are rising fast. No rescue of any kind can be attempted without trained and suited operatives."

"They're on their way," Trudeau reconfirmed. "You -" he hailed another sailor rushing by - "get COMSUBPLANT on the line in my office."

Morino, the military medic assigned to Bartlet's company for today's trip, and the lone soldier on this naval base, found it far less easy to be objective. "And in the meantime, what? We're just going to stand here and WATCH?"

"We don't have any choice. No one can survive unprotected for long in that." Fitz braced himself... and then voiced the words nobody else dared put into speech. "Which means it's quite possible that the President and the others are dead already."

~ THE WEST WING

"Oh, God... oh, God..." The mutters drifted through the crowded bullpen like a mantra.

By definition, a mantra is a traditional Buddhist or Hindu devotional incantation. In more secular circles, it is frequently used as an instrument of thought, to focus one's concentration or bolster one's confidence. Right now, in this White House, it had become a meaningless epitaph by people too stunned to think. All they could see was the burning "Callanan;" all they could grasp was the fact that their leader and their friends were still inside.

All they could do... was watch. And pray. Not one thing more.

Josh could not have looked more dazed if he'd just been dropped on his head. C.J. stood so still that she must have been holding her breath, as though one more exhalation in Washington would be too much for the stricken sub in Groton - as though that much additional pressure would surely capsize the boat in its berth. Donna held both fists crammed against her lips. The others stood around them like so many petrified trees.

Will shook off the spell first. His own military training helped; so did the fact that he was new. He had not been here since the start of the first Bartlet administration, as had most of the support staff present. He had not been on the campaign like the two senior staffers beside him, when the first bonds of friendship were forged. For all that he had quickly come to respect and maybe even like Leo, Toby and Charlie - and the President himself - he simply did not know them that well yet. He had the advantage of a less intense personal horror.

"We've got to do something." He said this flatly, without panic or confusion. He wanted purpose. "What's the procedure?"

Whether or not he'd intended to jar his fellow witnesses into action by antagonizing them, he succeeded. "You think we're used to having the President caught in a radioactive crisis?" Donna snapped at him, far more sharply than was her wont.

"When he's in any kind of trouble outside the White House?" Will snapped back. Getting people mad is one way to grab their attention. "What do you do around here?"

"Right." C.J. spun away from the magnetic images on the TV screens, her tall frame suddenly brimming with decision. "Carol, find the first Secret Service agent you can and send him here. Drag him if you have to. This takes precedence over standing in the halls. Then inform Margaret and Debbie." Carol left at once, glad to have concrete instructions of her own - no matter how unpleasant or unrealistic. "Ginger, Bonnie: call Leo and Toby on their cell phones. Don't stop until you get through."

"Don't waste your time," Will advised, his volume subdued.

Everyone rotated towards him. Each face wore some blend of terror and animosity.

C.J.'s vision seared him where he stood. "Unless you've got proof that they're not alive to answer..."

Somehow, Will held his ground. "No, but I have proof that cell phones don't work well in radiation-contaminated areas."

"Neither do cell phone owners!" This time the Press Secretary's words vibrated. Then she snatched a quick breath, on the verge of making his point for him.

He acknowledged her concern. "It's not just the radiation, you know; it's the sub's heavy shielding. Cell phones are useless in those conditions."

Pause.

C.J. threw a glance at Ginger and Bonnie, still hesitating in the door. "Try anyway." Her glower dared Will to object again. "If there's the slightest chance..."

The Deputy Communications Director held his peace. Cold facts stood no chance against the tide of desperation.

She sized him up. "They'll evacuate the base, right?"

"They already are, trust me."

"That means I'm going to have some very upset reporters to deal with."

Will emitted a half-snort. "What some people won't do to get the story."

"Tell me about it." C.J. folded her arms, ready for war.

Of all the people gathered here, Josh alone seemed to be paying no attention to this debate. His whole being remained glued to the news coverage.

Donna leaned towards him. She spoke softly, as though she feared to spook him further. "Josh. You're in charge."

"I know." He didn't flinch; he didn't so much as blink. The fact had begun to penetrate that, with both the Chief of Staff and the Chief Executive away, the gigantic burden and frightful responsibility of running the White House fell to him. Josh possessed one of the sharpest, most politically astute minds around - but this impact would boggle anyone.

However, you didn't survive working with people like Leo, Toby or Jed Bartlet - or Donna - unless you had the innate ability to land on your feet. The wheels started to turn.

His quiet commands might have lacked force, but they didn't lack conviction. "Contact Nancy McNally. We'll need the Situation Room fully staffed ASAP. Then get the House Speaker on the line."

He hesitated one extra beat. "And Hoynes."

Several people couldn't prevent a gasp.

Josh ignored them. Constitutionally, that contact had to be made.

He turned from the news, dismissing it as nowhere near complete enough. "I'm calling Fitzwallace."

"Josh." Will held his distance, as though he feared to impose his ideas too strongly right now. Would everyone else see in him a desire to help - or would they suspect this to be a veritable power grab? "You might want to leave at least one line open... because you can bet Fitzwallace will be calling you."

Now that his eyes didn't reflect the glow from the TV sets, Josh appeared more in control of himself - and of everything else. He paused only for an instant.

"Okay, you're my Secretary of Defense."

He sounded serious. Looked serious.

Will looked startled. So did several others. But then, everyone knew his family background by now. He was the logical choice. In fact, he was the only choice.

Josh could be accused of bragging often enough; it seemed an integral part of his nature. When the chips were down, though, he knew how to shelve pride, how to take whatever advantage he could find, and when to ask for help. "You don't grow up with a four-star admiral for a father without hearing a lot of naval stories. The NSA and the Joint Chiefs are on their way. Let's get ready for them."

Will darted one glance to the left and to the right. Everyone was watching him. Waiting for him.

Then he squared up, accepting this appointment. His colleagues hardly ever saw him display such assurance - except when imparting information he knew very well.

"Okay. We need to lock down that entire region of Connecticut. Both sides of the river. Get people indoors. Normally you'd evacuate, but there won't be time for that. All Navy vessels within fifty miles at least: they have to put well out to sea. Clear all pleasure craft from the Thames and the Race. Clear the skies, too; get all aircraft between Boston and Newark on the ground. And we're going to need the technical plans for the sub."

"The plans we can get. But shutting down half a state? Grounding flights? That's not my call, even with Leo gone."

"No, it's the Joint Chiefs' call. But in a nuclear accident they will call it." Will sounded very sure of that. "They'll still take a few minutes to get here; let's have everything ready to go the moment they arrive. Save them all the time you possibly can. You also should get hold of Sub Command in King's Bay. They have the final authority over the boat itself."

Josh processed all of this... and nodded. "Yeah. I can get it ready to happen, and the fewer questions I have to ask, the better." The gravity of the situation had sunk in, deep.

Behind them, C.J. followed the news footage. By now all press must have been evicted from the shipyard; the stations showed only the President's arrival earlier, the sub before the alarm, and then the shaky images of the boat's exploding nose. Nothing more.

She sighed, and her voice trembled a bit. "Let us give thanks for the 'body watch.' It's all on film. What little there is."

A dark-suited man strode swiftly into the room. Everyone got out of his way.

"Miss Cregg?"

"Any confirmation, either or?" she demanded at once, her expression taut.

The agent showed no emotion at all. "No, ma'am."

She didn't act surprised. "Well, if cell phones can't get through, radios won't."

"Exactly."

"What about the First Family?"

The room went dead silent. Nothing had been mentioned by anyone about the rest of the Bartlet clan before this moment. They'd been utterly forgotten.

"They should all have been informed by now. All details are on full alert. So is the White House."

C.J. gave a despondent nod. "Which brings us to the next thing. Somebody get on the horn and track down family members of the other people trapped: Leo's daughter, Toby's ex-wife, Charlie's sister. I'd really prefer to reach them before they hear it off the news."

No one disagreed. At least two staffers reached for telephones at once.

The Press Secretary rotated, searching for further steps they could take. She'd never had to do anything like this before, but right now she made a most effective second-in-command. Bartlet, Leo and Toby would have been very proud of all three senior staffers. They had proven themselves able to rise to a terrifying challenge and find new niches in the most critical triad of roles a government can boast during a national calamity.

She focused again on the Secret Service agent. "Can you stick around?"

"Yes." The agent moved sideways a few feet.

Closer to Josh Lyman.

Everyone stared at the bodyguard... and then they stared at his new protectee. Now the Acting Chief of Staff, for a White House in a state of emergency. Without a President.

Josh stared at the bodyguard, too. His features ran through a kaleidoscope of confusion, disbelief, amazement and consternation.

Then he turned quickly to his colleagues on all sides. Judging from his open mouth, he had been totally unprepared for this ever-so-visible mark of command.

He did not stand alone in truth; they all worked together as a team. However, he had become their undisputed leader.

On TV, the endless loop of catastrophe and breaking headlines continued.

~ NAVY ONE

For one long moment Commander Hyde stood still. His palms were pressed against the hatch he'd just closed; his head was bowed under the weight of his decision to close it.

Then he straightened, full of urgency. "Lieutenant! Make sure the forward hatch is sealed as well!"

"Aye, sir!" Lung took off at a run.

"I'll shut the vents." Hyde hurried towards the nearest bank of controls.

One more second of silence, of comparative peace...

"I think you can let go of me now." The President shook off his two bodyguards with some irritation - not aimed at them and their protectiveness so much as at the overall situation. "Clearly we're not going anywhere soon."

Both agents complied. There wasn't much more anyone could do towards their joint safety at this stage.

"Are you all right, sir?" Ron demanded. Every other head turned, of course.

Bartlet completely ignored him. "Eleanor?"

She still stood beside Leo, drawing what comfort there could be from the encircling arm of this old family friend. Now, at the sound of her name, she turned towards her father.

He looked almost as scared as she did. But in his case, even the surging clamor of newly-operant phobias had been pushed back under the surface by an even more powerful force. His fear for her overrode everything else.

They went to each other, not in a rush, yet without hesitation.

"You okay?" He placed both hands on her arms - and paused. The persistent and hard-to-define awkwardness between them had lingered for years. Could a crisis, any crisis, dissipate it completely and instantaneously?

She nodded shortly. "Are you?"

"Only so long as you are." He hugged her briefly, then pulled back for a better view. She gave him a reserved yet honest smile. He couldn't help returning it.

Then he gazed past her. "Leo."

His Chief of Staff turned, brows raised, awaiting orders.

"Thank you." A world of gratitude filled those two simple words. Leo actually colored a bit at such simple yet heartfelt emotion.

Ron assumed control. "Everyone else?" He waited until he had received affirming nods from Toby, Charlie and DeSoto. "Donnie, try to radio out. But I doubt you can."

"Cell phones?" Toby produced his, holding it up as though it were the only link to the outside world left them.

"Same thing: the hull is too heavily shielded, even without the reactor interference."

The second agent shook his head. "Nothing."

The Communications Director dropped his arm and sighed dejectedly.

"Which means we can't tell anyone outside where we are. Or even that we are," the President summed up. "Perfect ingredients for a panic."

"Fitzwallace is on site," Leo reminded him, in a tone both reassuring and iron-hard. "And Josh and C.J. will handle their end."

"Josh running the White House. How did you talk me into that one?" As planned, Bartlet got a few fleeting half-smiles in response. Humor always was one of his favorite ways to alleviate tension in a bad moment.

Lung reappeared just then, breathing hard from his sprint. "The forward hatch is secure, sir - and warm."

"Not a good sign on a boat," Hyde offered unnecessarily, coming over as well. "That means there's fire in the bow - and an out-of-control fire at that, if it's already heating up the forward bulkhead of this military holy ground."

A fresh sheen of dampness appeared on the President's forehead. For those few in the know, he had to be holding onto his nerve with all ten fingernails by now. Yet he stood firm, somehow taking in this new bulletin calmly and decisively. "What do you think happened?"

"Must have been some kind of power surge. God only knows what caused it. The reactor spiked, sending a flush of energy through the whole boat."

"Which shorted out most of the electrical systems, judging from that sudden drop in lighting," Ron concluded.

"Right. It must've arced somehow, which then touched off one of the forward torpedoes. That was the explosion."

"What are the chances of more exploding torpedoes?" Leo asked first, urgently.

The Commander shrugged. "Can't say. If there are no more spikes, then we should remain pretty stable." He paused. "That is, until the boat blows completely."

He didn't need to extrapolate on what would happen next. The image of a huge, glowing mushroom cloud formed in every mind present.

Leo wore his battle mask. "And we're stuck here, with nowhere to go!" Knowing him, he was infinitely more concerned for his old friend and national leader than for himself.

At this reiteration of just how stuck they were, his old friend and national leader drew in a slow, very deep breath through clenched teeth. Perhaps no one noticed.

Hyde did not give ground. "Running for it is not an option. It would have taken two minutes at least for all of us to gain the upper level and climb through the main hatch. That amount of radiation exposure wouldn't have been too dangerous, so long as we stayed ahead of the worst of it. It does need a little while to spread. But the forward fire is a whole different matter. And we couldn't go through the rad spill to retrace our steps; that'd be suicidal. We really didn't have much choice but to take cover in a shielded area and wait for rescue."

"Speaking of which," Bartlet interjected, "where are we?"

For the first time, everyone took a moment to survey their surroundings. This had to be the single largest compartment in the sub. It was well-lit, its ceiling rose far above them, and its length stretched bow-ward further than they could see. Skeletal catwalks crisscrossed on all sides, intersecting and creating many different access levels. The walls at ground level displayed endless controls and equipment.

And dominating it all... were the enormous red cylinders that towered over them and everything else, in a double row, each one wider than a man is tall, stretching towards the distant roof, silent sentinels of unknown objective.

"We're in the missile compartment. We call it 'Sherwood Forest.'" Hyde paused, but this time their leader had no time to spare for the etymology of navy slang. "Those -" he inclined his head towards the gigantic metal pillars "- are the missile silos themselves."

A pause fell in tribute to the colossal import of that information. DeSoto looked both amazed and horrified that they were standing so close to such awesome firepower.

"I've shut down the ventilation system," Hyde went on, "and the hatches are all dogged. Nothing can get in here now: not the radiation, and not the fire. Sherwood and the Conn are the boat's most heavily shielded areas, and the biggest. There'll be plenty of air for a long time."

"Hopefully we won't be here long enough to put that to the test," Toby muttered, too quietly for most to hear. Charlie did, however, and shot him a look.

"In the meantime, are there any other steps we can take?" Ron asked. "How does one go about shutting down a runaway nuclear reactor?"

The question sounded a bit absurd, given that they were trapped here, most of them with no training for such an emergency and no idea how to handle whatever equipment might or might not be at hand. Still, it went totally against this man's nature - and against his job - to do nothing.

To the surprise of some, Hyde had an answer. "Two ways. One is to insert the control rods into the reactor itself, which would send it 'cold' very quickly. The other is to flood the engine room. Water is the perfect barrier against radiation. In fact, diesel fuel is just as good, which is why the tanks for Clyde are located right around the reactor: fuel and protection together. However, with fire in the hold I don't recommend spreading flammable liquids around."

"No." Leo vetoed that idea at once. "What about the rods?"

"That was the SCRAM officer's job. We build every single safeguard into a reactor that's technically possible, but manually inserting the rods is the only iron-clad guarantee to take it off-line and eliminate any chance of a meltdown." Hyde paused. "If the SCRAM officer succeeded, even if it cost him his life, then they'd know outside from the falling rad levels, and they'd send someone in for us almost at once."

Toby couldn't keep quiet any longer. "So you're saying, if we don't hear a knock on the door in the next few minutes...?"

"Then he failed." The Commander wore a look that any leader would recognize: the anguish of losing people under his command. "Either way - he's dead. Whatever it was that caused the reactor to go critical, he was stationed right beside it. That close to the source of all this spreading radiation, there's no way he could've lasted more than twenty seconds before the atmosphere was ionized."

DeSoto shuddered as if from a sudden chill. Imagine the very air around you being destroyed, changed from a life-giving element into something horribly lethal, leaving you suddenly unable to breathe at all...

Hyde shivered a bit himself. "Besides, I had to lock us in here... which means I locked him out. Anyone on this boat who's not in this room has been sealed out to die."

The eerie silence returned, this time flavored with real horror.

"I'm sorry." That quiet sentence came from Bartlet. He, and Ron, understood how their skipper felt right now better than anyone else present.

Hyde blinked, surprised that their President could find the time and consideration in such a crisis to show sympathy for someone he'd never met. "Thank you, sir."

None of the White House employees showed any surprise at all. They knew their boss. This fit right in with the size of his heart.

Ron refocused. He didn't want to sound callous, but they were all pressed for time. "So the rods are out. Can we flood that part of the sub around the reactor?"

Ellie's eyes were huge. The water would protect them against the radiation, yet it'd be a dire menace in itself. Even though they were still docked, they could still drown.

"Theoretically, yes. There are sea cogs in the stern for that purpose. And normally we could control the whole boat from here; it's a safety feature, in case the Conn is lost. That's why it's so well-lit; we've got first call on the back-up batteries. Plus, Sherwood is waterproof."

However, despite all these encouraging facts, Hyde did not look at all optimistic. That in itself warned everyone of what was coming next.

"Theoretically?" Ron pressed, not satisfied with assumptions.

"I tried to flood the engine room already, right after I closed off ventilation." The Commander let out a long breath. "The automated valve controls aren't functioning. That first power surge must've fried our whole electronics board. I had to crank the vents shut manually."

Silence.

Leo exhaled even more explosively. "What you're saying now is, we're in no position to do anything except sit here."

"And wait for whatever will happen."

~ TRIDENT

"Radiation's still rising. Whatever sparked the reaction must've killed or incapacitated the SCRAM officer on the spot. And he sure won't be alive by now."

"The question is, will anyone else below deck be alive either?"

"A million-dollar question if ever I heard one."

"And I'd give my chair for an affirmative answer."

"Thank you, Admiral, but I don't want your chair either."

Fitzwallace peered out of Captain Trudeau's second-story office window at the dock below, and the newly-named sub smoking in her berth. By now there wasn't a living soul in sight outside, anywhere.

"Not when I have to make decisions like this, huh?"

"Yes, sir." Trudeau leaned over a set of technical submarine blueprints. "The tour was less than half-over. They'd have been heading deeper into the boat all along. If they were far enough from the reactor, but not too close to the forward torpedo bay, they might have had time to take cover. That would be either the Conn on the upper level, or missile control on the lower, depending upon where they were." He pointed to the locations named.

"And how long do you think they can survive in there?"

"With hatches dogged and vents off, the radiation and the smoke can't enter. They'll be relatively safe for a few hours at least." The base commander hesitated a beat. "Assuming the boat herself remains intact, of course."

Hands locked behind his back, shoulders taut, Fitz did not move. "Of course." He inhaled slowly. "I just pray they all made it to that shelter."

"Concurred. What's our status?" Trudeau turned.

Chief Tolkinski stepped forward, the only other person present save for a lone Secret Service agent. "Sir. Base evacuation is proceeding. All vessels in dock are almost ready to sail. COMSUBPLANT is keeping the line open. And Hotspur ETA is thirty-one minutes."

"THIRTY-ONE MINUTES?"

"I'd say they're making good time from Otis," Fitz commented dryly, trying to find some positive side. "With all their equipment, too..."

"The 'Callanan' could blow in thirty-one SECONDS!" Trudeau seethed. "How many times have I said that we need our own response team based here? I practically begged for one! But with DoD cutbacks and shifting priorities and civilian politicians -"

"Let's revisit the defense budget later." Having the privilege of a close relationship with his Commander-in-Chief, the Chairman was rather more sensitive to slights against politicians in general than most of his military colleagues. Besides, now was definitely not the time.

Then again... "And we will revisit it." The odds on the President surviving this escapade would be far greater if rescue didn't have to come from two states away.

Trudeau let out a harsh sigh, reining in his frustration. "Yes, sir." He came over to take in the view as well.

They stood side by side, two senior officers of comparable height and near-identical expressions, yet otherwise a study in contrasts. Black and white - from uniforms to hair to skin color - as though the silver moon shone against the night sky.

Only a single sheet of glass stood between them and that sizzling reactor. If it did blow, the men in this office would be the second set of casualties.

The Captain's even tone betrayed no concern at all for that brutal fact. Certainly he showed not the slightest interest in evacuating himself. "From here, it looks like the explosion partially blew open one of the forward torpedo loading hatches. You can see the metal plate through the smoke: it's twisted to one side, but it's still hanging on."

"The resulting breach appears to be a fair size. Could that provide a faster means of entry for the SEALs?"

"Faster in that it's a bigger hole than the crew hatches, yes - but they'd have to contain the fire first. Unfortunately, the Fairwater is out: it's almost directly over the reactor. Anyone entering there will be walking right into the spill." Trudeau rubbed his jaw, juggling options. "Another point: the bow damage will hamper towing. And let water in besides."

"The water can be a good thing, against both the fire and the radiation."

"Don't count on it, sir. It would take ages to reach the engine room that way."

"Could water in the bow help prevent another torpedo from blowing?"

Trident's commander shook his head dubiously. "It might at that - if there are no loose electrical wires sparking about. Otherwise, water will just add to the problem. We're damned lucky the whole bow didn't blow right off at the start. And if another torp goes, it could all too easily detonate every other weapon on board."

Fitz actually looked pale. "Incinerating the 'Callanan', and scattering the radiation far and wide."

"We've got to get that boat out to sea. Fast." Trudeau whirled. "WHEN are those tugs going to be ready?" he almost shouted.

Tolkinski opened his mouth -

"Here they come." Fitz pointed to a pair of small vessels on approach: the only motion at all, save for the still-rising smoke from the docked sub.

"About time! Chief, I need to know the instant they're hooked up."

"Aye, sir." Tolkinski moved closer to the radio on the desk.

"Captain." Fitz revolved. There was a positively ominous air about him now. He'd reached an irrevocable decision. "Is there a destroyer or some other ship here in Trident now that I could borrow?"

"No destroyers; they're too large for inlet or coastal duty." That automatic explanation came out before Trudeau could help himself. "We do have the 'Houston', though. Aegis class cruiser. Not too big, but very maneuverable." He tilted his head, mutely wondering at this sudden interest in surface ships.

"Sub hunter, right?"

The Captain's eyes narrowed; he was beginning to get the point. "... Yes, sir."

"Has its own helipad?"

"And fully armed."

Fitz didn't drop a single hint of what he had in mind. "Good. I'll take 'Marine One' with me. It's not designed for evacuation of a boat or anything else, but it's available. The President should always fly in an armored aircraft anyway."

Trudeau pressed his lips into a straight line... and then he drew himself to full attention. "Admiral, you have the 'USS Houston' at your command to escort 'Navy One'." Perhaps this formal announcement helped to keep the weight of knowledge at bay just a bit.

Fitz stood just as stiffly. "Thank you."

Right then Colonel Morino entered the office.

"Sir, we've got the White House."

"Be right there." Fitz surveyed the men in this room with him. "Colonel: as the physician assigned to the President, you will join me on the escorting cruiser. And nothing personal, but I pray you won't be needed.

"Chief Tolkinski: as COB of the 'Callanan', you will accompany us as well. I'll need a liaison with the 'Houston's' crew.

"Agent, if your duty permits it, I'd like you to come also. I still hold out hopes of making contact with someone inside the boat, and if it happens you'll know about it. Besides, when we get the captives out, you should be on hand.

"Captain Trudeau: your response to this crisis has been exemplary."

"Thank you, sir." The base commander did not salute, but he managed to stand even taller. "Godspeed - to you, and to the President."

Fitz nodded solemnly. "I'll pass that on the first chance I get. Inform the 'Houston' when the tugs have 'Navy One' rigged for towing." Pause. "And tell her skipper to arm her weapons."

That last sentence rang through this office like a funeral bell.

Morino's gasp echoed as the implication hit him broadside.

Trudeau had already expected this, and had braced himself accordingly. The switch, from two fellow sailors expertly dissecting a situation to a superior officer giving a subordinate a direct order, was swift and sure. "Aye, sir."

The executive medic looked even more stunned that such a command would be so promptly endorsed.

"Admiral..." He had to struggle for words. "Do - do you know what you're saying?"

Fitz regarded him gravely - indeed, sadly.

"Yes, Colonel. It means that I just might be going down in history as the first Chairman ever to kill his own President."

~ THE WEST WING

"Yes, Mr. Chairman. The NSA will be here any moment. I'll transfer you downstairs."

In the following pause, Josh sat up straighter with every evidence of surprise. "Me? Sir, I've never... I mean, Leo... I have no military... I can't give you that kind of advice..."

He swallowed. "I'm sorry you're stuck with only me. But I'll do my best and then some, sir. Yes, I'll head down at once."

He set the phone receiver on his desk blotter and rose. "Donna!"

She appeared immediately, ready for orders.

"Fitzwallace. Transfer him to the Situation Room. I'm going there now."

Her wide eyes betrayed what she thought of the glaring abnormality that her boss would ever be allowed inside that ultra-vital chamber, but she did not comment. Not to tease him about his illusions of grandeur. Not even to joke about his insistence that she do the manual labor for him. He was, for better or for worse, the highest ranking staffer around, and as such he had no choice but to go where he'd never gone before. "You got it."

Josh hurried out of his office. Sure enough, his Secret Service shadow fell into step right behind. He glanced back, far from comfortable with the whole bodyguard idea. Said bodyguard met his anxious gaze calmly, as impassive as though this was "Eagle" detail.

"Josh?" Ginger shot to her feet when she saw him.

He didn't even slow down. "Sorry, I don't know anything more than you do. Not yet, at least. Any luck with the cell phones?"

She shook her head - a useless gesture, as he had already passed her by. "Not yet."

"They can't penetrate the sub. That's the reason." He tried hard to sound certain.

"I sure hope so," she almost whispered into his wake.

The Deputy Chief of Staff vanished in one direction... and the Deputy Communications Director appeared from another.

No sooner did he arrive than he very nearly got run over by a frantic intern. Everyone was in high gear: either with urgent work to do, or else with panicked thoughts that could only be held in check by frantic movement.

"Where's Josh?" he asked the pandemonium at large.

"Went thataway." Ginger pointed.

"To the Situation Room," Donna clarified, emerging from Josh's office.

Will nodded, seeing nothing odd in Joshua Lyman - one of the biggest goofballs in this White House when a certain mood hit - being included in debates of the highest security and import during a national crisis. "Good. The Joint Chiefs are arriving. Do you know if he heard anything?"

"No - but he was on the phone briefly with Fitzwallace." Donna followed Will through the much-more-chaotic-than-usual bullpen. "Have you heard anything?"

"Nope. Hell, the Secret Service haven't heard anything."

"Now that's terrifying." Her voice climbed in pitch. "They could be alive - and trapped - or they might not be alive at all - and we don't know -"

"The not knowing is always the worst." He touched her arm briefly in an attempt to offer comfort. "Hang in there. They've got two agents with them, and two sub officers."

Donna made a huge effort to get herself back under control. "Plus, Leo and Toby are no slouches in a tight spot."

"So I've heard - and seen." Will gave her a slight smile, then continued onward through the mass of scuttling White House employees.

He found C.J. in her comparatively quiet office, studying the newsreel of the sub explosion. Again.

"How many times have you seen that so far?"

"I've lost count." The Press Secretary rubbed her tired eyes. "I suppose I should be grateful for what little footage they caught... but it's positively painful to watch."

"Still better than relying on other people's snatched perceptions of the scene, though."

"Give the man a cigar. Any detective will tell you that eyewitness accounts are rarely reliable." She stood, stretching her spine stiffly. "Anything on your end?"

He shrugged, looking helpless - indeed, useless - and feeling like it as well. "Besides the fact that the brass is gathering and the security has skyrocketed, not much. Without information, we're all just spinning our wheels."

"Yeah, we're really useful to the President right now." C.J.'s voice overflowed with self-loathing.

Will's lack of reply to that statement indicated full agreement. Every single soul in this historic building burned with the desire to help, to do something - to do anything that would bring this nightmare to a successful end now. That would bring their leader home. And none of them could do anything at all.

Unable to offer any plausible encouragement there, he changed the subject. "When's your briefing?"

"I'm waiting as long as I can. It'll give the Press Corps more time to congregate, so I don't have to address them too often. And it'll give me more time to amass whatever new data comes in at the last minute."

She planted her hands on her hips and regarded him soberly. "How much can you tell me about nuclear submarines? The less I need to have explained to me before I can explain it to others..."

"Quite a bit, I think, for someone who's never served on one. I have two brothers who did, and they talked a lot. It was sort of inevitable. My father always liked to hear about the latest innovations, too." Will almost smiled. "The dinner conversations we had..."

"Subs aren't the only nuclear vessels out there," C.J. suddenly reminded herself.

"True. And let me say that people who serve on such vessels have a very keen understanding and fear of their reactors."

"Then you're definitely the guy I want. I'm sure you'll know what not to tell me."

"I think I can differentiate." He headed for the sofa.

And froze in the act of seating himself. "Say, where's the First Lady? Is she here yet?"

C.J. grew even more somber. "No. I don't know her schedule - although I do know that she wasn't in the White House, or else she'd be here by now. You can bet her detail is screaming this way from whatever event she was attending."

"No doubt." Will's features developed a pinched look. Although he did not know Abbey Bartlet personally, he had all the sympathy in the world for what she had to be going through - on account of both her husband and her middle daughter. Her arrival here was not something to look forward to.

As though she'd picked up the very same thought, C.J. looked over his head at the open office door. "Carol?"

Her assistant stepped promptly into view.

"Have you reached Zoey yet?"

"Yes; she's en route, about an hour away."

"And Elizabeth?"

"I haven't been able to get through." Carol displayed no small regret.

C.J. sighed heavily. "They'll know what's happening by now, from their agents if no one else. But keep trying. We owe them that courtesy at least. Same goes for the rest of the next of kin. Don't stop trying until either you get through or they do. We may not be able to keep them on the line all the time, but at least we can update them at once."

~ NAVY ONE

"Dad, are you okay?"

The President turned quickly - a bit too quickly. "I'm fine."

Eleanor wasn't convinced. "Oh, yeah? You're sweating."

He didn't reach for a handkerchief or brush a palm across his damp forehead; that would be an admission of the truth. "Nothing's the matter." He glanced around in a sincere effort at appearing idle and unbothered. Fortunately, at this moment they stood a few yards apart from the others.

She folded her arms, every bit as obstinate as he could be. "No, nothing at all... except that we're locked inside a cramped little submarine with radiation at one end, fire at the other, and water on both sides."

There are two ways to handle phobic terror. Sometimes, denial or suppression is the only thing you can do, the only thing the situation will allow you. However, at some point the victim has to confront the fear, or at the very least acknowledge that it exists.

"Well summarized." Did an extra spark of discomfort flicker in his eyes? His daughter immediately looked contrite.

"Dad, there's nothing abnormal or weak about a phobia suddenly breaking out in the right conditions. They can be unexpected - and overwhelming. I know you don't like to be reminded of this, but you're human."

"Can't be human. In my job I'm not allowed to be." That statement went beyond facetious and straight into factual. Phobias are devilishly hard to fight; if you have any tool on hand, you use it. For once, Bartlet's own sense of duty provided a welcome excuse.

He lost no time diverting the conversation away from any concern directed at himself. "Besides, this place is yooge. Not confining at all. And look at all the hardware! It'd be worth studying engineering for years just to learn what it all does -"

Sometimes, members of the First Family and employees of the White House welcomed their leader's talent for changing awkward subjects. This was not such an occasion. The fact that Ellie had her own medical training didn't help her father's cause.

"You haven't had a reaction like this in ages. Why now?" She lowered her voice another notch, definitely not wanting their companions to overhear. "But then, this is hardly the most spacious place you've ever toured. We should've guessed. I know Mom would've come for sure if she'd even suspected something might kick up -"

The executive humor vanished in an almost visible flash of steam. Bartlet's expression became closed, even stern. "I'm fine. Nothing wrong with me. Not now, not before, and certainly not in the future." He said that as though saying it meant nothing could happen to him.

Well, when you consider that any change in his well-being affected an entire nation... and the stability of other nations besides... not to mention world markets...

She sighed in frustration and turned away, backing down rather than escalate the confrontation, reinstating an uncomfortably familiar gulf between them. Silence fell.

"I'm sorry I got you into this."

Those words yanked her back around. Her father had shifted from obstinate to apologetic - but there was more. He too had felt the return of their long-known tension. Was it because he refused to let his daughter comfort him? He always did his best to be strong, especially with the specter of very bad health forever lingering on the horizon.

Or, did he read her withdrawal as aloofness - even resentment? Aimed at him? Did he wonder if she blamed him for her being in this predicament? If his job hadn't demanded such a duty, or if he'd had any other job at all, none of them would be here now...

Was she blaming him, perhaps without even realizing it herself?

Ellie hesitated. Her father was one person she went far out of her way to avoid confronting, mostly because their arguments almost always went unresolved on either end. Then, suddenly, understanding and concern triumphed over all else.

"This is not your fault, Dad. Doesn't matter whether it's me or Mom or Zoey. No one can blame you for a reactor problem."

"And if it were your mother, or Zoey, I'd be just as worried - and just as responsible." The lines on Bartlet's face deepened. "Same as I'm responsible for all of them." He glanced back at their fellow captives, muttering amongst themselves and respectfully keeping their distance.

The irony was that their fellow captives would feel every bit as responsible for him.

Ellie blew out an exasperated breath. "Dad! You don't have to be the President right now! We're all in this together!"

Another moment of silence settled... but this one felt different. It didn't have the pall of resignation. It had the ring of meaning.

Slowly, the President's features lightened. His new attitude might almost have been described as inspired.

"You know... I believe every man here will soon have reason to thank you."

She frowned in no little confusion. But her father did not elaborate. Instead, he headed towards the other gathering.

Whatever that group of eight had been talking about before, two voices were gaining dominance.

"The President's welfare takes precedence.