"Good evening, sports fans! Happy Memorial Day, and happy Opening Day as well! I'm Harry Guyslink."

"And I'm June Webb. Welcome to Oriole Park at Camden Yards, where we are only moments away from kicking off the season opener of America's favorite sport!"

The camera panned across the crowd. No faces, no individuals: just a multitude of seething humanity coalesced into one group entity with its entire attention focused on the playing field below. Some members in this crowd of nearly fifty thousand carried their own radios or portable television sets, all the better to catch every minor detail and every line of commentary on the spectacle taking place in this modern arena.

Across the country and around the world - for while it was a game with American origins, it was also a game whose popularity defied borders - in homes and in offices, in bars and in cars, people settled back to watch or tuned in to listen. Even if they couldn't be there in person, the play-by-play would put them right in the midst of it all.

"Yes, the Baltimore Orioles and the New York Yankees will be starting us off in style. We're honored to have been chosen to host the first game for 2004 but that's not the only honor in store for us tonight, is it, June?"

"No, indeed, Harry. Tonight we are in for a very special treat. The first pitch will be thrown out by none other than the President of the United States!"

"Right on! I don't know how they wrangled it - President Bartlet has never thrown out a first pitch before."

"He's well into his second term, too. Since Taft, every President except Carter has thrown out at least one ceremonial first pitch during his tenure. If President Bartlet hadn't been re-elected, he would have broken a long-standing and proud tradition."

"I think we can chalk it up to his rather busy schedule, June. In fact, I'm amazed he's found time to come here tonight, given recent events in the Middle East."

"I agree, after that atrocious terrorist bombing in Gaza just yesterday, which killed two Congressmen, a Congressional aide and an admiral, and seriously injured a member of the White House staff. There's also a very real chance of a complete breakdown of peace talks. The President is under a lot of pressure on all sides to retaliate with military force, and fast. It's clear that he doesn't want to launch such a conflict without thinking it through very carefully, but he'll probably have to make up his mind before long. This can't have been a relaxing day for him by any means."

"It's a terrible thought. Some people might say that being here is a frivolous waste of time when there's war threatening. But you know, I'd say that's all the more reason for him to take time out for the people. So let's leave the politics for another day and just enjoy the game."

"I hope the President can do the same, Harry. There must be some public relations angle to his coming here, but he probably needs the diversion more than anyone else."

"If it's a diversion he wants, we'll certainly provide it! As a rule Oriole Park sees a good turnout for every home opener - but tonight the stands are packed! Look at that aerial view on Camera Two. The President can enjoy the fact that he's directly responsible for quite a large percentage of these eager fans. I wonder if we've hit the bursting point yet."

"From our view here behind home plate, I'd believe it. For the interest of our viewers, the official count of Camden Yards' capacity has been revised to 48,272, down from 48,876. I think the fire code had something to do with it, so that not too many people are crammed into the standing area."

"They've got to stop super-sizing those French fries. By the way, I dug up a few other bits of trivia for you, June. You may already know this, but this stadium is situated only two blocks from the birthplace of Babe Ruth himself. Also, Ruth's father used to operate a caf on Conway Street - the exact location of which is now in center field."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"And the playing field is distinctly asymmetrical, as I'm sure our viewers can see. I haven't been able to figure out why that is, though."

"Now you've got me curious. I do know that the turf is natural Maryland Bluegrass."

"No other kind will do. And here's something else. Home plate was moved back seven feet for the 2001 season."

"It was?"

"Yep - but it was returned to its original spot the next season because the new layout, quote, adversely affected the viewing angle of the batter's eye,' unquote. Coincidentally, there was a significant drop in home runs for that year."

"That might've had something to do with it. You've really been boning up, Harry. You and the President have a lot in common."

"Why, I'm flattered."

"Did I ever tell you that I met him once?"

"No!"

"Okay, I admit he was only Governor then. It was at a softball game in Concorde."

"No kidding! Lucky girl. And I didn't know he liked softball, too. Then tonight should be a double delight for him!"

"Oh, that was years ago. I'm sure he won't remember me."

"You never know; he's got a reputation for remembering some pretty amazing facts - oh, hey! We've just received word that the motorcade has arrived! The President will appear in just a few minutes!"

"Excellent! We're all ready for him! Now I'm not trying to inject a depressing note into tonight's festivities, but this will almost certainly be the last time in a long time that any President comes to Baltimore on Opening Day."

"Depressing but all too likely, June. Some of us will remember the Senators, the franchise that used to be based in Washington. Considering his hectic schedule and tight security requirements, there was little point in sending the President to another state when he could throw out the first pitch in his own city."

"Yes, he'd need to have a trip already planned that just happened to coincide with Opening Day somewhere else. And that doesn't happen very often. Inevitably for him, politics has to take precedence."

"Indeed. Anyway, the Senators were disbanded in 1976, so our national leaders have come here almost exclusively ever since. I like to think that was because they've liked the Orioles personally, but the simple fact is we're closer to D.C. than any other team."

"And we've enjoyed that privilege for over twenty-five years. But for those fans who haven't yet heard, it is now confirmed that the Senators will be resurrected for next season. The Montreal Expos are moving south of the border - and that'll put a National League team right next door to the White House once again."

"Which will be the President's gain, but our loss. That's precisely why we've pulled out all the stops tonight. We want to be sure President Bartlet doesn't forget his evening with us. He sure deserves an exciting game. I wonder which team he's rooting for."

"I doubt he's allowed to play favorites, Harry."

"Good point. Now the usual spot to stand for tossing out the first pitch is right behind home plate. Let's turn to Camera Four and zoom in on the row reserved for the guest of honor."

"There! And as you can see in this same view, the catcher for the Orioles is already on the field, all set to go. It won't be long at all now."

"Keep your eye on the stand entrance just two rows further up; that's where the President is going to appear at any second. Looks like a lot of fans already know this ritual, since they're watching that spot as well No, wait! June, do you see what I see?"

"Yes! Movement in the Grand Entrance! Good heavens, does that mean -"

"It does! Those men in black business suits can only be Secret Service agents - and that can only mean the President is right behind them. And that means he's about to come right out onto the field! I don't believe this - he's not pitching from the stands at all. He's going to pitch from the mound!"

"Oh, this is wonderful! As everyone else tuning in can now guess, no one told us!"

Mere seconds later, the public address system drowned out even the legions of fans: "AND NOW, FOR OUR CEREMONIAL FIRST PITCH, TONIGHT WE ARE PLEASED TO WELCOME THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!"

Suddenly, there he was: bursting out of the dark tunnel mouth into the blazing floodlights. He wore his own personal navy sports jacket, the Presidential seal emblazoned on the left breast, which fit the mood of the night just fine; it was the suit trousers and polished shoes that looked a bit odd here. He wore a fielder's mitt on his left hand, with a baseball tucked firmly in its web - but no team cap, the better to be seen (and apparently impartial although some of his closest friends might politely argue the point). Waving to the crowds on all sides, he headed briskly for the pitcher's mound.

The welcoming cheer from forty-eight-thousand-plus voices could have drowned out "Air Force One" itself. Tiny pinpricks of white light flashed all over the stands as countless cameras captured this moment.

The Man reached his destination in the center of the baseball diamond, stopped there and raised his right arm in acknowledgment, pivoting slowly to give everyone a good look. Two camera operatives hovered near first base, one video and one still. The woman wanted photos for the papers tomorrow; the man wanted live feed for the TVs now. The executive image dominated that huge billboard display, head and shoulders, up close and personal. Somehow this combination of both casual and formal attire, normally so incongruous on a sports field of any description, managed to preserve his dignity rather than detract from it. He didn't smile quite as broadly as usual, but no one could fault him for still having the Middle East and recent American deaths on his mind. Despite the colossal burden of leadership and the dire decisions of war versus peace that he was going to have to make very soon, he had come here to share a few minutes of treasured recreation with his constituents nationwide.

Many different people observed this with many different opinions. Standing a few steps back from the mouth of the Grand Entrance, White House Chief of Staff Leo McGarry frowned. He had just finished a totally unexpected phone call, and was stewing over the public acceptance to a peace conference at Camp David by a controversial diplomat whom the United States had never invited in the first place. Also, he was fuming over an argument he'd had mere seconds ago with his Commander-in-Chief about the need and the duty to go to war. To cap it off, he was embattled by memories of watching his best friend step into the public eye for the first time as President-Elect. Both instances had produced a frenzy of lights, cameras and security; both had required that Bartlet go forward alone, leaving Leo behind. That had been a proud and heady moment, when their teamwork accomplished the near-impossible. This was the exact opposite: their teamwork had broken down over conflicting opinions and debating the rules of necessity, and Leo's experienced counsel for once had gone unheeded.

Charlie Young, the President's personal aide, lingered nearby. Fortunately the tunnel was wide enough and the flight of steps short enough that he had a low yet clear view. He held the executive suit jacket folded neatly over one arm, making him look more than a little like a valet, but he also looked more than a little nervous. Presidents didn't pitch from the mound unless they were convinced that they wouldn't embarrass themselves in the process, but one never knows for sure until the ball is actually thrown. Nerves notwithstanding, Charlie wouldn't miss this moment for the world. He had played a personal role in the practice session, in a deserted hall of the White House, as catcher. The scene had been both laughable and laudable: the leader of the free world slowly backing away with each successful pitch, sweating, hair tousled, venting his political frustration over the hair-trigger crisis in the Holy Land that he alone was supposed to diffuse, as he got closer and closer to regulation distance

Right on the entrance's threshold stood Special Agent Ron Butterfield, the man directly responsible for the President's safety. He held his right fist just below his jaw, keeping the radio transmitter in his sleeve proximate, even when he didn't have actual orders to impart. At least eight other bodyguards flanked him in this corridor, all on highest alert. Many other operatives were scattered throughout the stands right now, they had already swept the entire stadium, and they knew their jobs perfectly, but something could still happen. No one looking at the agent in charge could doubt his profession or his dedication. His eyes never left his protectee's retreating back, and not even his characteristic stone-faced reserve could mask his dislike for the very real risk that The Man was running right now. As the distance between them increased, as the politician he was sworn to defend with his own life moved further and further from his immediate protection, Ron's features became more and more grim.

In the nation's capital, in the West Wing, the White House Press Secretary settled into her desk chair and watched the TV coverage with a smile both pleased and apprehensive. C.J. Cregg had been one of the instigators of this PR coup. She had even managed to overcome the objections of the President himself, which was a considerable feat at any given time. As a result, she felt personally responsible for the outcome. Her next press briefing would either be pure delight, if the First Pitch went well - or utter disaster, if it didn't.

Two doors down, the White House Communications Director slouched in his desk chair, rolling a baseball between hands that wouldn't stop fidgeting. Toby Ziegler wore a morose expression by default even on good days. Right now, however, he had sunk all the way to black fury. Scant minutes ago, their desperate efforts to resolve the current Middle East flashpoint, rather than ignite it past all saving, had received a major setback. Bad enough that they believed they had to exclude one of the more prominent international figures, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid inflaming the most incendiary of the other players; now that same individual had made it impossible for them to turn him away, which could all too easily demolish everything. Toby always took complications to the Bartlet administration's political designs personally, but the repercussions of this upheaval could well be global.

Less than ninety feet away, the personal secretary to the President leaned her elbows on her desk and relaxed, calmly watching the show unfold. Debbie Fiderer knew all about the pitching practice in the Residence earlier: the ground balls, the demolished lamp, the political rant, and the eventual clean strike. Whether her boss did a great job or a poor one with the official pitch on the actual field - and she well understood the importance of a great job to his public image - it still wouldn't overshadow the events upstairs. She felt no small amusement at his comical failures and no small pride at his final triumph.

On the other side of the Oval Office itself, the assistant to the White House Chief of Staff had her desk radio on, but she kept her attention on her volumes of work. Margaret Gallagher never lacked for things to do, and Leo's absence gave her more time to do them. Besides, she knew of the recent tensions between her boss and his boss, and preferred to forget that uncomfortable, positively unnatural conflict as long as she could. Still, she knew the President better than most of the support staff, and couldn't resist tuning in for verbal coverage of Opening Day.

Speaking of the support staff, anyone who could get away with it was likewise glued to either a radio or TV. The Communications bullpen sported a solid bank of television sets, fully half of which carried current coverage from Camden Yards, and had drawn a proportionate audience. In the van stood the Press Secretary's assistant, Carol Fitzpatrick. She, and most of the employees now gathered with her, frequently saw their President up close, but that only increased their fondness - indeed, their possessiveness. He belonged to the nation, sure but even more, he belonged to them. They wanted him to succeed for a far more personal reason than agreement with his politics. The fact that they were witnessing baseball history merely put the icing on the cake.

Across the street, in the Old Executive Office Building, the former White House Deputy Communications Director followed the pre-game show on his own TV with a much more subdued air. Will Bailey had made a difficult decision to leave the President's senior staff for the Vice President's senior staff, even though most of his former colleagues considered that no less than treason. That decision had been justifiable and of potentially great benefit but there were still times when he caught himself questioning his calculated career move. Like now. There was just something about the country's undisputed leader; something about The Man himself. Something that Will's current boss simply couldn't match.

Removed from all of this by a third of the globe and a wealth of haunting fear, the White House Deputy Chief of Staff paced constantly outside a German hospital operating room. Josh Lyman could not have cared less about baseball or even politics right now; on the other side of that wall his severely-injured assistant was fighting for her life. Donna Moss had been the lone survivor of that road bomb in Gaza, and scant minutes ago her encouraging recovery rate had crashed. Still, the TV in the waiting room was turned on, and tuned in, and Josh couldn't summarily reject anything that postponed his inexorable progress towards going insane with worry. Besides, the broadcast featured his boss - who also happened to be his national leader and the most powerful man in the world. Plus, Josh had nothing else to do except pace, and worry. His anxious attention remained focused here, but he did glance up at the screen every once in a while.

Back home, inside the country's most famous and most tightly-defended residence, the First Lady of the United States followed along with everyone else. Abigail Bartlet, though, possessed a viewpoint totally unique from everyone else. She did not know all of the strategic pros and cons regarding military action against those who had dared to attack American citizens, or all of the political pros and cons entangling such action. What she did know, better than any other person alive, was the heart of the man trapped in this hurricane: the man bombarded by conflicting demands from both home and abroad, the man upon whom the ultimate decision - and the final verdict of history - would rest. She recognized his public appearance this evening as camouflage for the hard work, the sleepless nights and the soul-crushing choices hoping that said appearance would provide the respite her husband so sorely needed before he had to pronounce those world-critical judgments. So she sat, and watched, and smiled. She also knew how hard he'd practiced for tonight. No matter how old they both became, she would forever adore this growing boy of hers.

Certainly Jed Bartlet himself didn't look like he regretted the decision to be present on Opening Day - even though he'd never done it before, even though he'd never expressed a desire to do it before, even though he was mourning the death of a personal friend and worried over the survival of a close employee, even though he had Congress and Joint Chiefs and best friends trying to talk him into a course of violent retribution that he most definitely did not want to take. There was a hint of enthusiasm in his stance as he revolved back towards home plate. Or perhaps he too was remembering how his practice throws had improved while his mood had deteriorated, as though political dilemma had been a positive distraction from self-consciousness. Here and now, before the eyes of the entire nation, he'd probably embrace any help that would guarantee success in such a public forum.

In the tunnel, at the bottom of the steps, Leo Charlie and Ron all fidgeted each for different reasons.

Leo was still seething - and pained - over this recent, bitter and never before experienced estrangement between him and his oldest friend. They had always trusted each other, always listened to each other but for reasons Leo could not quite identify, ever since that car blew up in Israel Bartlet had refused to commit himself to the hard choices. Compounding this personal conflict was Leo's worry over the latest monkey wrench that had just been tossed into their twine-and-duct tape effort to preserve American foreign policy and American citizens without starting World War III in the process.

Charlie shifted sideways, but because the Grand Entrance was almost directly behind home plate,and because he stood at the bottom of the steps leading up onto the field, he now saw that he wouldn't bet the best view from here after all. Of course he'd see the pitch replayed for the rest of the night and into tomorrow, especially if it tanked. It was the interaction after the pitch that had him worried. If Bartlet threw a strike, his closest aide would be his best audience for some well-earned bragging rights, and that could go on for hours or days. If he threw a ball, Charlie wouldn't have to say a word: his boss would know exactly what he was thinking.

Ron didn't care - technically - whether this became a political boon or a political flub. Considering his genuine liking for his protectee, he could share the personal hope that the pitch was clean. That, however, would mean prolonging their stay here quite a bit longer, since Bartlet would then go over to shake hands with every ball player around and accept the accolades he'd justly deserve. Ron never liked open-air occasions like this. But he couldn't prevent them all, so he settled for doing his utmost to ensure they went off safely.

The moment had arrived: no time left for the President's right-hand man to dwell on how much damage had been done to a friendship founded over thirty years ago, or for the President's body man to wish he'd headed into the stands at once to enjoy a better view, or for the President's chief of security to wish he'd vetoed this whole stunt from the get-go. They all had to live with their choices for the present.

The catcher waited politely, crouched behind home plate, mask off, glove in position. The two teams of ball players were lined up in front of their respective dugouts, at full attention; they would be treated to an executive receiving line after the pitch, before the game actually started. The team managers and umpires flanked them, and a small phalanx of Secret Service agents flanked them.

The two camera operators angled a bit further back, so that they could better capture the entire pitch. There was no one else on the diamond, so as not to detract from the moment. But that didn't stop necks from craning and eyes from avidly observing

The gathered fans, the lone announcer, the two commentators, even the traffic in the city streets beyond seemed to hush in sweet anticipation

Without the unnecessary drama of most of his predecessors, the President checked his grip on the ball, reared back as easily as though he did this all the time, and let fly.

In the most natural instinct imaginable, every eye present followed that swift motion: the arm as it came down and confidently released the ball - and the speeding missile bound straight for home plate. And every member of that eager audience heard the CRACK of impact as the ball slammed squarely into the catcher's mitt.

Several things happened at once:

"STRIKE!" Harry shouted gleefully into his microphone.

The entire crowd endorsed this with a blast of joyous sound.

Ron snapped to full attention. "That was a SHOT!"

No matter how fast the pitch and how automatic the impulse to follow it, almost everyone swung back to the pitcher immediately afterwards. And what they saw -

"My GOD -!" June's voice reverberated over the airwaves. There was absolutely no triumph in that cry; it couldn't be anything but an alarm.

The President of the United States was not standing tall, smiling, basking in his victory. The President of the United States was lying flat on the ground, face up, limbs slack.

He could not have simply lost his balance with the force of his throw and fallen over; if so, he would be scrambling back up as fast as possible. No - he was spread-eagled, sprawled across the mound as though pinned in place by all those huge stadium lights and all those eyes. And he was not moving.

The entire world froze solid for one endless fracture in time. Those fans watching televisions found themselves leaning far forward, staring at this inconceivable picture. Those listening to radios were alerted just as instantly to the chilling fact that something had happened, that spectacle had become crisis. Many turned up the volume; others simply dashed for the nearest TV.

The spectators in the stands remained riveted to their seats, as yet unable to process this lightning switch from triumphant pitcher to supine body. Even the catcher didn't move a muscle, still holding the perfect pitch in his extended glove.

Leo's simmering anger instantly evaporated.

Charlie's left arm went limp, slowly spilling the executive blazer to the floor.

C.J.'s cheer cut off short.

Toby's scowling expression went dreadfully blank.

Debbie's brows descended into a disbelieving glower of her own.

Margaret's head yanked up from her paperwork to stare at her radio.

Carol and the support staff solidified right at the start of a victory dance.

Will was so startled that both hands slammed onto his desktop.

Josh whipped towards the elevated TV so fast that he nearly fell over.

Abbey gasped, her sudden loss of breath almost strangling her.

The entire world shared one electrifying thought:

What happened?

IS HE ALIVE?

Not one of them knew the answer.

Ron bolted forward at a dead run.

The agents already on the field followed his lead at once.

No matter where the President was or what situation he was in, at any sign of trouble the Secret Service would instantly be all over him in a hoard, surrounding him, burying him under their own bodies if need be, protecting him any way they possibly could.

The regulation distance between the plate and the mound is sixty feet. In Oriole Park, the distance between the plate and the Grand Entrance was almost exactly the same. The team dugouts flanked the entrance on both sides. That came to about forty yards of open space, in a straight line, from all three angles.

The world record for the hundred-meter dash is a shade under ten seconds. A person in good shape and with desperation for a spur can certainly cover less than half that distance in less than half that time. Secret Service agents were not only in prime physical condition, they were supremely devoted to their job. Theirs was the Fifth Profession: the guardians of life. And there were none better.

Ball players had to have swift reflexes, too. A handful from both teams bolted just as suddenly at the sight, but with no clear purpose; they bumped and jostled wildly, and two agents had to literally shove them out of the way.

Devotion and loyalty formed the backbone of Leo's psyche as well. He let out a wordless yell that conveyed all the horror a best friend could possibly feel, and charged straight after the Special Agent in Charge. He could not have cared less about any risk to himself; in fact, he never even thought of it.

Fortunately, someone else did. Several agents remained in the tunnel, staying behind to guard their retreat. One grabbed two fistfuls of the Chief of Staff's coat and physically hauled him back into the corridor. That was another aspect of the job assigned to this branch of the Treasury Department: to protect the second most powerful man in the country as well.

Leo didn't even have time to fight for his freedom. A sudden, thundering volley of gunfire detonated right outside the tunnel, spitting up sod and ricocheting off the stonework at the head of the stairs. If the agent hadn't acted so forcefully, the Chief of Staff would have been sliced to ribbons.

Seven men were already out in the open with no protection at all. No sooner had they exploded into sight or left the back wall than the bullets began to fly. Anyone with experience in weapons fire and time to evaluate it would have judged that the weapon currently in use was fully automatic, capable of firing more than three hundred lethal rounds per minute. These people were the best-trained and best-organized bodyguards in the world, but they were still human - and therefore mortal. Plus, two agents had been delayed - only for a second, but even one second can be critical. Both were hit and downed before they got more than five steps or even knew what had happened.

The others got the message at once and started zigzagging their strides, trying frantically to dodge bullets that they could neither see nor anticipate, but they didn't stop or fall back. Their overwhelming concern was to get to their protectee; their one bleak hope, to physically shield him from further shots. However, under such lethal circumstances, forty yards seemed like a mile and five seconds like forever. They were converging from three different angles, at high speed, but they were running directly into a merciless sheet of bullets that had no intention of letting them pass.

The Secret Service issued an ultra-light body-stocking, capable of absorbing some shots if they were not too heavy a caliber; but no agents wore full body armor - that would slow them down too much, as in just such an instant as this. Unfortunately, speed couldn't save them here either. Within another heartbeat and a half, three more men crumpled to the ground in a hideous tangle of useless limbs.

Despite this appalling body count, the two survivors maintained their course. In comparison to the President, their lives meant nothing. They were dead-set on protecting him from the same deadly barrage - and from the shooter that had already struck him down. That had been a single shot before, at the moment of the pitch; more than enough to kill, but a lot easier to survive. Just maybe he was still alive. So long as there was any doubt at all, they would do whatever it took to defend him. If just one of them could get there and shelter him from further injury, they wouldn't consider their price in blood too high.

They challenged the withering fire with their very lives. Ron accelerated even more, using his own adrenaline to enhance his abilities. He didn't have time to think or feel. Like everyone who makes it into this supremely-intense line of work, much less onto this highest-ranking detail, he had been trained to react instantly with everything he had. Any sense of fear wasn't for himself: it was for his protectee. His colleague was still a precious few yards ahead, coming in fast from the right. Surely one of them would make it -

A sliver of an instant later Ron almost ran down the wide-eyed catcher, who had started to run himself, and in his panic hadn't realized that he was heading right into the murderous hailstorm. The senior agent slammed full into him, knocked him flying and, hopefully, tossed him out of the line of fire as well. The hard impact also threw Ron out of stride, making him stagger. But his path was clear again, his destination less than twenty short yards and four eternal seconds away -

Then a bolt of lightning smashed one leg out from under him. He nose-dived with brutal force onto the short-trimmed turf.

That left only one man still running. But the single CRACK that now resounded throughout the stadium instantly established three things. There were two guns: one a single-shot rifle that hit the President, and one a fully-automatic submachine gun that cut down his would-be protectors. The rifle was providing additional cover, proclaiming the killers' determination that no one would reach Bartlet's side. And the rifleman was very good, even with moving targets: his lone round contacted the agent's head perfectly. The body crash-landed in a boneless heap barely six feet from the man he had given his life to save.

With the fall of the last defender, all semblance of control vaporized. Climbing over each other in their mad haste, the ball teams dove for shelter in the dugouts or raced for the change-room doors. The umpires were right on their heels.

The final score to this act was bestowed upon the pair of handheld camera operatives near the first base line and - for the moment - not actually part of ground zero. But they were not nearly far enough away for comfort. In unison, they threw aside their equipment and sprinted crazily for the maintenance machinery entrance deep in right field.

Apparently satisfied with this unconditional success, the very echoes of detonated gunpowder fell silent. That expended gunpowder had certainly accomplished its purpose: to bring down the most powerful man in the world and to isolate him from everyone else.

It would not be realistic to expect dead silence from forty-eight thousand people who had just witnessed such a massacre. Even so, the very horror of it, the total unexpectedness, the earth-shaking repercussions to come, and certainly the savage mercilessness of this sudden conflagration engulfing their national leader, overwhelmed almost every individual present. The crowd entity, which began with the cheers of exuberance, which then gave way to the yells of astonishment, which in turn were supplanted by the murderous rattle of gunfire, which were further augmented by the shrieks of terror, reached its final expression with the harsh dawn of knowledge - a brutal understanding that froze the heart and paralyzed the brain.

In situations such as this, the mob rules. Individuality, already compromised by team loyalty, a near-fanaticism for the game and the sheer spectacle of the modern, bloodless combat it represents, becomes totally supplanted and replaced by an almost mindless group consciousness that follows no rules but its own. In an instant, forty-eight thousand stunned minds became one frightened, cornered animal.

When the overt motion and deafening noise on the field finally ceased, the spectators collectively seemed to accept that as permission for them to be still also - for a moment to give in to the stupor of shock. Then the screaming began: one long ululation of fear that continued despite the need for breath, a multitude of voices fused into one, roar building upon roar until there was neither beginning nor end to it.

Horror begets terror.

Terror begets panic.

With panic comes the need for survival. Any animal will flee the predator when it hunts, escape the trap if it can, sacrifice a limb if need be to complete what instinct had begun. There is no thinking cruelty in the act: only the driving compulsion to escape. To live.

This new animal surged as one for the exits. Personal belongings were dropped; strangers were shoved aside. Family members and friends spun and shouted, bucking the tide to locate each other in this living, surging ocean... but to the vast majority it was every man for himself. The sacrifice of its myriad limbs had no relevance to the Darwinian equation for simple survival. Escape became paramount.

Mounted at various locations throughout the complex, the cameras - so integral a part of the stadium and the news machine that not using them never entered into consideration - panned across the execution field and threw their images up on the giant screen for the witnesses, the TV stations, and all the world to see. Nine men lay flat upon the brilliantly lit grass like broken and abandoned puppets.

Only a few figures shifted, and those few in obvious pain. The body of the mound was not one of them.

"Someone... just gunned down the President's entire security team." June's shaky whisper skittered across the wires and confirmed what everyone else either knew or guessed.

"And that can only mean that he was shot as well." Harry's hoarse agreement destroyed all hope of any other possibility.

Whether at work or play, people around the country and in a lot of other nations as well dropped everything. They gathered around the bar, drinks forgotten; they abandoned dinner plates and newspapers and computers and reports; they phoned family members and told them to turn the TV on; they phoned friends and confirmed with each other that what they were seeing was real. This was a national event that touched every last one of one - in different ways, to be sure, but none escaped unscathed.

Leo barely noticed the iron grasp on both arms that refused to let him go to his friend.

Charlie lunged forward in a silent frenzy, and was just as efficiently restrained.

In the West Wing, C.J. squeezed both eyes shut to blot out the unthinkable.

Toby's hands opened convulsively, dropping his ball.

Debbie shook her head slowly, trying to deny the evidence.

Margaret clapped a hand over her mouth.

The Communications bullpen was tremblingly still.

The halls of the entire White House complex came alive with running agents.

In the OEOB, Will clenched his teeth, bracing for the inevitable.

In his medical waiting room, Josh just stood there with eyes and mouth wide open, staring at the coverage, actually forgetting about Donna for a minute.

In the Residence, all of these emotions were embodied and distilled in one person. Abbey forced air into her lungs somehow. It came right back out again, in a protest from the deepest reserves of her soul. "No..."

On the playing field, the lifting of Ron's head was such a slow movement that only the sharpest watchers noticed. Sprawled on his side, grass in his hair, gasping from exertion, one arm trapped underneath his torso, he struggled to re-evaluate the situation. Automatically, his free hand reached downwards to investigate the strange white-hot burning in his right thigh, while his eyes swept as much of the area as his twisted posture permitted.

The resultant stab of flame, plus the stomach-constricting sight of his fallen comrades littering the cheerful green turf, jabbed him instantly back to full alertness with a hiss of anguish both physical and emotional. In the next fragment of time, the rumble of the crowd sharpened into the staccato drumbeat of fresh gunfire, the impact of bullets on earth and concrete, and the even uglier sound of a screaming humanity.

Back in the direction Ron had come, other dark-suited figures bobbed and ducked in the wide maw of the Grand Entrance. They couldn't seriously be expected to charge out into that hell with no hope of survival or success, but they tried anyway - only to be driven back by a curtain of fire that tore up the ground in front of them, a barrier of death through which no one could pass. The threshold was choked by a cohort of grim agents, desperate to break through that blistering wall and reach...

So quickly that his leg yelped in protest, Ron wrenched his entire upper body around and squinted forward through the blinding floodlights towards the pitcher's mound.

President Josiah Bartlet remained where he had dropped. The bullet that hit him must have struck from the front, since a high-speed slug to the back would've propelled him onto his face. It also must have struck in the instant after the baseball left his hand. Ron could see his head, though not his features. There was still no motion at all.

Two yards to one side lay another body: the agent who had so nearly reached their Chief Executive - and would have, but for an extremely skillful killer. The same killer.

Ron lowered his head, eyes flaming. He still had a duty to perform. His own wound would not be allowed to stop him, nor would the shame at his failure and the loss of his colleagues. And once he reached his all-important destination, the assassins could shoot all they want; at least they wouldn't be able to hurt The Man any further. He carefully shifted until both hands were planted under his shoulders and his left leg was bent, ready to push off. He waited one more protracted heartbeat, expecting gunfire and quite likely sudden death in the next second... took a deep breath... and shoved upwards, planning a fast scramble and a frantic dive across that intervening space.

The answering fusillade attacked at once, as feared. Surprisingly, though, it was not aimed at him. Also, it wasn't the automatic fire, fast and widespread and indiscriminating - but the sniper fire, slow and deliberate and aimed to perfection.

It ripped into grass and dirt less than ten feet from the leader of the free world.

Ron got the message and flattened back down, his rush aborted almost before it had begun.

He didn't just stay still, however, and he had no thought of giving up. In the same motion, he whipped out his handgun and scanned the nearest bleachers for the muzzle-flash that would pinpoint the enemy's location. Tremors of pain rippling up his nerves, making his aim quiver; still, if he could spot anything to shoot at he'd chance it -

He saw no flash at all, but he was promptly splattered by flying bits of earth and lawn as the invisible weapon continued to speak. One precise shot after another, with a brief yet distinct pause of deadly intent and cool calculation between, its bullets danced their lethal way even closer to the body of his principle protectee. His unmoving protectee.

Again Ron took the hint, loud and clear. He lowered his gun, then tossed it gently to one side, beyond easy reach. He had been given no possible alternative. Sure enough, the pointed single shots ceased to fly.

The message was unmistakable: this close and no closer. Or else.

Even if he couldn't fight with his own two hands at this furious moment, he could still lead the battle with strategy. Keeping his head low, Ron spoke urgently into the microphone up his sleeve, transmitting to every agent on the payroll. "All units, stay off the field!"

No answer. Only indistinguishable shouting on every side. The crowds continued to swirl and scream... but nothing came over the Secret Service's two-way lifeline.

That couldn't be! The shooters couldn't have killed every single bodyguard in the entire stadium! But why else would they be silent?

Ice slithered through him. Was he really alone, not only trapped in this war zone but without any backup at all?

Just like the President?

No - he could see a few of his colleagues hovering in the door of the tunnel. So why couldn't he hear them?

Then Ron checked his earpiece, and that chilling unease gave way to a dash of relief. The tiny device had fallen out, most likely after his collision with the ground. Re-inserting it put him back in touch with the greatest security organization in the world. Physically he was still separated from them, but the really crucial link had been restored.

He overrode the instant bombardment of multiple demands for information. "Everyone stay back! One more move forward from anybody and they'll chop him right up!"

In the Grand Entrance, that order truncated all such attempts to reach their chief or their national leader. Every inch of the baseball field was spot-lit and devoid of any conceivable cover. Anyone who dared take a step into the open had no chance of being missed by a professional marksman - but more to the point, such an effort would unleash a final assault upon the central target.

That target bore a hideous resemblance to a paper image tacked to a wall... or a firing squad victim bound to a post. Completely unable to duck.

The worst question of all was: even if he could dodge, how could he still be alive to even try? The first assault had already done its job!

The sports announcers, who provided commentary and play-by-play over the wires, needed an excellent vantage point, hence their glass-fronted booth high in the stands above home plate. The stadium media producer, who controlled the mechanics of both TV and radio coverage, ran everything from an electronics-crammed office buried deep in the lower recesses of the complex. His safety at least was never in doubt.

"One - stay on Bartlet no matter what! Two - wide-angle on the diamond and behind! Three and Four - pan the crowds! All of you, hold your positions if at all possible!"

He adjusted his headset and flipped switches nonstop, eyes flicking constantly over the bank of monitors before him, rotating the different camera views that would appear both on the jumbo screen and on the TV broadcast, striving to include every bit of action and information possible. He embodied the pragmatism of all people involved in public media: no matter who got hurt, he had a job to get the news out.

Two cameras he did not include in this essential loop: the one inside the commentators' booth itself... and the one lying flat on the outfield, aimed at a blank wall.

The abandoned still camera almost certainly contained the last photos of Jed Bartlet's life. The discarded video camera had already transmitted its live feed of the same... could it really be less than two minutes ago? The producer did not pause to roll the playback; things were happening far too quickly out there right now. Later would come time to examine the trajectory information. That - and the emotional impact - would have to wait for the President's inquest.

The TV viewers had an enormous advantage tonight: they could follow the action visually as well. The radio listeners had only sound: just the announcers' voices, plus whatever the stadium's sound system picked up as well. As a rule this was enough - a swift and concise play-by-play, punctuated by umpire calls and overlaid by the cheering crowds, can often be even more exciting when one has to picture the action oneself. But now... with the official commentary sporadic and terse and far less descriptive than normal, interspersed with teeth-grinding silence and echoes of gunfire...

Not too surprisingly, cars and trucks in almost every state of the Union pulled over to the side of the road, no matter where they were. So what if a driver was en route to an appointment or in the midst of a tightly-scheduled transport haul? How could a delay matter when their President lay dying? Besides, human nature being what it is, tragedy can be riveting. This way they could cling to the action and follow the history without risking their own lives - unlike the spectators who had bought tickets to the game.

Right now, the action was still on the field and in play. One player in particular was far from being out.

"Seal the exits!" His partners had probably already begun that step, but Ron took no chances. "Get a police ring around the whole stadium! We need more manpower inside, too!"

"Proceeding," came the prompt, reassuring confirmation.

Sweating, breathing hard and trying not to wince at every pulse of pain, Ron concentrated next on clearing the field of the wounded. He had to coordinate everything else as well, but this task could hardly be delegated; he was closest. He pivoted away from his President, towards his fellow casualties. "Any of you who can move, hitch yourselves back towards the exit. You -" he pointed at the ashen-faced catcher, who clutched the turf in both fists that still shook "- do the same. They have no reason to go after you."

The only ballplayer in the game scuttled backwards faster than a crab, drew no fire, leapt to his feet and sprang for cover. He launched himself head-first into the nearer dugout, careless of his landing, and his huddled teammates made room for him at once.

"Okay, at least the catcher is off the field and safe!" In the broadcast booth, Harry fought to keep his voice level and concise. He couldn't preserve total calm, but he did find some sanctuary in doing his job: reporting the details to the public. "All other players have taken cover as well. Some of the agents who were shot are now crawling towards shelter. They're obviously badly hit, but at least the gunmen in the stands are permitting this retreat. And that way they'll get treatment for their injuries."

"Some aren't retreating." June followed her partner's lead. Both commentators worked in TV and radio media; they knew how to give brief yet descriptive explanations, and the radio listeners out there had no link to events except through this channel. The pair also knew that every word they said was being picked up. "Some aren't moving at all. They have to be dead." Now she wavered. "Just like him..."

One figure was moving, ever so carefully, as he watched his comrades creep off the field of battle. However, Ron didn't observe this orderly if painful withdrawal for long. Nor did he take part in it. He had no intention whatsoever of getting further away from the man he would give his life to defend, and at the moment his proximity was being tolerated. He kept raking the stands with narrowed eyes for the merest clue to where that lethal fire had originated, and issuing orders with impressive focus. It was the only chance they had.

"Two shooters: one sniper, one fully auto. I don't see any muzzle-flashes, but they have to be in the stands. Can't anyone else spot them? A surge in the crowd - anything!"

"Nothing yet," came the transmitted reply.

"Well, hurry up! This guy has already proven that he's good enough to take a head shot on a moving target! Plus, he's got a buddy to back him up!"

The Secret Service was in a horrid predicament: damned if they did try to help the President, and damned if they didn't. He was just too far away and too exposed for them to prevent any of this. Their worst-case scenario had become inescapable reality.

"The vest!" an agent exclaimed over the security frequency, professionalism understandably jarred. The President had strapped tightly-woven layers of bulletproof Kevlar under his sports jacket before leaving the tunnel; they'd never have let him out here otherwise.

"Two words," Ron grated back, as though the two words he was about to utter burned in his gut like acid. "Armor piercing."

The general public knew about such devastating ammunition - commonly referred to as "cop killers." No sniper of any appreciable skill would fail to stock up on it. No "bulletproof" vest could withstand it.

No sniper victim would survive it.

"Signs of life from Eagle?" another voice inquired, with admirable self-control. Even so, the prayer could not be missed: please say yes.

For one long, uncharacteristic pause, Ron couldn't answer.

"No."

It was the hardest word he'd ever had to say.

Leo couldn't hear that single word over a channel to which he did not have access, but the short headshake of the agent who still held his arm said it all. The Chief of Staff swayed on his feet, broadsided by a pain beyond description. All of this was made many times worse by the memory of the heated argument with his best friend mere seconds before that best friend stepped out into the field and the gun sights. He had wasted their very last minutes together with anger. He had openly opposed the leader and the man who always relied so heavily upon him. He had been afraid that if he didn't counsel Bartlet correctly, it would be the end of Bartlet's political life - never dreaming that instead he would behold the end of Bartlet's physical life. His breath released in a spiraling grief, and he reverted to a form of address that no one other than the First Couple had heard him use in over five years before today. A name, transformed into a piteous lament. "Jed..."

Charlie's mocha skin had paled to an alarming gray. Again he charged forward, crazed with the horror, blind to the danger, conscious only of the need of the leader he not only knew personally but idolized. He had often been instructed about not losing his head in a crisis, not for loyalty or anything else, but his dedication remained too strong for training and procedures to mean much at a time like this. He had forced his way through a wall of agents when someone fired upon the White House the previous spring, because he couldn't bear to be other than absolutely positive that his boss was okay. Surely he could do no less now, when he knew damned well that his boss wasn't okay. But tonight they weren't in the already-secured bastion of the West Wing; this time the agents had no intention of letting anyone pass. Not only would the President's personal aide die for certain if he did obey his howling instincts, but the President was already far beyond any aid his body man could provide.

C.J. couldn't stand it any longer; if her heart shriveled one more micron it would cease to function altogether. She had arranged this public event. She had sent her boss, her leader, her friend out there to be slaughtered. Logic had no sway here; she felt almost as responsible for his death as whoever pulled the trigger. She whirled from the heart-rending TV scene and the mind-crushing guilt, tore out of her office and raced for another office two doors down - to the friend whom she knew was the closest, the most solid, the most reliable.

Toby was already on his feet, as though expecting her... or as though on the verge of a similar rush in the opposite direction. All the fury he'd felt for those who would gamble with world instability and foul up an international peace initiative was transferred to the monster who had just shattered his leader's existence. Yet even that bone-deep rage could not overcome the soul-destroying loss, the irreparable damage already done. He said nothing, just met her agonized look with his own, and in that silence shared all the fear, all the pain, all the sorrow.

From Leo McGarry's office, Margaret dashed straight through the empty Oval Office, taking the shortest distance regardless of the sanctity of the route - and pulled up hard in front of Debbie's desk. All she'd had, up until this moment, was her radio, with no visual accompaniment at all. The stomach-twisting scene on Debbie's TV slammed into her brain and jammed her to a halt. The secretary to the President rose at once, came over to the assistant to the Chief of Staff, and put a gentle arm around her shaking shoulders.

No one in the Communications bullpen thought about leaving, or even about moving. It was as if their minds had fused, so that they could share thoughts and strength, for only together could they hope to live through this greatest of calamities. Nothing but the knowledge that all of them were together, that all of them felt exactly the same, kept them from going to pieces on the spot. They would cling to each other, support each other, guide and be guided through the utter destruction of their world.

Across the street and in a separate political world, his attention never leaving the sports coverage that had just become world history, Will absently picked up his phone... and then he put it back down unused. No Secret Service agents had run into his office or his boss's office next door, or anywhere else in the OEOB. The Vice President was out of town. His bodyguards would already know what had happened, and would be taking all the steps needed to protect the heir to the American Presidency. No phone call was necessary. This administration would have a new leader yet again - so soon after the last upheaval, too - and for an even more horrible reason. However much Will regretted that reason, he would shortly be working for the President of the United States once more. But until Russell returned, Will was of no earthly use. He might as well sit still and watch, and suffer through undistracted, along with everyone else he'd come to know and like.

Josh was almost literally drowning in the nightmare unleashed on another continent. No matter how far away, it had reached out and seized him by the throat in an unbreakable grip. He could turn from the TV's display, but not from the terrifying truth. He took two staggering steps towards the exit, his instincts screeching at him to return now. Then he braked, a different set of instincts ordering him to stay. He'd never get to Washington in time to make any conceivable difference... but he could make a big difference to Donna. She was still alive, and in the skilled hands of first-rate surgeons. When she awoke afterwards, she would urgently need a friend: to be there for her, and to break the tragedy to her before she heard it from the removed German staff or the emotionless talking heads. His colleagues needed him, sure - but his assistant would need him even more.

In a crisis, Secret Service agents could not afford to think about modesty or privacy. They blasted into the First Family's private sitting-room, constrained to safeguard the wife of the President. Once they arrived, however, they all stopped short. They could protect her from physical attack, but not from spiritual desolation. Abbey sat motionless, oblivious to everything in the world save the vivid broadcast before her. She didn't blink; she barely breathed. Her face was paper-white and her petite stature seemed genuinely shrunken. If she did somehow endure through the events of tonight, it would be only as a shadow of her former vibrant being - a shadow cruelly separated from the one she loved as part of herself. These past two minutes had leeched away her very life.

On her television - on all televisions - the omnipresent cameras focused on that dead-still figure stretched across the pitcher's mound. Barely a handful of yards to one side, another figure slumped face down, every bit as lifeless.

Just past home plate lay a third body... and this one was not.

"Ron, your status?" asked a voice in his ear.

For the first time, Ron thought to examine his own condition, though it required almost a physical effort to drag his attention from the motionless form less than fifty-five feet away. He probed cautiously, finding one deceptively-small tear in trouser material almost dead-center to the quadriceps muscle, and a large patch of warm dampness spreading slowly out from it. He kept that leg still, to avoid increasing a guaranteed blood loss and compounding a possible fracture, much less aggravating the agony... A moment later he discovered the exit wound, bleeding nicely as well. The bullet had passed clean through, sparing the femur itself.

That meant he could walk on it if he really had to.

"I'm great. Toss me a couple of Band-Aids." His anger, hardly damped by either the natural concern or the relief of this self-diagnosis, returned tenfold. The only thing worse than failure was powerlessness to prevent more failure.

"So get yourself out of there!"

"Forget that." Two words, three syllables, one absolutely inflexible will. "Will you find those killers and take them out!"

"No luck so far. The stands are too dark. Still no muzzle-flashes."

"In a crowd like this a short burst of powder might be hard to spot. If we get them to start firing again, any chance you can home in on the sound?"

None of the listeners commented on the glaring problem behind this proposal. Stimulating fresh gunfire would cost even more lives among their ranks, since it would be their job to leave the shelter of the Grand Entrance... and it wouldn't offer the slightest help to their Chief Executive, whose existence was already a thing of the past.

Even so, they had to do something!

"Not likely," came the blunt reply. "The echoes bounce all over this park. Lousy acoustics. All the yelling doesn't help, either -"

Before that thought could even be completed, there was a new battery of automatic weapons fire. But the agents hadn't stirred it up, intentionally or unintentionally. And this time there was no frightful chewing up of clods of earth across the lawn. Yet where else on earth could the bullets be aimed?

The response from the broadcast booth was instantaneous and heartfelt.

"Holy Toledo!" Harry exclaimed first, his voice climbing.

June's was right behind him. "The gunman is SHOOTING INTO THE CROWD!"

That stark announcement electrified the TV viewers, but mercifully it was not shunted through the stadium's public address system. Otherwise, the panic, already boiling over, would have multiplied exponentially. When a crush of several thousand in close quarters starts to stampede, it can't be stopped, and there is no control and no safety. By definition, a "stampede" is the joint reaction of a large number united into a single entity by a common impulse... for example, to escape the predator. Push that entity past its limits, and the equation becomes far more dire and far more dangerous.

Some spectators had not yet realized the supreme danger created by the stampede itself, and others had managed to keep their heads with the desperate hope that they were not being personally shot at. Then again, most had begun to flee as soon as the first barrage had decimated the Secret Service, and mob mentality is every bit as contagious as panic. Granted, in so massive a crowd no one could really know if there were any casualties or how many; still, each person would assume instinctively that he or she was in danger and react accordingly. Survival on this level belonged to the fittest, and fit meant leaving the slower behind to placate the hunter.

There was enough light in the bleachers to pick one's way to one's seat; presumably that would also be enough to spot a large black rifle in the immediate vicinity.

"FIND them!" Ron shouted into his microphone. He knew he shouldn't do anything to draw attention to himself, or else the gunmen might guess that he was taking an active role in combating this act of war - or, God forbid, actually in charge of the opposition - but his blood was well and truly up now. As awful as assault to his protectee always was, and the deaths of his partners to boot, he raged at the suffering of the innocents just because they happened to be in the way. "Watch for where the people are scattering!"

"They're ALL scattering!" came the harried reply, almost drowned out by another spate of rapid fire overhead.

"They're not stupid," he muttered. "The scatter-gun isn't in the quadrant closest to home plate, since it can shoot straight down the tunnel. But that's where the sniper has to be, because Eagle was facing that way when he was hit!"

That left pretty much the entire ballpark, but Ron had nothing more specific to offer. He also had no other option to pursue at this critical moment. The shooters' lethalness had drastically shifted the Secret Service's avowed priorities: from protection to arrest. It had also guaranteed that anyone who stepped over the tunnel threshold would be dead.

And The Man was dead.

"Get the police to evac the people!" Ron tried hard to look in all directions at once, despite his low profile, despite the flames that gripped his leg with merciless teeth. He didn't bother to comment on the technical challenge of moving almost fifty thousand people in a disorderly rush; his colleagues already knew.

"Ambulances are en route -" one agent reported.

"We can't screen every single person before we let them go," a second pointed out. That'd cause even more of a crush!"

So they had to risk letting the killers escape for the sake of a relatively swift and safe evacuation, or else be thorough and vastly increase the danger to the civilians. One dilemma on top of another.

"Can you tell if he's shooting above the crowd, or into it?" Ron demanded.

"Not one hundred per cent sure..."

If the gunman was that heartless, then the casualty count would be staggering. There was sure to be a legion of injuries regardless, if only the usual contusions inevitable in a panic. If one had to add bullet wounds to the tally...

"No flash anywhere!" said yet another voice. "Could they have flash suppressors?"

"Anything's possible by now; these guys are pros." Ron ground his teeth, further infuriated by his inability to leap up and lead the search himself - or, vastly more important, get the President to safety ten minutes ago!

"Why are they sticking around in the first place? They nailed their mark - they should be running for the hills!"

Ron already had an answer for that: the only one that made any modicum of sense... and the one that scared them all the most. "Fanatics. Would-be martyrs. Madmen."

The assassins hadn't finished their bloody mission just yet. They must've known that their chances of escape were already non-existent. They wanted to make a public scene and a public statement, and they were willing to kill indiscriminately to do both - as if striking down the President wasn't enough to guarantee the undivided attention of the whole world.

They wanted him dead and on display. And they wanted the credit.

"Wait - I think I see a crowd surge! Section H-23!"

"You'll be fighting the surge yourselves," Ron reminded his partners. "But then, so will the gunman!"

"Right on both counts; this is panic city!"

Glancing about, Ron saw a mass movement of similar proportion in several other sections as well. Those echoing thunderclaps of gunfire not only played havoc with the Service's homing efforts, but they also made it a whole lot easier for every spectator to believe that the weapon was very close to his or her location. More and more people were trying to run, and would be trampling each other in the process.

The one good piece of news for Jed Bartlet himself was that, in terms of the panic only, he happened to be in the safest spot around. Lying lifelessly in the center of the almost-deserted diamond, he ran little risk of being crushed.

Ron strained to spot his own operatives among the dimly-lit masses, no matter how useless the exercise. They were up there somewhere, over thirty in number, well-armed and thoroughly motivated. "Concentrate on the upper decks," he advised. "They offer the best line of fire!"

More gunfire - this time accompanied by the eerie whine of lead ricocheting off stone. Ron jerked about, just in time to see dark shapes in the mouth of the Grand Entrance drop flat and chips of concrete fly heavenward. Some of his colleagues must have decided on a rush in the hope that the killer with the assault weapon was too busy shooting elsewhere to notice. They were right in that the retaliation hadn't been machine-gun fire, but wrong in that they might have gone unnoticed: this single shot had come from the sniper instead. Both killers were on the job full-time, sharing the targets, and experts at their trade. And they were moving, slipping through the stands and the crowds to adjust their lines of fire and dodge their pursuers.

One saving grace was that sniper fire, for all its pinpoint precision, still meant fewer bullets per second. Also, whichever shots hit a cement wall missed a human target. That provided rather cold comfort, though. The only direction from which direct assistance could come was the tunnel, and everyone there remained pinned down.

Ron did catch another mote of good news: the three agents who had followed him into this No-Man's Land, and who had so far survived, and who had undertaken to creep away and get their wounds attended to, were no longer in sight. They, at least, had made it to safety.

Safety being relative, even the reporters cowering behind their window far above the battlefield couldn't help but be caught up in the growing mindset of the group animal they observed below. Panic is contagious, and the herding instinct of fellow creatures striving to survive will overrun any and all pretense towards sentience.

"Bullets are still flying all over the place. Why doesn't the Secret Service do something?" Harry complained, oblivious to the fact that his mike was still hot and transmitting.

"You said it - bullets are flying. I doubt they can see much; we sure can't! The people are stampeding! Some of them will be trampled for sure!" More aware than her colleague that they were still on the air, June attempted to maintain some professional decorum.

"Good Lord - there are women and children in that chaos!"

June pressed her face against the glass to get a better field of view. "And walkers! And wheelchairs! This is insanity!"

Harry spun on her sharply. "Hey, keep down!"

"What? We owe it to the public to report what's going on! You don't think we're at least a bit protected up here?"

"You bet your life?"

"Okay, fair point! But still, why would they want to shoot at us or anyone else now?" Horror choked her up anew. "They've accomplished their goal!"

A pair of riflemen appeared briefly on the roof of the commentators' booth, silhouetted against the silver moon, helmeted and goggled, scanning the bleachers below. The Service always had its own sharpshooters on duty whenever the President so much as stepped outside. However, even their super-sophisticated scopes would have a hell of a time finding two small targets in a panic-stricken sea of humanity at night, and they would naturally hesitate to shoot too fast with such a huge risk of hitting a bystander.

Surely there could not be a worse combination of factors: a security breach, an assassination attempt, crowd control in a place with few exits, the shooters still at large... and they couldn't even get to their leader to protect him!

In fact, they had already failed him. Spectacularly.

~ CHAPTER 3 ~

In an absurd and horrific fashion, the entire baseball field resembled a tableau in a theater. The man globally acknowledged to be the most powerful individual on earth was the centerpiece, like always - but never before in this manner: utterly powerless, flat on his spine, unmoving, in a huge open area, alone and completely unprotected.

It was a shocking sight: the murdered President laid out as though on his bier before national television and the entire globe. The cameras, still running, still transmitting, were merciless. It was the most public assassination in U.S. history, if not world history, every second of it captured in perfect detail and exquisite agony. It was a monstrous blow to a nation's identity, and to the human hope for a peaceful existence anywhere. And what made it all the more awful? No one could even recover the body, and no one could bring down the assassins who were still present, still shooting.

The only other individuals in the same open field were five black-suited bodyguards, strewn over forty yards like discarded toys, from just past the team dugouts to just short of the mound, prostrate and making no effort to crawl away. Of those five, one had no intention of leaving, one had no strength to try... and three were beyond the attempt.

Movement could be seen in the mouth of the Grand Entrance, but no one emerged to try his luck as a target in the shooting gallery. Those individuals now included several ambulance attendants, who had responded to the emergency from outside. Already they had provided initial treatment and removal of the wounded agents who made it to cover, but they must have been deeply dismayed to learn that they couldn't go to the aid of the other casualties out there - although they certainly understood why. The sound of sporadic gunfire overhead and the corpses on the grass made clear what would happen if anyone tried.

Movement could be seen everywhere in the stands, as people tried to run for cover, blindly seeking safety in any form at all. They surged to and fro like a tide, each gunshot sending them careening in another direction. Birds, bait fish and even some of the larger mammals react in an identical manner: the individual subsumed into the group.

Scurrying among them was a small army of the finest security operatives in the world, and another battalion of local police, all engaged in the most desperate of search missions. Somewhere else among them were two hidden killers, periodically blasting their firearms at the sky and who knew what else or who else. The fixed seats offered both questionable shelter from seeking bullets and formidable barriers preventing a straight run to the exits - or to the enemies' suspected locations.

The crowds screamed in confusion, fear and pain; the radios blared with instructions and responses and calls for assistance; the sportscasters babbled with ever-increasing anxiety; the airwaves sizzled with repeated updates to this unbelievable night. And yet, for a certain few individuals - some present, some not - a peculiar pause took hold, settling over their minds like the slow fall of dust when a bloody battle was over... and lost.

These people handled this most unusual interlude to this most appalling evening with one thing in common: silence. The man physically nearest to their Commander-in-Chief rested his forehead on his right forearm, a vivid expression of his all-encompassing failure. This was far worse than the Newseum; this time he could do nothing except lie here and let his protectee die, after leading his colleagues forth to die as well. And he'd allowed his protectee to step out here in the first place.

A gray, middle-aged man stood in a dark concrete tunnel, trembling from barely-suppressed sobs, no longer resisting the bodyguard who had held him back. In fact he relied upon that grasp just to stay upright. All of the strength that he had selflessly devoted to another - a friend, a commander, an inspiration - had died out there on that killing field. Nothing in his world could really matter ever again.

A much younger man, not long out of his teens, stood nearby in that same tunnel, and in a similar mental state. He had been released from a second bodyguard's restrictive hold, but made no move to take advantage of it. He had lost more than an employer and more than a leader; he had lost a mentor and a substitute father. He just bowed his head and closed his eyes. There was nothing else to be done.

A man and a woman stood together in a small though influential office, staring at the TV yet hardly seeing it anymore. He loomed slightly behind her, his left hand gripping her left upper arm; she leaned into him, her right hand resting on top of his left hand in turn. There was little comfort possible at such a terrible time, but they seized that tiny bit with all they had, for without it they would lose their sanity. Her eyes were wet; his were blinking.

Two women stood in a simple-looking reception area, side by side, a brunette and a redhead, likewise watching the news with more dullness than interest. Later, they knew, would recommence the slow grind of national business that not even disaster could derail. It had to be done, because not doing it would be even worse than the disaster itself. The work would feel useless, and pointless, yet - in a masochistic sense - almost welcome. Anything to occupy their minds and draw their memories away from what they were witnessing now.

A thick crowd stood in an open space before a solid wall of TV sets, as motionless as so many statues. Perhaps they found some meager consolation in the presence of similar bereaved individuals; no one tried to break the spell. Breaking it meant that they would have to live it, and the thought of such intense pain was simply unendurable. Most were still too aghast to shed any tears. That would come soon enough.

A young man in his late thirties stood alone in a roomy, well-appointed office, also watching the broadcast. He was hardly less engulfed by this blackness of the soul than all the others, though he had no one with whom to share it. Like them, he was stunned to silence and frozen to attention. One should not sit in the presence of death - and certainly not the death of a dedicated, caring, courageous leader... and of a last hope for peace in the most volatile cauldron that the human race had ever produced.

Another man of similar age stood in a hospital waiting room. Despite the organized urgency on the other side of the door behind him, and many other people elsewhere in this very large, very busy building, this small space granted solitude. Only his uneven respiration intruded upon the quivering silence. He knew firsthand the greatness, the kindness, the brilliance that had just been cruelly snuffed out like a precious candle... and he knew firsthand the torture of a tiny leaden missile to the chest. He might almost have given thanks for such a clean death this time - if not for the devastation that would surely follow.

A middle-aged woman sat rigid on a couch, not moving a hair, no longer even looking at the TV screen, dark eyes frighteningly empty. Two men and two women stood behind her in this luxurious private chamber, and more armed guards were stationed right outside - but, regardless of their presence, she was alone. Alone in a way that no one else could truly comprehend... unless one had witnessed the murder of a spouse that completed one's heart.

And through it all, the televisions and the radios continued to broadcast relentlessly, offering no solace at all to a global village that had been wounded dreadfully - perhaps fatally - and that could do nothing whatsoever about it.

Not everyone in the country, or even everyone in this stadium, considered themselves a personal Bartlet supporter... but that didn't change the fact that he had been duly elected to lead them. His office represented national unity and international respect. He was an integral part of the American psyche, and he was gone.

What eulogy could conceivably suffice for such a man, such a husband, such a friend, such a President?

"What the -" Only at the last second did Harry think to consider what the FCC might say about his choice of language on the air.

June's volume remained low. Loudness wasn't needed anyway; her words carried over the station channel just as clearly.

"Look at him."

Still prone on the turf, Ron noticed the very same thing at the very same time. He probably didn't plan to transmit his own reaction, even though his comrades needed to know. Fortunately, the sensitive mike picked it up anyway.

"Sir?"

Of all the staff and players in the ballpark, only the umpires were regularly wired into the stadium's sound system. One of them had dug into the Yankees' dugout, but not so deep that he couldn't sneak a peek now and then, and he happened to behold the exact same sight. He'd shown considerable restraint of voice thus far, regardless of the gunfire and the death and the panic, but he cut loose now with a yell that reverberated over all of Camden Yards.

"He's MOVING!"

"He" could not apply to anyone else. All eyes in the tunnel, and not a few in the stands, leaped instantly to the big screen. TV viewers had a head start.

The camera trained on the pitcher's mound all along had naturally garnered the most time on that huge display due to the colossal impact of its executive close-up - before, and after. Now, thanks to the commentators' discovery and the producer's coordination, it immortalized the view of Jed Bartlet's left arm slowly rising, in a gentle arc, hand open, as though to block the bright, hot lights from his face.

Not only was it improbable for a corpse to make such a move, and unlikely for a corpse to care, but the motion was so easy, so normal, that one just could not believe it to be the final convulsive muscle twitch before a body died completely.

Leo's jaw dropped and he stumbled forward, his wiry frame hauled along behind his spinning mind. The bodyguard nearest to him was for once even more off-balance; Leo might actually have made it out onto the field unopposed this time if his tottering legs could've borne him that far. They couldn't; he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, still gaping.

Charlie staggered sideways, banging into the stone wall and almost sliding right down to the ground. His eyes looked ready to fall out of his head; his hands shook like those of a man four times his age. He too might have managed to escape his guardian agent at last, but neither energy nor conscious thought were to be had.

C.J. and Toby both jumped so sharply that they broke apart, stopping when almost a foot separated them, swaying like twin trees in the same high wind. Neither noticed the other; both had eyes only for the broadcast.

Debbie and Margaret clutched at each other's arms, as though convinced that they would fall over without this mutual shoring-up - or that this new information simply could not be true without the tangible presence of a fellow witness.

Exclamations of pure disbelief broke out all over Communications. Some, like Carol, extended open palms as if to beg for an instant explanation to the miraculous. Others couldn't even process what they saw; either they didn't move at all, or else they folded at the knees in an abrupt loss of strength.

Will leaned forward until both hands obtained a firm foundation on the surface of his desk; otherwise he might well have landed on all fours on his own carpet. Lamplight glinted off his eyeglasses like silver question marks.

Josh's head tilted sideways, and his limbs twitched spasmodically, for all the world like a mannequin with an incompetent puppeteer on the strings. That might not be an unsuitable comparison, either: he had no more control over his movements or his thoughts right now than he had over the events unrolling across the Atlantic.

Abbey's virtual paralysis shattered with a violent start and a harsh gasp. It looked scarily like the sudden convulsion when a patient in cardiac arrest is jolted by a defibulator's electric charge, something she herself had done many times in her medical career. It served the exact same purpose, too: to shock priceless life back into a dying shell.

All around the world, viewers who had started to mourn sprang forward with expressions of amazement and joy; viewers who had started to celebrate gave vent to amazement and disappointment; and viewers who were decidedly indifferent felt no more than amazed. That at least was one emotion shared by all in this hour.

Throughout Oriole Park, many people could not be distracted from fleeing for their lives by anything, but some did screech to a halt. Even bullets overhead had a hard time overcoming the magnetism of a return from the dead - and by their national leader, no less. They simply had to stop and see for themselves. Some sentience returned; some individual reality reawakened. For a moment even the safety that might be found in flight was forgotten.

Scattered among these crowds, the Secret Service operatives had been well trained to deal with the best and the worst, yet they could not completely sterilize their hearts. They, too, simply had to pause and confirm with their own eyes the news that transcended all hope. Plus, their lives were dedicated to his life. If he still lived against all calculable odds, then they hadn't failed him. Yet.

Somewhere else in this stadium, two wielders of lethal weapons and even more lethal intent received glaring evidence that their painstaking Grand Plan - whatever it might be - hadn't been completed just yet. The man they had shot with such precision and such public impact was refusing to die.

Stretched out on the Maryland Bluegrass, closer than anyone else to this astonishing revelation, Ron could scarcely make his brain comprehend what his eyes insisted was true. The President of the United States was alive, and turning his way.

God... what happened...

An inch at a time, Bartlet rolled over onto his right side, emitting a groan which, due to a perceptive drop in the pervading roar of primal terror, could be heard twenty yards away. Was it pure chance that he happened to roll down the mound's slight elevation rather than up it, or was his brain already back in command, figuring out the path of least resistance? Either way, he ended up facing his chief bodyguard and the Grand Entrance almost directly - meaning that they could see him, and he could see them.

Ron spotted one special detail immediately: the badge of the Presidential Seal, colorfully embroidered on the sports jacket's left breast, showed a neat black hole just off-center. The sniper had aimed for a perfect kill, and nailed it dead-on.

Except that... somehow he hadn't.

The only possible explanation was that the round had been a regular full metal jacket, the kind the vest could stop - not the tissue-shredding, armor-penetrating caliber that the Service had naturally assumed. With ammo that lethal, vest or no vest, Jed Bartlet would never move again. Instead, he was bruised and groggy and bleary-eyed and very much alive.

Who could blame anyone for jumping to such an obvious conclusion - even the finest bodyguards in the world? A direct hit from a high-powered rifle bullet to packed Kevlar right over the rib cage was certainly capable of knocking a man down and knocking him out. The victim's total immobility for several minutes gave no one any reason to believe that he was unconscious rather than dead. Besides, none of his defenders had been allowed close enough to judge his vitality for themselves.

Most snipers shooting over any appreciable distance would not attempt a head shot. The human cranium is astonishingly resilient, and people have survived glancing blows even from close range. Almost always, a head shot that doesn't kill on the spot permits a total or near-total recovery, with scarcely an inch of difference between those two options. The sure method is to go for center mass: the trunk. It's a larger target and a much softer one, and if the bullet doesn't kill the trauma often does. That was the only reason Ron had not insisted upon a helmet for the President as well.

The vest was a perfectly logical precaution for the most influential and the most at-risk person in the world. Most professional assassins would figure that out, and take appropriate steps to make sure of the kill. Armor-piercing bullets were regrettably simple to obtain on the open market. Why hadn't the sniper used one after all?

Either because he wasn't a professional - which was unbelievable given his demonstrated skill - or because he didn't want to kill the President.

Why in God's name not? What other purpose could lie behind such an attack?

Conclusion: the President was more valuable alive. And trapped.

Now that everyone knew Bartlet was alive, rather than assuming he wasn't, two opposite reactions were guaranteed and immediate. Agents boiled out of the Grand Entrance, more desperate than ever to protect him since he wasn't beyond needing that protection after all. Just maybe one of them could cross those forty yards before the killers recovered. All they required was one man draping his own body over their leader, and they could ensure his ongoing safety while they hunted the enemy down.

Answering gunfire exploded at almost the same instant. Having apparently counted on their target's remarkable imperviousness to bullets from the start, the shooters had accomplished the near-impossible and isolated him from all aid. There would be no point in allowing his rescue now.

The result of both reactions was just as certain and just as swift. Bullets ripped into earth and smashed into stone. Men braked short, tumbled to the ground or ducked back under cover. It was a horribly one-sided contest: blood versus bullets. Ron watched more of his comrades fall, and raged that they still couldn't secure their protectee - just as their protectee had proven to all of them that he wasn't dead yet.

The thunder of war resumed had its predictable effect on the crowds as well: with fresh shrieks and renewed flight. Barely suppressed, the newly born animal surged once again to the fore and took control. Sentience, so vaunted and arrogantly treasured, became so much chaff before the winds of panic.

It also gained another witness: the one person who had been oblivious to all of this from the start... until now. No one who had ever heard gunfire firsthand, much less been hit by it himself, could fail to recognize that heart-stopping sound. It wiped away all confusion, answered all questions, crystallized all thought.

Electrified by the roiling tension in the air, the din and fury of the crowd, and by memories of another May night three years ago, Bartlet lurched to his knees. His right arm took root in the dirt to brace his weight; his left arm pressed against his chest as though to guard damaged ribs - which was probably the case. He breathed hard, his features were strained, and his eyes squinted against both the bright lights he couldn't help but see and the speeding missiles he knew he wouldn't see. It was a most natural response - not by a strategist, but by a previous victim of ballistic violence.

Six feet away lay one of the bodyguards he knew personally - obviously past all help. Beyond that lay his chief bodyguard, bleeding visibly into the green lawn. Beyond that lay one more groaning protector and two more motionless ones.

Up until this moment, all the President had known for sure was that he'd been hit by something, hard. Waking up in the midst of such chaos was disorienting, to say the least. Now, understanding dawned - as much as there could be, considering what he'd missed thus far. The camera caught the vivid change to his expression: from confusion, fear and physical anguish to comprehension, anger and emotional anguish.

He was alive - and he was exposed to the greatest danger, with no protection at all. Surrounded by dreadful evidence of what happened to those who tried to run.

Everywhere in the White House complex - from Toby's office to the Oval Office reception area to the Communications bullpen to the Residence - and in a chamber in the OEOB, and in a certain German hospital, people started to live again themselves. They lived for sheer relief and supreme joy, because their leader lived after they were all so sure he didn't... and they lived for agonizing suspense and clutching terror, because their leader's renewed existence still hung in a very tenuous balance.

For the observers in the stadium's Grand Entrance, those same reasons to live were felt even more acutely, because here they were close enough to actually help him - if only they could.

Leo tried. Agents and gunshots be damned; he cared only to stand by his oldest and dearest friend. This time he fought his way up the half-dozen steps and right to the corridor mouth -

"NO!"

That shout, faint yet clear, did not come from behind him, but from in front. It came from the pitcher's mound. It was enough to startle Leo to a halt.

Still braced like a tripod, Bartlet raised his left hand like a traffic cop, palm out. "Don't come out here, any of you!"

Everyone in the tunnel entrance heard his voice, even over the clamor of the stands. They also heard him grunt from the effort to bellow around what had to be more than one badly injured rib at the least. But he refused to let that prevent him from preventing others from dying here tonight. He did not want anyone else to be hit in a well-established futile attempt to reach him.

Leo looked like he was prepared to brave the guns, the bullets, and the wrath of his President altogether, but by then the remaining agents reached him and hauled him back. No sooner had they dissolved into the protective shadows of the tunnel than a new shape emerged: younger, darker and no less dedicated.

Fortunately Bartlet saw him in time as well. He glared at his body man with all of his strength, and shook his head in the clearest possible meaning.

Charlie hesitated, just as torn between obedience and loyalty. Then, slowly, he nodded in solemn assent. He did not retreat all the way down the stairs - and unlike the Chief of Staff, no one felt the need to get a personal aide out of sight. He stayed right there, as close as was permitted, ready to do whatever he could the instant he could.

This time, when Bartlet again shook his head, the gesture contained a large dose of ruefulness. He well knew the high quality of his people, had seen them channel it many times.

Never expected to have to tell them NOT to use it...

When one thinks about it, a President's job in its purest essence is to serve the people of his country. Never mind the possible cost to himself, in political enemies or in physical enemies. He has to protect them - from anything he can, any way he can.

Surely no one had ever seen such a poignant example of service as this... nor at such a personal risk.

The only living person even more proximate to the President and also in a condition to think clearly, Ron witnessed all of this with no small wonder. Said wonder spiked dramatically as the President proceeded to stand.

"STAY DOWN!" Even though it was almost subsumed by the sound of a new fusillade of shots erupting across the stands, and the inevitable accompanying screams, no one could mistake the explosive urgency of Ron's tone. The Special Agent in Charge of White House Security - which meant executive security as well - was one of very few people authorized to issue a direct order to his own supreme commander, and he didn't hesitate to do so when the need arose. Nor did he hesitate to discard formality and deference in a life-threatening situation.

In defiance of all regulations and common sense, Bartlet paid his most experienced bodyguard no attention at all. He ignored the shouted pleas from several directions for him not to run such a ludicrous risk, he ignored the pain that squeezed his chest like an iron fist, he ignored the lethal danger hovering on all sides and breathing right down his neck. No one, not bloodthirsty assassins nor concerned friends nor even Ron Butterfield, could deter him when his mind was set.

Ron struggled to rise himself, struggled to ignore the devouring pain in his leg. If he could just cross those twenty yards and tackle The Man before -

In lightning succession, three CRACKS and three WHIPS rang out, tallying perfectly with three clumps of sod ripped apart about halfway up the pitch. Ron subsided before that sniper fire edged any closer to the mound, and the man crouched on it.

Bartlet froze in place, naturally enough. For one second.

"Hold STILL!" Ron yelled at him. "Or else one of those near-misses WON'T!"

Few others could hear him, but everyone got the idea just fine. Many in the crowd let out a collective moan of fear that they were about to see their President die all over again.

I never did like being ordered around. Or threatened, for that matter.

Many times past their President had followed his heart and done the exact opposite of what was expected of him, or what was prudent. Why should this be any different? Slowly, he pushed up from the bullet-torn grass with one hand. Weakly, he swayed, and then achieved some balance. Resolutely, he drew himself upright.

"He's really alive!" In the commentators' booth, June beamed at Harry, who beamed back in equal gigantic delight.

Leo leaned forward as far as the restraining arms would allow.

Charlie gripped the edge of the tunnel's doorless jamb.

Toby exhaled explosively, releasing both air and pain. C.J. nodded her voiceless, wholehearted agreement.

"He's alive?" Debbie couldn't yet overcome her pervading bemusement. Margaret felt the very same way.

Carol led the cheer in Communications: "He's alive!"

Will could only whisper one word: "Unbelievable."

Josh couldn't even make that much sound.

Abbey could, and did. It came out like a prayer. "Alive..."

He was alone, and he was brilliantly lit - the perfect target. His chest heaved from the effort to straighten, from the effort just to stand, and from the impact of a high-velocity bullet to a fibrous vest only a few centimeters thick, and from bruising to tissue and breakage to bones, and from the sudden tumble to the unyielding ground. His back was powdered by the dust of the pitcher's mound. His hair was somewhat tousled, a digression from his usual public image. His face was flushed and beaded with perspiration, due to exertion and suffering and the humid night under these huge, hot floodlights. His mouth was open, struggling for air after having it driven so savagely from his lungs, as though he actually needed to remember how to breathe all over again.

In ridiculous contrast, the open collar of his blue shirt was unmarred, his trousers retained their sharp crease, and his shoes hadn't lost their shine. His arms remained at his sides, rather than curling protectively around the thoracic pain he had to be feeling.

His expression was furious.

Time seemed to solidify and wait, for an hour or a millennium, allowing him to stand there undisturbed, unchallenged. On the contrary, he did the challenging. Only his head turned, just a few degrees - not the complete, easy rotation as when he had first gained this mound, a lifetime ago, but the similarity was unavoidable. He swept the stadium's closest bleachers once again: this time not with a smile and a wave, but with fists clenched and eyes blazing. In that snapshot of time, he dared the gunmen or anyone else to come at him face to face, if they had the guts to take him on when he knew they were there.

For viewers who were observant enough, the camera picked up that small hole in the stitched Seal, so close to his heart. The vest stopped the slug, but not the actual impact of sheer velocity. He almost certainly had a broken rib, maybe two. Still, far better such bruises or even breaks to the alternative...

There is no dignity in being slammed onto one's back in full public view. Just standing there, not making a move towards safety, defying injury and danger both, Jed Bartlet recovered every bit of that poise inherent to his nature and his status, and wrapped it around himself as though it were a mantle of his office... or a cloak of invulnerability.

Between the loss of consciousness and the lack of electronic communications, video or audio, he was more isolated than anyone else - before you even factored in the empty space separating him from safety.

High time I found out exactly what's going on.

Less than a ball's throw away, Ron stared up at this pillar of strength and anger and determination. Always before he'd had the height advantage. Now, for the first time, the presence of his protectee towered over him literally as well.

"ATTENTION, AMERICA!"

The voice trumpeted throughout Camden Yards like a clap of thunder. It seemed to come from all directions at once. The high walls of the bleaches caught the crashing echoes and threw them back into the interior. Every soul that could move jerked around, seeking the source of this totally unexpected broadcast.

It also echoed over the networks, sharp and tinny and totally unlike the sportscasters' style. Every soul tuning in felt no lesser surprise.

June made the connection first. "The PA system! But how -"

Several enormous speakers crowned the uppermost level of the stands, spread out and aimed into the field, designed to carry umpire rulings to the fans and the airwaves.

Harry leaped to the only workable explanation. "They've got one of our headsets!"

Who "they" were could not have been more obvious. The gunmen had acquired a forty-eight-thousand-strong captive audience, to say nothing of all those millions tuning in long-distance. Now, they had a statement to make... and they had planned from square one the best way to make it: using their hosts' own electronic setup to broadcast to the world.

"BE QUIET, AND LISTEN."

Even many of the frenzied spectators obeyed, their overall hubbub momentarily subsiding to a dull murmur. Nine-tenths of them at least were still stuck between rows of seats; this ballpark couldn't disgorge a capacity crowd in a hurry, much less in a panic. And now they were about to hear why this nightmare had happened... and what horror would happen next. It was enough to make anyone stop and pay attention.

Ron wasn't the only agent suddenly growling into his sleeve mike.

"NOBODY LEAVES HERE. ANYONE WHO TRIES, DIES."

Of course the gunmen didn't want the fans evacuated; they wanted the thickest crowd possible in which to hide. At least that meant they'd been shooting over the crowd all along, rather than into it, since dead bodies or even crippled casualties would reduce the size of their living shield and also serve as landmarks to their position. Therefore, there shouldn't be any bullet injuries in the stands.

Not yet - but a truly terrified person might easily obey the irresistible instinct to run, too scared to think that doing so vastly increased his or her danger.

"WE'VE GOT YOUR PRESIDENT..."

Bartlet's head lifted higher and his brows descended further, a clear declaration of what he thought about that fact. He didn't revolve, didn't search futilely for the speaker that he knew he couldn't see. He remained near the mound, center stage, pinned by spotlights and gun sights, the only person standing on the entire field, waiting in teeth-gritted silence and enraged helplessness to learn his fate.

Everyone else - from his best friend and his body man in the tunnel, to his staff members in the West Wing, to his political affiliate in the OEOB, to his staff member in a German hospital, to his wife in their private chambers, to his fellow citizens across the country, to his fellow human beings around the world - waited just as helplessly with him.

"WE CHOSE NOT TO KILL HIM BEFORE. BUT WE CAN KILL HIM AT ANY MOMENT."

This, then, was what they had wanted all along: a live hostage instead of a dead one. A hostage they could threaten with impunity, a hostage without even the warm bodies of his own guards to shield him. So long as they kept the President on the field and the Secret Service off the field, they remained in control of the situation.

Not for one instant did anyone still believe that the vest would save its wearer from a real attempt. No armor-penetrating ammo was needed. Shots to the lower abdomen or the arteries in arms and legs would kill just as surely in the end, and a lot more slowly - serving their purpose even better.

Or... the sniper just might go for a straight-up head shot after all. He'd already pulled it off once.

"ONE WRONG MOVE, AND HE DIES NEXT."

"They're going to blackmail the United States," June whispered, her low tone a stark counterpoint to the reverberating volume right outside. She found the presence of mind from somewhere to put a hand over her mike first. Her wire channel didn't include the speakers over the stands, but she was reluctant to give the killers even this small addition to their worldwide broadcast.

Harry felt the same bleak conviction... and he, too, kept this part of their coverage to themselves. "And they're going to get clean away with -"

The camera in the commentators' booth was still turned off, but the TV and radio stations all heard the door bang open and a new presence burst inside.

"Turn off the public address," a masculine voice ordered with deceptive quietness.

The announcers froze for two hammering heartbeats at this apparition in black, sporting a gigantic assault rifle and a cold stare.

"Now!"

The truth snapped into focus: he couldn't be one of the blackmailers if he was trying to stifle the blackmail demand. Therefore, he was one of the good guys.

Besides, who argues with armament like that?

Harry reached for the console first. "Greg - kill the PA!"

The producer, in his den far below, needed no explanation.

"HERE'S THE DEAL. WE -"

Silence - as sudden and shocking as the first shrill announcement had been.

Many witnesses imagined the astonishment, and then the snarl of fury, as two men realized that they had been deprived of their freedom of speech.

Many witnesses also exhaled in relief. If the killers couldn't make their demands known, they had far less power over the lives around them.

But not no power...

"Secure the entire sound system!" Ron ordered into his transmitter. "The perps might try to take over the controls directly - or they might have some other idea for tapping into it!"

His fellow agents scrambled faster than ever. It meant spreading their numbers even thinner to include the commentators' booth and the basement control room, but there was no telling what their maddened foes would do in retaliation.

The crowd of fans hesitated, caught squarely between the compulsion to flee and the need to see what consequences would arise next.

"So that's your game, is it?"

Whatever anyone might have guessed, it could not have equaled this. The President of the United States was dealing himself into the hand.

Only the very closest individuals could actually hear him: the fallen agents who still lived, the people crammed into the mouth of the Grand Entrance and the players huddled in the dugouts. But even without the giant billboard display everyone could see him, head up and posture stiff - shouting right back at the men who were so heartless as to kill him and anyone around him.

"You think you can get your way just like this?"

"Hey - the President's saying something!" Harry exclaimed. Disregarding his own advice to his colleague earlier, he pressed his face against the booth glass.

June did a double-take. "Who's he talking to? The shooters? He can't seriously think they'll hear him!"

"By now he's probably too mad to care."

Bartlet looked exactly that mad: his brows had lowered into one ominous line and his eyes were steel-hard.

"Don't antagonize them!" Ron commanded. Almost certainly the assassins couldn't hear this executive speech, but they'd guess that this speech was aimed at them and in no way complimentary.

The Man didn't even glance his way. Only his head moved, rotating slowly to face the third of the stands arrayed before him. "You think we'd just roll over and give up?"

Leo ground his jaws. "Shut up, shut up..."

Charlie said nothing, as an aide should, but his whole attitude endorsed the opinion.

C.J. waved both arms. "What's he saying? It's so unnatural not to hear him!"

Toby rolled his eyes. "And of course he can't sit back and be quiet."

Debbie shook her head worriedly. "He's going to get himself killed in one more minute."

Margaret had no possible rejoinder to that.

Carol whipped around to face the bullpen at large. "Anybody here read lips?"

Will knew about speeches, and when not to make them. "Not now, sir, not now!"

Josh just stared at the extraordinary sight of his ultra-eloquent leader deprived of volume.

Abbey closed her eyes in a brief yet familiar exasperation; this was just so like him. But there remained a minor issue of the current crisis to consider... "Jed, please -"

"If only we knew what he was saying!" June lamented.

Her wish seemed to trigger something; Harry positively jumped. "Wait a sec - the directional microphones!"

June's face lit up at this inspiration. "Right on!" She pounced on the media console. "Greg! Get every directional in the park aimed at the President! But keep the headsets offline!"

The producer leaped to comply. None of them asked whether this was an idea that the Secret Service would likely permit. For once they weren't driven by the insatiable demand for news coverage of every angle - but by sheer human interest. Their Commander-in-Chief was out there alone, waging the battle of his life for his life. Of course they wanted to follow along.

Their Commander-in-Chief was just getting warmed up. "You think we'd negotiate with the likes of you?"

This time he did get a reaction. A grassy tuft suddenly kicked itself into the air right in front of him, as though some giant lying under the sod had spit a chunk of dirt out from between its teeth. The instantaneous explosion of gunpowder erased all doubt as to the actual cause.

He flinched sharply. So would anyone else. In fact, so did a lot of people nowhere near him - in pure empathy to the close shave and the murderous warning. The crowd gasped...

... and then they subsided. Waiting to see what he would do in return

Straightening, Bartlet cast a grim eye over his more immediate surroundings. Ron glared back - fiercely trying to dissuade him from whatever move he was planning to make. The only other living agent around was too badly hit to pay attention to anything else.

The President couldn't see the face of the bodyguard lying six short feet away, but he could see the sickening crimson stain on the beautiful green lawn, right under the head, silently screaming its proof of extraordinary expertise.

He was easy prey. If his enemies did decide to kill him, he could do absolutely nothing to prevent it.

If they thought that threat would make him yield, they didn't know him at all.

"FINE!"

To the amazement of just about everyone, this time his voice boomed from the jumbo speakers and rang out over the entire stadium. And the media stations.

"Yeah!" said Harry.

"We did it!" said June.

"What in the world -" said more than one agent, and more than one spectator in the stands, and more than one broadcast subscriber.

Jed Bartlet also noticed the unheralded, thousand-times amplification of his own words. Before, he'd been blowing off steam, knowing his assailants couldn't hear him, wishing that they could. Now he hesitated for just an instant, reassessing what he really wanted to say. This time he would be heard. Now he could make his point in spades.

"You want our answer to your demands, whatever they are? HERE IT IS."

Everyone fastened on him, more completely even than normal for just being who he was. What did he intend to do?

He turned from the stands to the field. To the bodies on the grass, to the small white spot of home plate, and to the dark maw of the Grand Entrance beyond.

Firmed his features. Drew a slow, deep breath.

And made his choice.

"I - don't - believe - this." To the acute aggravation of all the radio listeners, Harry's incredulity would not let him be more articulate. Fortunately, June managed to find more descriptive words.

"He's walking!"

He was indeed: one deliberate stride at a time. Leaving the mound and the center-point of this vicious drama, if not the spotlight. Moving closer to the protection of Secret Service guns and solid stone walls. Stepping out across this bullet-pocked, blood-soaked lawn... fully aware that his own blood could all too easily water it as well in one more second.

Thanks to battered and perhaps broken ribs, he probably couldn't run if he tried. He certainly couldn't run faster than his enemies could shoot. On the other hand, if he didn't get under cover soon, he'd be dead anyway; denied their demands, the gunmen had every reason to vent their frustration on him. This slow, measured march declared his complete understanding of the danger, and his refusal to submit to it. They could still kill him - or maim him - but they could not cow him. He'd rather be shot down for rejecting their ultimatum than be used as barter to achieve their ruthless goals.

I'll live AND die MY way. I won't let them take everything from me.

His stride was hardly relaxed and carefree; every muscle must have been either bruised or tensed. Any instant now he'd learn just what these unidentified guerillas thought about his bold rejection of everything they stood for. And they were guaranteed to express themselves with violence.

He accepted that. If the price for neutralizing their threat to his country was his life... then so be it.

I... WE will not kneel.

His best friend, his body man, his senior staffers, his support staffers, his former staffer, his absent staffer, his wife... every last one of them was struck dumb by pure astonishment. He'd made many independent moves before in his political career, not a few of them qualifying as rash, but this had to take the cake.

Some of the spectators in the stands actually cheered their President on, yelling at him to run, to get to safety - balanced between terror that he could still die right in front of them and pride at his determination to defy all the odds stacked against him. The viewers at home probably felt no different; this was happening live on national TV. They were there with him as well.

Ron snarled audibly and started to push himself up, prepared to express his view of this insanity with all the vehemence of which he was capable -

The gunmen did it for him, and with even more impact. The automatic weapon shattered the oh-so-brief mood of triumph, letting loose one sustained discharge of its lethal machine-gun fire. Bullets lashed out in a long straight line, sending geysers of earth and grass skyward every foot of the way. They began at roughly the midpoint between third and home, far enough away that everyone could and did follow along, and laid down their rattling, murderous track straight for first - right across Bartlet's path. He braked, guarding his face from the bombardment of dirt and turf and the sheet of flame that screamed past less than twenty feet in front of him.

A nation of hearts leaped into corresponding throats. Many observers yanked away, unable to bear the sight they fully expected: their President torn apart as though by a buzz saw and crumpling to the ground to stay.

"He's all right!" June cried joyously, unashamed to share that joy with the world - but then she stopped in chilling realization. "For the moment, at least..."

"They shot wide," Harry gloomily informed both her and their anxious listeners. "It was just a warning."

"JUST?"

Ron peered up from under shielding arms; that barrage had passed not much more than twenty feet from him as well. His protectee still stood, blessedly unhurt. The shots hadn't come that close, really; the gunman was counting on the power of fear. The whine of hot lead anywhere nearby more than sufficed to induce paralysis. The sheer volume of fully-automatic fire usually did the rest: just one of those swarming slugs could kill, and several of them could strike in lightning succession, literally tearing a person apart. With rounds blasting so fast on such a visible track, a marksman can redirect his aim and drag it onto even a moving target...

The senior agent darted a look towards the stands near the third base line, where the shooter had to be. He didn't need to radio out; every other operative would have concluded the same thing and rushed to surround that area before their quarry could slip back into the crowds.

Bartlet followed his chief bodyguard's vision, and gave a short nod, making the same deduction. He shook out his sleeves and ran a hand through his hair, as though in protest of the pelting trash tossed his way. Then he faced forward again, his attention returning to the route laid still out before him. It looked more endless and more perilous than ever.

On the big screen, everyone saw his eyes narrow definitively.

No quarter - from them OR from me.

"Oh my soul, he's going on!" Harry's pitch climbed the scale, gathering a bit of feedback from his mike as counterpoint.

June had abandoned her composure as well. "I've never seen anything so brave in my entire life!"

It was either brave or reckless or stubborn or suicidal, depending upon the person asked. It had required a lot of nerve to step forward the first time; it required even more nerve to start again after giving ground to a threat like that. The next attempt might all too likely not stop at a scare, especially since scaring didn't appear to work. Despite all of this, the President squared up, set his jaw, tipped his head forward and glowered from under dark brows in a gesture his friends and family recognized as single-minded Bartlet purpose... and silently resumed his calculated advance. Towards safety, and life, the preservation of his office, and the stability of the nation.

Ron spoke into his mike without taking his eyes off The Man walking his way. "FIND those killers before this escalates even more!" He didn't have to postulate what an escalation would likely involve.

"RUN!" Charlie shouted, completely forgetting his place in the hierarchy and responding only to his instincts. He had lost his mother to violence already...

"No, DON'T run!" Leo countered, shifting from one foot to the other, on the verge of apoplexy. His military experience knew the hopelessness of racing bullets.

"What is he trying to prove?" C.J. demanded frenetically to no one in particular.

"Demons and better angels," Toby grumbled by way of a curt diagnosis.

"The man has a death wish," Debbie muttered, affection warring with terror.

"Oh, he just has to make it!" Margaret wailed, unable to conceive of any other alternative.

"They'll never let him off the field," Will pronounced with quiet, awful certainty.

"Come on, come on," Josh whispered to the unimpressed TV set.

Unknowing, Abbey encapsulated all of these thoughts into one concise verdict. "You precious fool."

The Secret Service in the Grand Entrance still couldn't risk rushing the pitch. If they tried, they'd be cut down exactly as before - or else the killers would go straight for Bartlet instead. It was a chance the agents dared not take so long as he remained alive. While their priority would always be the President himself, even over nailing the perpetrators, they had to reach him first, and that they simply couldn't do under these conditions. They needed to take down both enemy forces first.

June looked harder at the scene below. "What in the world - he's changing course!"

Harry shared her confusion. "Yes, he's swinging wide! It looks like - like he doesn't want to get too close to the bodies on the field. But why? How can that matter now?"

Ron knew exactly what Bartlet had in mind: the hope that any shot meant for him wouldn't hit his already wounded bodyguards instead. He preferred to increase the distance he had to travel and the risk he had to run rather than have any more lives lost to his account. The chief of security still lay prone, on an almost direct line between the Grand Entrance and the mound. The President was getting nearer - but that swerve had maintained a few extra yards between them. Ron's best hope to secure his protectee at last, himself, required very close quarters.

Suddenly, the fact that he wasn't quite so close presented one glaring advantage. The machine gun opened up again, chattering furiously away with no compunction for whatever had the misfortune to enter its line of fire. A short, concentrated burst sliced up the ground barely six yards from the uncooperative executive hostage, and directly in front. Bartlet checked, closing his eyes and ducking the airborne particles. Ron was showered even more heavily. Witnesses cringed. Fresh shouting broke out on all sides.

Slowly, the President lowered his deflecting arm and re-evaluated his situation. If he stayed still, he wouldn't be shot at any more - but he'd lose the battle. If he persevered, he might win the moral point, but he wouldn't live to tell about it. Of course, when everything boiled down to the finale, he had little chance of survival anyway. What made more sense: delaying and hoping for a long-shot rescue that might not succeed... or accepting the inevitable and facing it on his terms, which would make a rescue moot?

For a moment he smiled. For a moment, he shrugged.

"Alea jacta est." Caesar was right on the money.

He collected himself and, his features locked down, took another step forward. No slower, no faster... just set on his goal. Even though that warning had been hideously close, even though he still had a long distance to cover, even though any subsequent attempt to deter him had only one way to go - up.

Ron knew it as well. Their enemies wanted a live hostage rather than a dead one, but they'd settle for a dead trophy rather than an escaped one. They couldn't let this challenge to their dictatorial authority go unpunished any more than the President could allow them to challenge his democratic authority.

The wielder of the machine gun must have lost all patience at this inexplicable obstinacy on the part of his target to reject common sense. He unleashed another barrage: at the sky, as low overhead as he dared. He didn't want to accidentally kill their hostage. One does not use automatic weapons for long-distance precision firing. He'd done great in thinning out bodyguards, but now...

Bartlet flinched at each drumbeat of sound. No matter how hard he braced himself, he couldn't help it. The extreme tension level didn't insulate him against that flinching, but rather heightened it all the more. He could hear the awful WHIZZ of blistering steel jackets just passing his ears, or so it seemed. He knew that they were still missing him, but not by how much, or whether they were about to stop missing. What human could be immune to fear in such a scenario? Again he hesitated, weighing perseverance versus prudence. Each time he stopped made it harder to start again.

Who can say where courage comes from - the heart, the mind or the soul? The most powerf