PHASE I: THE TEMPEST

"The rain came down, the floods rose, and the winds blew and beat against the house, yet it did not fall, because it was founded upon the rock."
(Matthew 7:25)

The job of secretary to the boss is pretty much the same the world over. It doesn't matter if the boss works in government or in retail, in science or in finance, on the top or bottom of the organizational hierarchy. The secretary handles the countless little tasks for which the boss hasn't time, yet without which the boss cannot function. The secretary treasures the boss's confidence in some matters, and accepts the boss's necessary reticence in others. The secretary protects the boss's privacy, the boss's agenda, and sometimes the boss's backside. The secretary is the boss's first line of defense.

The image of an older woman, overworked and underpaid, on the bottom rung, handed all the menial chores no one else in the office wants to stoop to doing, unassertive, unappreciated, at the beck and call of a male tyrant, is a familiar stereotype... and one of the most inaccurate. Any time someone asked what job she held these days, Debbie Fiderer would state the truth: she was a secretary in a branch of the federal government. No more. It was not her place to be revealing, either at her desk or away from it. And every time someone made a disparaging remark about her falling into the ancient trap for older women who don't have the education or the ambition to do better, she allowed herself a secret smile.

Yes, she was overworked at times. So was everyone else around her - including her boss. Yes, she was underpaid, when compared to most civil servants, when calculated against the brutal hours she put in during a crisis, and when factoring in the genuine danger she sometimes faced. So was everyone else on the same payroll - including her boss. Several of her tasks could be classed as menial, but no administrative system can do without them, so her efforts were essential to the effectiveness of the whole. Those who knew her would never think her unassertive, and that had certainly not changed with her new work environment. Nor did she feel in any way unappreciated. And she did not consider herself for one moment to be at the beck and call of anyone, much less a tyrant... although surely some people would take issue on that, did they but know.

It was far better if they didn't know. Debbie contributed to the smooth running and the vital security of the highest office in the land, and few indeed could boast the same. Still, she exercised care not to boast. The hard work, the punishing schedule, the tight restrictions and the lingering risks were more than offset by the enormous privilege of working here, and the fascinating people whose dedication and skill she observed regularly.

Interruptions to her daily grind came in just about every description possible. Famous public faces, prominent politicians, entrepreneurs, sports and music icons, ambassadors... anyone who deserved some executive praise, or who had earned an executive scolding, or who wanted to barter for executive support. Various members of the First Family, a rather less frequent and usually more pleasant interlude without any brokerage attached. Charlie Young, escorting the latest visitor down these awe-inspiring corridors with quiet dignity. Josh Lyman, needing to discuss a new wrinkle in some bogged-down legislation they'd been fighting to pass for weeks. Toby Ziegler, incensed over the latest upheaval in the private sector that they couldn't pretend to ignore. CJ Cregg, preparing to take on the worst the Press Corps could throw her way. Will Bailey, bringing additions and clarifications to whatever speech was on the go. The National Security Advisor or the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs himself, possessing news of international import. Leo McGarry, seen far less often in reception since his office had a private entrance directly into the Oval Office itself, and as likely to be the bearer of a catastrophe or of a crossword stumper. The Secret Service, terrifyingly silent and grim, conducting their frequent security sweeps without asking leave of anyone, and locking down the entire building if they so much as suspected that security had been compromised.

The White House radiated history, and power, and vigilance. Debbie Fiderer never knew who might show up next to see the President of the United States - or if it might be the President himself. She couldn't guess if the next issue that reared its head involved the safety of one man, the party as a whole, the entire nation, or merely the world. She well understood the concept of always being prepared for anything.

Her only warning this time was the sudden, unnatural sound of pounding footfalls nearby. Coming from the Oval Office.

Even in the short time she'd been here, and the not-inconsiderable emergencies she'd already seen, this was unheard of.

She turned towards the open door into that vacant chamber, just in time to glimpse a flicker of rapid movement. But the sprinters did not exit into reception.

From that angle, there was only one other exit available. Debbie pivoted fast in the opposite direction, towards her exterior window onto the West Wing Portico - and saw a sight that could not be mistaken for all its brevity, a sight that defied belief: the White House Chief of Staff charging past at a dead run. Hard on his heels raced at least three Secret Service agents, the one in the lead being the Special Agent in Charge of White House security, and head of the President's own detail.

They had come from Leo's office. They had run straight through the empty Oval Office. They were headed towards the Residence.

The disbelief transmuted into apprehension.

Without further delay, Debbie reached for her phone and dialed a familiar number.

"Yes, Debbie?" Wonderful thing, a phone with a display field; you know who's calling.

"Nancy. Red alert."

The pause at that brief, crisp, dreaded message spoke volumes. "Okay, I'm on it." However, human nature can't easily be suppressed. "How bad do you think?"

"Leo just ran past here."

"Leo RAN?" If Debbie hadn't known that this was a total aberration of the norm, her assistant's shocked repetition would have confirmed it. Nancy had worked here far longer.

"And Ron was right behind."

"Oh, God." Some people can debate which is worse to deal with: wars or scandals... but the blatant truth is that a scandal usually doesn't result in bloodshed.

"Yes, I don't see this blowing over anytime soon." Debbie had already pulled out a list of precautions she was to instigate in a real emergency. "Start calling up the reserves. All support staff, domestics and maintenance. Quietly."

Nancy had a similar list; her desk drawer banged audibly over the phone as she obtained it. "Gotcha. I'll let you know as soon as I know who can come in at once."

"And I'll brief you as soon as someone briefs me. Sounds like this could be a long night."

Debbie hung up, her expression even more morose than usual. Then she picked up the remote control to the TV, set in its polished cabinet against one wall, and switched it on. A lot of crises dealt with in the White House never made the headlines. The media might know nothing at all, or at least they might not learn the deeper truth behind the surface details.

Tonight might be a story that no one could stifle.

If Leo was that desperate to get to the President, it had to be huge. If Ron was involved, it had to be a security breach. Nope, not good.

For political problems, the President's secretary often remained in ignorance; technically, she was just support staff as well. For security problems, she usually heard fast; she was the highest ranking support staffer and a critical part of the safety net around the Oval Office.

She sighed, made a half-hearted attempt to straighten the tangle of her long dark hair, and then started on her own alarm checklist. Whatever had just happened, and whenever someone deigned to tell her, she would be ready. For anything.

Charlie dragged himself into Oval Office reception, bearing scant resemblance to the brisk young man who'd left it mere hours earlier. His shoulders were slumped, his stride slow and uncertain, his features slack. Even someone who didn't know what had happened could tell that this was not physical exhaustion. This was a horror of the soul.

He approached his desk, one of two wooden sentinels guarding the ovoid office just one door away. He stared at this spot, his spot, no doubt considering the honor he felt at being allowed to sit there, and the trust of being allowed to work here, and the privilege of being allowed to know his boss personally... and his boss's family as well.

From the expression on his face, not at all masked by its mocha tone, he seemed to feel that he had betrayed that honor, that trust and that privilege altogether.

He turned to the closed door, the white door between him and the inner sanctum of the nation's government... which he must have suspected to be the sole barrier between him and the father of the young woman who was missing.

Known to be abducted. Feared to be dead - or dying.

Debbie sat at her own desk and held her peace, waiting until all of these mental images had been processed and absorbed. Waiting until the fresh tide of guilt had risen and crested. Waiting until the personal aide to the President finally noticed her presence.

"I know what happened." It had been all over the news in minutes. Of course she'd been watching, hoping that whatever had so alarmed Leo wouldn't hit the airwaves, fearing that it would.

No one had had to circulate a bulletin through the White House tonight. Even as the headlines broke, the agents on hall duty had doubled in number. They were in "black" mode - the most critical security alert of all, not seen in this Administration since Rosslyn.

The initial shock of Zoey's disappearance hadn't faded yet; the adrenaline hadn't leveled out. Everyone was fighting panic, fearful not only for the First Daughter's welfare but also for that of her father and, inevitably, the country itself. Debbie still had many things to do, all of them urgent, and she expected that her task list would only increase as this night went on... but she paused now, and gave her full attention to the suffering right here.

Charlie looked at her for a moment, almost but not quite expressionless. The pain was concentrated in his eyes. Then he turned away, as though nothing she could say would ever make him feel better.

Debbie never let such hints deter her from what needed saying.

"Do not blame yourself."

Charlie sank into his chair. "Don't bother. It's my fault. I know it, the President knows it, and Zoey knows it."

Assuming she was still alive, of course.

"Oh, so you contracted the kidnapping. In order to prevent her from going to France?" Debbie could be as confrontational as Toby at his best. Both knew how to provoke a response from the most uncooperative sources. "The President will actually thank you."

Charlie didn't rise to the bait. "I told her to go." He bowed his head, confessing to a capital crime. "She was thinking of staying, but I told her to go ahead to the club."

"I'll bet a year's pay that if you'd told her not to go, she'd have gone anyway." Debbie leaned both elbows on her desk, a lecturer's pose if ever there was one. "Zoey was caught between two men, neither of whom she wanted to hurt. She made her decision. Why don't you blame her? It makes just as much sense."

"No, I'm blaming me. I could've stopped her."

"Sure, you're omniscient. You knew this would happen."

Logic versus emotion: a losing battle. "And the President's gonna blame me, too."

Debbie's aggressive stance eased. "I doubt it. He's way too busy blaming himself."

She hadn't seen him yet tonight. He'd had the evening off in the Residence, along with friends who likewise had just seen their children graduate. An evening of reminiscence and melancholy pride - shattered all in an instant. From there he must have gone straight to the Situation Room, and he would probably be there for some while.

Debbie did not look forward to the next time she encountered him.

Charlie had sunk into apathetic silence, hardly eager for conversation. Not only did he feel personally responsible for making this nightmare that much more inevitable, but he could do absolutely nothing to resolve it.

At the moment, there was nothing administrative for anyone to do. Nothing except keep functioning, keep the wheels turning as smoothly as possible... and wait.

Debbie could speak from experience about the healing power of tenacious friendship and encouragement despite all internal resistance. Charlie had done that for her once himself; she wouldn't be here otherwise. The very least she could do was return the favor.

"So you met Zoey earlier this evening."

Something in this tone refused to take silence or evasion for an answer. Charlie still didn't look at his colleague, but he was drawn out despite himself.

"At the Arboretum. Before she went to the club." He sat very still, and one could tell that the memory of those private, bittersweet minutes before their world crashed in flames were parading through his mind... with all the bleak overtones of the conflagration so shortly to come.

"And she expressed a reluctance to go there?"

He shrugged listlessly. "To the club... to France..."

"But you told her she should go anyway?"

Some people might find this approach quite insensitive. Debbie's reasoning was that, if Charlie had any hope of getting past his self-immolation, he needed to do so now. Over time, with hypotheses from the news cycle and badgering from other people needing to know all the details, his recollections would become less accurate.

If he had any glimmer of her benevolent intentions, Charlie gave no sign. The answers came as though he had no control over them. "To the club, yeah. Because this isn't a good time to stop showing up... when you say you're gonna show up. Something like that."

"Did you go there with her?"

"Josh and I sorta made our own way."

Debbie's eyebrows elevated at this first mention that Josh had been directly involved, but she thought better of pursuing that track. She wasn't the official interrogator; Josh could fill in the blanks of the overall timeline on his own when asked. Charlie's conscience, and his heart, was her concern now. "You went in?"

"Nah... we hung around outside. With Wes."

"Why?" A sensible question - what possible reason could this young man have had for standing out in the night, surrounded by parked cars, without even a drink, while the woman he so plainly loved was inside, supposedly having a good time?

This time he couldn't frame an answer. The pain mounted in his vision, still averted from this perceived accusation.

A psychologist, and a friend, both turned to in a time of trial, needs to risk jumping to wrong conclusions in an effort to entice further revelation. "You were hoping that she'd soon leave, and that you could come back here with her."

Debbie might have struck closer to home than she'd expected. The continuing silence and the lack of movement before her reeked of affirmation.

"You wanted to prove to her that you loved her enough to let her make her own choices, even choices without you. You wanted to back her up the only way you could: by being nearby, within reach, in case she chose you after all."

Not a whisper of denial.

Impressions continued to surface. "If you'd gone inside, she would have resented the pressure." And more impressions, even less pleasant than before. "But if you had, you also might have somehow prevented the abduction. Just by being there."

He hesitated, and then admitted to this with a jerky nod. His thoughts could not have been more transparent: if only he'd been present, even to stop the bullet himself... anything, any price, if it could have averted what they all now faced.

The executive secretary was not inconsiderate by nature or by ignorance. She cared deeply as well, but couldn't afford - for the sake of the President and his office - to let it show. Here and now, she focused on results. Charlie needed her strength and her control. The best way to deal with trauma is to face it. The swiftest surgery is usually the least painful.

"And Zoey would be safe, and Molly would be alive. And the First Couple..."

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, gripped his desk edge, and just shook. Debbie had homed in unerringly upon the crux of his anguish. He blamed himself on so many levels.

"Would be mourning you instead," she concluded quietly, making her point in spades.

"Fine by me." This time the words came unhesitatingly.

"Twenty-twenty hindsight, Charlie. No one could have known. The agents did their jobs to the best of their abilities. They're still human. They were outplayed. That's all."

He didn't look the least convinced.

Debbie exhaled heavily and sat back, contemplating this personification of misery before her. Yet for all its genuine strength, it still couldn't equal what actual family members had to be feeling. She ached for every one of them.

"I can only imagine what the President's going through. Just yesterday he all but begged Zoey not to take this vacation." The bare bones of that exchange had made the rounds of the West Wing in record time, creating many an "aww" of sympathy for the father and the daughter both. "That must've been the last time they had a chance to speak to each other."

Debbie's throat caught a bit. The actual words made that heartrending fact all the more poignant.

When at last Charlie found his own voice, it could barely be heard. "That's the thing. I'm responsible for him, too."

No one who knew the President's body man at all would consider that statement the least bit strange or exaggerated, Debbie included. Still, she had a self-appointed mission: to turn this anticipatory grief into productive action.

"We're all responsible for him. We're all here for him. And he's going to need every single one of us to help him through this." She paused, her earnest eyes fastened on the young man drowning in guilt before her. "That includes you."

It required several seconds of persistent silence on her part, but in the end Charlie finally looked up.

"At eleven twenty-one PM, Special Agent Wesley Davis of the U.S. Secret Service called in an AOP, which means Attack on the Principal." C.J.'s face must have been splashed across every television channel in the States, and probably carried by more than a few foreign signals as well. The tremors that had erupted barely an hour ago were rippling around the world.

Debbie kept the TV volume fairly low, so that she could tune out most of the time yet tune in when something particularly noteworthy cropped up. A lot of her information would not come from the broadcasts, of course. She was part of The Team, and cleared to quite a high code level; the executive secretary had to be. On the other hand, people might not have time to spare for briefing her when they also needed to brief the President, in person.

Her job demanded that she be as informed as possible and as permissible. Data is armor, strength... power. Data makes one useful.

A secretary always has to multitask, even on quiet days. Tonight - or rather, this morning - was as unquiet as it could get. Debbie leapt rapidly from one thing to another: answering the phone, keeping notes of events, juggling reports that all emergencies generate. Her own momentum continued to build as she fought to stay on top of things. It was perfectly understandable to feel harried; however, if she let that momentum get out of control, then her part of the mechanism would break down and therefore jeopardize the whole.

Charlie labored at his own desk, backing up her paperwork every chance he got. His primary assignment right now, though, was doorkeeper, admitting those privileged few who were entitled to presidential access even in a crisis. That left her free to concentrate on the phone and the computer... and spared her having to deal with the rampant emotions of these consultants flocking to the Oval Office - and The Man whose office it was. Sounded like a fair trade.

At least the body man looked steadier and less withdrawn than when he'd first returned... channeling his energies towards what he could do, rather than dwelling on what he couldn't do or failed to do. Debbie savored the knowledge that so far she'd had at least a bit of a positive effect on the proceedings.

Her phone rang again. She lifted the receiver without even glancing at it. "Oval Office." Pause. "Thank you." She hung up. "Toby's here."

Charlie nodded, not lifting his gaze either. "Full House." They had both settled into short exchanges with an economy of words, as though some instinct demanded that every second spent on unnecessary conversation was one more valuable second wasted. Even the automatic pun on houses went without comment.

"Just about." Debbie surveyed her list again. C.J. and Will had never left, Josh had arrived with Charlie over half an hour ago, and now Toby had returned from wherever he'd vanished to all afternoon. She resisted the natural impulse to wonder what he'd been doing and why so long. If it turned out to be any of her business, she'd hear about it.

The support staff had almost reached full strength as well. All assistants to the senior staff had, of course, been present; they rarely ended their day before their bosses did. The next stratum of clerks and interns was as complete as it could be, and the extra domestic and maintenance crews were pouring in, at least as fast as the ultra-tight security clamp around the White House would let them. By now, Debbie figured, they had enough people on hand at all levels to run every aspect of this building round the clock for a solid week.

God forbid that it should require a week to resolve this.

"Admiral."

Debbie looked up. Charlie had just greeted a new visitor: a man in full dress uniform, carrying a medical bag.

"Charlie." The military doctor nodded to the presidential aide, and to the executive secretary; no more. He too felt the need to pare things down to absolute essentials.

Without a word, Charlie ushered him inside.

Debbie refrained from watching them enter. She had seen the President exactly once since all hell broke loose, and then only briefly. He probably hadn't seen her at all at the time. He'd marched past at a pace that most people would have had to run to keep up with, and he'd clearly noticed nothing beyond the calamity that now defined his existence.

She didn't want to see him like this.

Calling in the official physician had been a grim necessity. Regulations far older than this Administration stipulated that the President's general health must be monitored during any major time of stress. It wouldn't take the kidnapping of a family member to drive a normal person's blood pressure through the roof.

Of course no one mentioned multiple sclerosis out loud, but who could fail to think about it? Any parent might crack under such a hideous pressure, never mind a national leader with responsibilities beyond most people's comprehension. Never mind the most powerful man in the world.

Never mind a man with an intermittently debilitating illness that tended to flare up under stress. And what stress could surpass this?

So far, he hadn't shown any sign of collapse or even wavering. Of course, the emergency was still young.

Nancy appeared just as Charlie exited and shut the door behind him. She offered a smile meant to be supportive and encouraging; he just nodded sadly and returned to his desk.

Then the assistant to the President's personal secretary handed her boss a slip of paper, her smile evaporating like mist.

"Molly's parents' number."

Debbie stiffened in her seat. Three words, in a very low tone, packing every bit as much of an impact as a bullet. She needed at least two constricted heartbeats before she could bring herself to accept that note. Nancy left at once, not wanting to be present during this phone call for anything.

If Charlie could have left as well, he probably would have. All he could do was observe, and silently offer the comfort and comradeship that Debbie had extended to him.

By now everyone knew that a female Secret Service agent had been killed tonight. C.J. had just refused to release her name, pending notification of her family. And now Debbie held the phone number to those closest family members.

Ron Butterfield would have previously contacted them with the dreaded confirmation; as the overall security coordinator for the entire First Family, that was part of his job. Just as it was a hated part of the President's job, whenever possible, to speak with relatives of those who had given their lives in service to their country. Just as it was an equally hated part of Debbie's job to contact those relatives personally, and prepare them to speak to their national leader... for the most tragic reason possible, turning what should be a once-in-a-lifetime honor into an added twist of the knife.

Soon the entire world would know about the O'Connors' loss. Their daughter had died heroically, doing what she wanted to do, but neither that conviction nor public support nor executive understanding would alleviate the crushing blow they'd only just been dealt.

Finally, fighting an impossible sensation that her hand weighed several times more than it should, Debbie reached out and punched in the digits.

How can so few seconds last so long? Yet, conversely, it seemed like a mere instant before there was an answer.

"Hello." A masculine voice. A mature voice. A subdued voice.

"Mr. Fred O'Connor?"

The acknowledgment also seemed to take an inordinate amount of time. "Yes."

"My name is Debbie Fiderer." She had to pause for breath. The same thing happened the previous time she'd had to do this, which had been the first time she'd had to do this: as though the very air was being drawn out of her lungs through sheer pity. "I'm calling from the White House."

An even longer hesitation. "I see." He must've known what was coming.

"Sir... if you and your wife are up to it... and we all would certainly understand if you're not... the President would like to speak with you."

It wasn't her place to offer condolences. She hoped that the sadness in her voice conveyed them anyway.

Silence, stretching out until she could hear the falling tears on the other end. Until she wasn't sure if he could answer.

"Thank you. That's kind of him." No one would disagree: a terror-stricken parent, who also had the colossal burden of commanding the last and greatest superpower on earth, taking time to consider a grief-stricken parent. Trying to ease their similar, inconsolable pain together.

Debbie blinked rapidly. "Just a moment, please."

She looked up; Charlie was already at the door, waiting for her cue. He drew a deep, stabilizing breath of his own, and entered the Oval Office.

She remained, holding that heartbreakingly quiet phone, waiting for that unmistakable baritone to join them. So grateful that she didn't have to be the one to look him in the eye and tell him who was waiting on the line.

Her sympathy surged for the O'Connors and the Bartlets together, all of whom had just had their families torn asunder. Her sympathy for the President in particular climbed even higher. He didn't know if his daughter was dead or alive. How could he deal with parental grief for the agent who had given her life in an effort to protect his daughter - and failed?

How could he hope to deal with his job, his own family, himself?

"Debbie!"

The executive secretary's head jerked up. Donna Moss had just burst into reception, paying no mind to the usual dignity of this entire locale.

"Where's the President?" she almost gasped.

"Last I heard, in the Residence." Debbie felt no surprise at being expected to have that information. It was the task of the Secret Service to know their protectee's exact whereabouts for security reasons. It was her task for administrative reasons. She needed to be able to direct those with instant access, like Leo, and to bar those who would otherwise be intruding. She needed to know when the door was open and when it was closed, when The Man was available and when he was not.

Josh's assistant showed no disappointment that she couldn't enter the Oval Office at once. Her eyes were wider than usual - even more so than might be expected from this entire melodrama. "He won't be for long." She sounded very certain of that.

Silently toiling away at his own desk, Charlie looked up.

Donna turned to him at the same time. "You both need to know this. A ransom note has been received."

As a general rule, news was not to be exchanged between the lower echelons of White House staff. Of course every office has its gossip: harmless details about people's love lives or lack thereof. However, real news is supposed to come down to you from your boss, meaning that your boss deemed it necessary for you to know - not from your peers, as though someone was listening outside an almost-closed door. Whether that news was exclusively political, dealt with legislation, focused on a potential scandal or included bombing targets, everyone here knew not to discuss it until and unless it became common knowledge.

This kind of news called for a rare gloves-off policy. When the life of one of your own is at stake, you pull together. It's the only way to endure.

Both Debbie and Charlie settled their hands and raised their eyebrows, in full attention and apprehension.

Donna's eyes darted constantly between them. "It came off the Communications fax only a few minutes ago. I just sent it to be translated."

Debbie frowned. "Translated from what?" Yet she knew, even before she heard the answer.

"I couldn't read it, but it looked Arabic."

"And there was a picture?" Charlie demanded.

Donna nodded, a frightened rattling motion. "A bit blurred by the transmission, but you could tell it was Zoey - and you could tell what she was wearing."

Debbie sighed dispiritedly. "So it's a foreign deal after all. There probably isn't a regime on earth that doesn't have operatives right here in our own backyard. Three guesses what they'll be asking for in exchange... and the first two don't count."

The assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff nodded again. "A major international concession."

"And the President can't negotiate."

No, he couldn't - not according to the United Nations. He could lead this country despite his frantic worry for his daughter's safety. He could make and already had made tough national decisions, even as Zoey's welfare preyed viciously upon his mind. But now, when presented with a specific threat, with a price that he technically could meet and that presumably would guarantee his little girl's safe return... yet would also place the rest of the world in hock to every other terrorist around...

How could he be expected to choose between two such extremes?

"Thanks for telling us, Donna." The executive secretary turned back to her work, weary and resigned. "Even bad news is better than no news at -"

"Wait a second!" The personal aide to the President suddenly leaped right out of his chair. "The note was faxed? How did they get our fax number?"

Three heads swiveled rapidly towards each other, bouncing this new idea.

"The public phone number is listed," Debbie pointed out, on the same wavelength. "This is the People's House. But the fax numbers sure aren't."

Donna's eyes got wider still if that were possible. "I'll tell Josh." She whirled and hurried out of reception, gaining speed with every stride.

"I'll tell the Service." Charlie was halfway to the threshold himself.

"Better let Josh do it," Debbie advised gently. This young man was burning up with the need to help, and had no idea how to help. But too many versions of the same data coming from too many directions would only add to the confusion.

He took her point, though very reluctantly.

Now that she thought of it, Debbie recalled a vague memory of general references to troop movement oversees during one of the earlier news bulletins. At the time it had failed to fully register; she'd been rather occupied with events at home. Now, with this latest revelation, that reference suddenly swelled in proportion. As though someone hadn't been satisfied with the scope of the crisis as is, open warfare was now only a hair-trigger away.

How many more lives would be risked - and lost - before their literal and figurative nightfall ended?

It seemed mere moments later, although the entire concept of time had been totally skewed for everyone in this historical and influential place, when Margaret entered.

Debbie snapped to full alertness at once. The only person whose workload came close to that of the President himself was the Chief of Staff. Also, Leo relied on his assistant almost as much as Josh relied on his. For Margaret to leave her desk on the other side of the Oval Office in a crisis of this magnitude said two things: her boss was elsewhere - five will get you ten, with his embattled Chief Executive - and she had something very important to say.

Charlie got the exact same idea. His features tightened anew.

Margaret didn't bother with any preliminaries. "They've got the blood results back on Jean-Paul."

Debbie's immediate reaction was to look at Charlie - and she blinked at the slight yet visible snarl.

He'd have been less than human if he didn't feel anger, and not solely at the mere mention of his rival for Zoey's heart. Even so, seldom could an expression look more unnatural on a person's face than animosity did on this young man. Debbie didn't have the long history with him that many other employees here did, but she could still tell. Margaret's uneasy shift corroborated her evaluation.

Tonight's events had changed all of them, and in many different ways.

"Wes said it wasn't Ecstasy." Somehow, Charlie kept his voice level. He seemed to be waiting for something specific, coiled and ready to act.

"It wasn't," Margaret confirmed flatly. "It was a date-rape drug."

Debbie sucked in a harsh breath.

"And Jean-Paul gave her some." There was neither surprise nor doubt in Charlie's tone: just cold certainty. He must have already concluded that Zoey had to have been under the influence of something stronger than just a couple of drinks to put up no resistance, make no sound, and lose her panic button despite all of her security training.

Margaret nodded, slowly and with great concern. "And there's no way she'd have been so stupid as to take it voluntarily."

Debbie also didn't know the members of the First Family that well, but she saw no reason to doubt this interpretation. Few people are as conscious of the dangers of drug abuse as a medical doctor, and Zoey had a world-class physician for a mother.

Abruptly, the body man headed for the hall. "If they bring that guy here, don't tell me." His hands were fists.

Both women watched him go, then shared a very sober look.

"If they do, tell me." Debbie wasn't referring to any lack of agreement on her part with Charlie's sentiment, but to her need to keep on top of events that might directly affect their boss. That possible scenario sure qualified.

"Right. Just don't tell any of us, either." After Charlie, Margaret was the staffer Debbie saw the most of on an average day. Never had Debbie witnessed this level of outrage in her, either. "That jerk assaulted her."

Then the Chief of Staff's assistant checked. No doubt thinking, just as Debbie was, of how many different ways one could apply the term "assault."

What emotional and physical abuse might Zoey be going through right now? No one in the White House was so callous as to comment aloud, but they couldn't stop themselves from worrying.

One definition of "friend" is a person who cares enough to worry in the first place.

It can also be a definition of "family."

The image played across every station in existence. An opening door. A bombardment of white camera flashes. A cacophony of shouting voices. A brief image of the best-known woman in the country - petite yet never fragile, with natural beauty and unpretentious dignity. A glimpse of her expression, as she had never been seen before - ashen and shocked, red-rimmed eyes staring. A tall Press Secretary's protective intervention and exasperated shout: "Come on, guys, give her a break!"

"Yes, do!" Debbie muttered at the TV. Not that the reporters in the Press Room or the producers of the news shows could hear her, but it made her feel marginally better to voice her feelings. Some people didn't care how thoughtless or cruel their actions might be to others, so long as they got the story.

Any decent person would have been torn anew by the radiating pain on Abbey Bartlet's face in those two seconds of coverage.

At least Charlie had missed this; he was currently with the President. He would've really been bothered; he possessed a special regard for the First Lady. Some time ago, they had joined forces in a not-so-secret society to watch over their notoriously stubborn Commander-in-Chief.

Good thing The Man had missed this as well. Or at least he had for the moment...

The phone rang. "Oval Office."

Debbie had to admit she really liked saying that. Even at a time like this.

"It's Amy."

The executive secretary's head rose, scenting trouble. This could hardly be about anyone else. "I saw the clip. How is Mrs. Bartlet doing?"

"Not well." Pause. "She wanted to make a direct appeal."

Debbie didn't need Amy Gardner's political savvy to see the dangers to that kind of public move. "While the President is moving troops into the Middle East and breathing fire and brimstone? Not a good idea. He can't bargain. She can't, either."

"I know. She knows, too. But she's still a mother!" The helplessness they all felt reached its height in that lament.

"And the President's a father." Debbie took care not to pause; there really was too much rivalry between East and West around here. "And no one should have to go through this, much less them."

"The horrid thing is, people do." The First Lady's Chief of Staff sounded perilously close to despair.

Debbie waited. Her instincts told her there had to be more... and probably not to the good.

"We're in C.J.'s office. I've called her doctor."

C.J. didn't need a private physician herself. Both sets of senior staff had an alarming tendency to refer to "their" half of the First Couple by pronoun alone. The curious thing was, it rarely got confusing. It represented an incredible profound sense of belonging.

Debbie truly understood that despair now. Would the First Lady be sedated? Had her renowned composure deteriorated to that terrible extent? No one would deny a distraught mother such care during such a nightmare; almost anything would be better than a constant state of savage anxiety. Still, even after having seen that vision of horror on TV, Debbie simply couldn't picture Abbey Bartlet breaking down so completely. For anything.

"Keep me posted?" she asked quietly.

"Sure. I'm just glad it's the doctor that has to tell him."

"You and me both." The devotion and protectiveness that the President often displayed towards his wife was matched only by his adoration and protectiveness for his children. If the Chief Executive was the rock upon which the Administration was founded, the political center of their world... then Abbey Bartlet was the rock upon which Jed Bartlet was founded, the emotional center of his world.

For him to see the effects this horror was having on her, and not be able to prevent it...

Debbie hung up, sat back, and gloomily watched the news clip roll past again.

The President had been touchingly disappointed that he'd failed to convince his little girl to stay home. By all reports, the First Lady had accepted this inevitable growing-up process rather more stoically. The odds were she now blamed herself for not objecting more. On the other hand, the President would consider it his personal duty to protect his family - especially since it had been his decision to run for the high office that led to this danger in the first place. Still, nothing is more dangerous than a mother defending its young.

It was pointless to wonder which of them might be suffering more, either from worry or from guilt. It was redundant to say that both of them would be crushed if their daughter did not survive.

No, Debbie did not want to be the one to tell the President about his wife's perfectly natural attempt to deal with this anguish, nor did she want to brief him on his wife's current condition. She had absolutely no idea what to say to either of them. No words ever devised could encompass their pain.

And as if that pain wasn't already more than enough on its own, the Bartlets had to face the brutal truth that every move they made was projected onto the world stage. Every word they said was broadcast far and wide, debated by an insatiable audience and examined for any hint of a flaw. It would be no exaggeration to say that their actions had international impact. This knowledge made expressing their distress, or even admitting to it, a whole lot harder. They deserved their own time alone, like anyone else, just to be parents, just to be themselves. They needed that time. And they weren't getting it.

How much time could they hope to spend together, shoring each other up in a way that no one else possibly could - an essential ingredient to the sanity of both - when he had such massive responsibilities, and when she had no choice but to stay out of his way?

Debbie broke out of her morose introspection and sat up straighter at a fresh TV image: snippets from the Bartlet family video file. How this station got its hands on such personal footage to begin with, it never said. The scenes focused on a young Congressman and his youngest daughter, no more than three years old. They couldn't have looked happier or more innocent, quite unaware of the heights and the depths slowly taking shape in their mutual future.

Unheralded, the door to the Oval Office swung open.

Hinges did not creak in this House. However, Debbie had fast learned to detect any movement from that direction. Besides, everyone's nerves were on edge. She turned at once.

Jed Bartlet stepped into view.

His famous features were set in what looked like a permanent scowl, and his brilliant blue eyes glittered with a cold flame. That scowl, that flame contrasted vividly against his warm nature, his engaging personality, his mischievous humor and positive outlook that even the burden of world peace could not quench.

This dire threat to his family and his soul, however, had come close.

This man commanded the might of the greatest military force in human history. This man single-handedly wielded the power of peace and war, of countless soldiers marching into battle, of hideous weapons wiping out entire cities. This man made the ultimate decision on how that fearsome, almost unimaginable strength would be used - or not. This man controlled the destiny of the entire human race.

This man had been placed in the worst possible position: balancing military force and sworn duty against a single life.

His country... or his family?

There was no middle ground.

Debbie rose, not hurriedly, but deliberately and willingly. He was more than their leader: he was their utterly reliable foundation in this storm, the stabilizing entity that grounded them, the driving force that enabled them to keep working. He was the sun they orbited, without whom they would not exist. He was both the high office under pressure and the mortal man under attack... and any of them would give their lives to end his suffering.

Because of this man, they would not give way.

The very air crackled around him, charged and electrified by his pain, by his responsibilities, by the merciless conflict that threatened to tear his heart asunder.

By... resolution?

No one accompanied him. Charlie had been drafted for some errand. The only other presence right now was the increasingly obvious Secret Service agents right outside reception, a mere handful of yards away.

This was the second time Debbie had seen him tonight, and the first time he'd seen her.

She kept her features carefully locked down, allowing not one trace of worry or, God forbid, pity to leak out. That would only make matters worse for him. She was always one of the least expressive people around, an image she maintained as a form of self-defense. That image required constant effort... an effort which paid off now.

"Mr. President." She stood at attention, awaiting his orders. No matter what they might be, she would obey them.

Slowly, he approached her desk. This gave her plenty of time to scramble for unnecessary words, to call up senseless platitudes, to attempt to console the inconsolable, to feed the fire of his torment. The fact that she chose not to do so might have helped that frigid glare ease just a bit. She wished to serve, pure and simple. It was enough.

Perhaps it helped further that she did not know him as intimately as the rest of the senior staff. He found it easier to mask his intense emotional turmoil around her.

On the other hand, they had grown fairly comfortable around each other in a relatively short time... and she had more than once before demonstrated a concern for his well-being that went beyond her job description.

Debbie had worked in the lower realms of the White House before, early in the first Bartlet Administration. She'd met Delores Landingham only once, but certainly knew of her. When she first landed this job, she'd heard a great deal about that remarkable woman - from support staff, from senior staff, from The Man himself. She'd detected, at the start, more than a few subtle echoes of resentment, from more than a few sources, that anyone should dare move into this desk, which had been left sacredly vacant for over a year. A perfectly natural response.

Without crowding that treasured memory, she had set out to prove herself and bring her own character to the role, her own abilities and contributions. Time heals, and shared toil bonds. Before very long, she had been accepted. She had taken her place in the ever-changing machinery of government and of life. She had been permitted to join the privileged ranks of The Team.

In an unexpected side effect, she had rapidly contracted the bug of personal allegiance.

She was not the President's old friend, but she was someone on whom he could count, come hell or high water. He knew it, too.

Without ceremony, he now handed over two loose-leaf pages. "If you could type these up, please."

"Of course, sir." Debbie swallowed any surprise that he needed nothing more strenuous than this. Every little task contributed to the end result: a successful resolution. She could be relied upon to do her job, to do it promptly and to do it right.

Something in his posture warned her that these letters were more than they seemed. He could not have appeared graver if he'd handed her the nuclear codes.

Automatically, she started to read, in case she had any questions about the contents. At least this boss had legible handwriting - in fact stylish, almost cursive. Some of the scripts she'd seen elsewhere...

The phrases suddenly coalesced into actual meaning. She stopped, started again at the top and read much more slowly, forcing herself to check each word.

They didn't change.

At some point she noticed vaguely that she was sitting down. She must have sunk into her chair without realizing it, as though her legs had collapsed in unadulterated shock. And one was not supposed to sit in the presence of the President without invitation.

When she looked up, fearing and yet needing confirmation of these pages' intent, she saw the door to the Oval Office closing behind her leader's retreating back.

What had her reaction told him?

Certainly, his reaction told her that what she held... was real.

"Availing myself of the Constitutional option offered to this Office by Section III of the Twenty-fifth Amendment..."

Charlie entered reception through the Portico door, shutting it carefully behind him. And just stood there for a moment.

Debbie studied his blank features, her suspicions on the rise. "What now?"

He turned towards her - far too slowly.

"We need to contact the Staff Secretary. Leo's freezing all non-essential paper for executive signature. Until further notice."

Debbie felt herself physically deflate. Despite those letters, despite the hard glint in the President's eye at that time, despite the national complications and international price tag to this whole mess, a part of her had still refused to believe.

Until now. Now she couldn't pretend any longer that those letters were just a precaution against a possible, distant future. He'd made his decision, and he was going through with it. He would be signing one more document as President, and one only.

And Leo, sandwiched squarely in the middle of what would for sure become a constitutional quagmire, had agreed with him.

The two staffers traded a glance that defied all vocal interpretation. The sensation of total unreality, of irrevocable dissolution of their world, could not be resisted. Surely they'd all wake up in another heartbeat and none of this would have happened...

Before she could comment, not that she had any firm idea just what to say in such an unthinkable circumstance, Charlie started towards his desk. His posture bespoke of pure resignation. "I've got to get a federal judge here, now."

At this time, in this place, a federal judge would be needed for just one purpose.

Debbie knew where the President was right now: in the Cabinet Room. She knew where her two letters were: on the conference table before him.

She looked at the clock, its hands marking this moment for all time.

The unreality persisted. She called the Staff Secretary, and gave an order that had not been heard in this White House since Nixon. She answered her phone, and made a note that all of the West Wing senior staff were now in site. She watched as Dr. Nancy McNally and Admiral Percy Fitzwallace marched stiffly past her, allowing Charlie to show them into the vacant Oval Office. She proceeded with her own tasks, many and essential, almost as though the world was not turning on its ear underneath her.

There was a substantial dose of irony in this as well. The President's verdict would have massive repercussions for everyone in the White House... but he had arrived at this verdict precisely in order to prevent a similar earthquake from crashing throughout the country, and indeed the world.

The doors to the Portico were bulletproof, weatherproof and soundproof. Each pane bore an antique bubble motif for added privacy. However, if she glanced over one shoulder, she could see the shadowy figures gathering: people who regularly decided policy for the entire nation. She didn't have to hear to know the upshot and the import of their conversation.

It seemed mere moments later, although it must have been most of an hour, when the federal judge finally arrived: a tiny, middle-aged woman, Bible in hand, maintaining a fair aplomb considering that they all knew what her next duty was expected to be. Charlie ushered her through at once.

And during those few moments before the door closed again, sealing her out, Debbie detected what could only be the President's voice.

When had he arrived? He must have come straight from the Cabinet Room and used the hall entrance to the Oval Office.

She couldn't pick out actual words in that brief snippet, but his tone was sharp, angry.

What had been the Cabinet's consensus? There was no such thing around here as a foregone conclusion - not anymore.

Debbie had accepted from day one of her new posting that she would never know most of what went on inside this historical chamber situated right next door. Part of her job was to squelch all curiosity.

Part of her nature was to probe mysteries.

What on earth was happening, just a few short yards away?

For once this night, no one phoned her. No one else entered reception, either. In fact, the corridor itself seemed deserted, or else very still - and deserted it simply could not be. One might think that the entire White House was holding its collective breath.

Then the door opened. At once Debbie's whole existence contracted to that aperture, aware of nothing else.

In ominous silence, Charlie escorted the madam justice out. In equal silence, the madam justice took her leave.

The chamber within was conspicuously silent as well.

What had happened? Had the dreaded deed by some miracle been aborted at the absolute last second? Or...

Then the presidential aide inclined his head towards the executive secretary, inviting her at long last to join them inside.

In nerve-racking silence, she preceded him.

When a person walks into any room, an automatic instinct is to sweep it for other occupants. Leo. Josh. Toby. C.J. Will. The NSA. The Chairman. All standing stiffly in place, all looking tired and grim.

Of course, no one had slept since Zoey first vanished, and it was now nearing seven in the morning.

Others lingered about as well, people she didn't know. Six or so, all men, some Secret Service and some not. And one of those strangers -

Debbie stopped short on the carpet. In a frisson of shock, she realized that she missed one face. She couldn't believe that she'd failed to notice sooner, but then this was his office. You just knew he would be here.

For him not to be here felt utterly and implacably wrong.

And one of those strangers - stood behind his desk.

Where no one else in the world was entitled to be.

Even long-term Washington residents could not be expected to recognize every member of Congress on sight. Cabinet Secretaries, Whips, Senators, Speakers... there were just too many names, too many jobs. They had to do something particularly newsworthy, and fairly recently, to last in the public's infamous short-term recollection.

Even so, this stranger's identity could not possibly be in doubt. Kidnapped daughters, ransom notes, frozen legislation, federal judges, lack of a Vice President... despite all of Debbie's foreknowledge of catalysts and preparations and summons, everything came together in a swirling vortex of inescapable comprehension.

She did not move, eyes wide. Everyone else in the room stared at her, with various levels of discomfort.

Then, unable to resist, she turned towards the glass-paneled door leading out onto the Portico. The private executive route to the Residence.

Surely she imagined it, but that door seemed to swing ever so slightly, as though from the memory of the last man to cross its threshold... when he left this office.

His office.

He'd left. In total defiance of her last-ditch hope that, beyond all reason, he might be granted superhuman abilities and find another solution, he'd walked out of here. And he might never walk back in.

The transfer of power had been almost as swift and clandestine for her as for the rest of the world. It was done, and they had no choice at all but to accept it. Until further notice.

With a huge effort, she rotated back.

Leo took it upon himself to say the fateful words - words that echoed and re-echoed in her brain. "Debbie Fiderer... President Walken."

PHASE II: THE ANCHOR

"We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure."
(Hebrews 6:19)

A new day dawned over the nation's capital.

"Dawned" might have been the accurate meteorological term, but for Washington, D.C. the sun didn't put in an appearance at all. An impenetrable cloud cover had crept upon the city and blanketed it, prolonging the night gloom and unleashing the kind of steady downpour that doesn't let up for hours.

Weather patterns aside, this day technically started at midnight. In the White House, it began much later, with a swearing-in - a simple yet earth-shaking ceremony. For the rest of the city, and much of the country, it began later still, with a press conference of historical impact. It was a new day in more ways than one. In fact, it might not have been an exaggeration to declare this dreary morning the start of a new age as well.

Public response encompassed the full range of emotions. There were those who just didn't care one way or another. There were those who at once started probing for any purchase by which they might obtain an advantage for themselves. There were those who displayed a morbid interest, wondering if they'd soon witness the remarkable event of a government's self-destruction.

There were staunch defenders of Jed Bartlet, enraged that anyone would presume to supplant him. There were political opponents of Jed Bartlet, convinced that anyone could do a better job. There were sworn enemies of Jed Bartlet, thrilled to observe his displacement and his suffering. And there were personal supporters of Glen Walken, delighted to see him get this chance no matter the circumstances.

Just as the only news on the networks a few hours ago was the kidnapping of the President's daughter, the only news at this point was the abdication of the President's authority. Debbie refused to watch this endless loop. She'd seen it once, and hoped never to sit through such an agonizing broadcast again.

How had the President managed to get through it himself? It takes an inner iron beyond most people's strength to give up this kind of responsibility, even for the noblest of reasons, and then to publicly defend that judgment before the world, all the while fighting not to cave in under a planet's mass of terror.

The mood in the West Wing had shifted and mutated more times than anyone could count: from paralyzing shock at Zoey's abduction to haunting fear for her health and life; from shivers at this breach in the security upon which they all depended to grief for Agent Molly O'Connor's death; from deep sympathy for the First Couple's anguish to rising concern for the First Couple's welfare; from outrage at this attack upon their country to helplessness at their inability to fight back; from fresh admiration at the President's endurance against all of his adversities to reaffirmed support for all of his decisions; from disbelief at the President's final sacrifice on behalf of the nation to uncertainty for the nation's threatened future.

Debbie had already seen quite a few of mood swings in this White House, but nothing prior compared to the atmosphere now - not even in the experience of employees who had been here far longer. The air quivered with a heady mix of unshifted allegiances and battle fury, as though they were dealing with a genuine invasion. Not a bad way to describe it, actually: they had been overrun, not by superior numbers, but by the force of law. Said law had provided them with help in this crisis, as it should - help that none of them wanted, help that many doubted they needed, yet help that they all had no choice but to accept. It was the best help they could get, and it would enable them to get the job done... but it still felt totally wrong.

There were more than a few practical issues to address. When Bartlet first took office, those who became his senior staffers had also been on most of the campaign trail; they already knew him quite well. Everyone else in the White House had over four years to figure out his likes and dislikes, his habits and quirks. Now, without warning, everyone faced the challenge of adapting to a new President - which was what all this amounted to, no matter how you looked at it. It meant learning Walken's style, his attitude, his beliefs, the clues to be found in his features and posture and intonation... They had to start again from the ground up, and in the middle of a national emergency to boot.

Then there was the little matter of adapting to Walken's personal staff as well.

Debbie had already beheld some pronounced local displeasure on this subject. Their new Commander-in-Chief had brought along three subordinates - all men, and obviously those he deemed his most trustworthy followers. Darrow, the ringleader, at once started styling himself Chief of Staff. So far he hadn't succeeded in provoking an actual fight; Leo had more important things to do and too firm a grasp of his own sense of self to let a blowhard like that under his skin. Josh, however, almost lost it at the first, and you could tell Toby was grinding his teeth against an equally explosive outburst. C.J. would have been right in there swinging with them if she hadn't faced opposition of her own: Julien seemed to believe that henceforth he and he alone would brief the press. If the potential consequences weren't so dire, she might well have let him try, just for the pleasure of watching the Press Corps flay him alive. Even Will, the least confrontational fellow around, squared off quite hotly against Brad's declared intention to keep the home team's hand out of any presidential speeches from here on in.

This attitude was understandable; the trio of newcomers felt themselves to be very much on hostile turf, and their boss no less so. Naturally, they wanted to protect him and his interests from the perceived enemy. However, running the White House - and therefore the country - went beyond a petty territorial dispute. The West Wing staff had the experience and the clearance; their competitors simply did not. Even Walken couldn't change that overnight. If the Bartlet Team had to work with the former Speaker and his men, then the reverse also applied.

Debbie did not feel personally threatened; her job was, after all, too menial in most people's eyes to be coveted. For once that really worked to her benefit. She remained at her post, a dutiful worker and a silent observer, in the perfect position to keep tabs on just about everything.

Her observations grew as the hours trickled by. Walken was physically a very large man, especially compared to Bartlet and to Leo. His height and sheer bulk made it all the easier to intimidate others - a definite advantage right now, at least before the world, since this was one time when the United States could not afford to show any weakness. Then again, he compared less favorably to Bartlet's merry humor and natural charm with which he could put anyone at ease. As a politician, as a leader, as a personality, The Man won hands down.

Still, everyone has an Achilles heel. And when the great are downed, the lesser must take up the torch.

Debbie wrestled with her own resentment as though it were a living antagonist, clawing at her nonstop. For her, it wasn't political at all; it was purely personal. Like Charlie, like many of the support staff, and unlike the senior staff, she didn't care all that much about party competition. The enmity between Democrats and Republicans seemed overblown most of the time - and especially in this crisis. All that mattered was bringing Zoey home and keeping the nation safe. Surely politics could take a back seat, just for once.

"We need a new Speaker."

Walken's voice rumbled through the Oval Office, as irresistibly as a train barreling down a track. Even seated, he seemed to loom over everyone else around.

"Agreed." Leo did not hesitate. "The House can't function without one. They're meeting right now."

Debbie noticed idly that someone had found a new executive chair. That high-backed leather throne was always custom-made for the incumbent of this great chamber. Walken could have managed with Bartlet's chair if he'd tried; they weren't constructed that flimsily. Instead he had demanded the same privilege as any other President, and no one pretended he wasn't entitled to it. So they'd raided the Cabinet Room and procured the seat built for the largest of the Secretaries, at least as a more comfortable stopgap measure. A new chair had already been requisitioned. This man did not allow grass to grow under his feet for long.

His decision also regulated the Bartlet chair to one side - not in the way, yet still in full view. Its silent, untouched, untouchable presence constituted a vivid reminder that the real President had every possibility and intention of returning to his job.

"The new Speaker will also be the next in line to this office," Walken pointed out, leaning his elbows on the "Resolute" desk as though he owned it. His posture and his tone somehow made that line sound even more ominous.

Leo's response was a bit slower this time. "Good point, sir." The idea of something happening to their hour-and-a-half-old Chief Executive unnerved everyone. Nobody wanted to go through this upheaval again - ever. Much less now.

"And we need a new Vice President," Darrow announced eagerly, leaping to the next item that might well assist in consolidating the Republican power grab.

Toby came close to a growl this time. "That can wait. The people deserve a say in something around here."

Josh couldn't resist adding his two cents. "Yeah. The House can't do without a Speaker, but we can do without a Vice President just fine."

A brief, awkward silence fell. As usual, the Deputy Chief of Staff had put his foot right into the biggest cowpat around. He did have a valid point - the White House did not technically need a Vice President in order to operate, as had been proven over just the past two weeks. It would, however, have a much easier time with its agenda when there was a VP, especially one who cooperated with the Administration.

Plus, Walken wouldn't be here right now if there had been an official runner-up to the Presidency. The Bartlet Team could blame John Hoynes if they wanted, but they deserved some liability themselves for delaying in the selection of his successor.

"The President Pro Tempore of the Senate is the next candidate," Will pointed out, trying to deflect the conversation away from one very touchy subject.

"He's not eligible." Clearly Walken had thought about this himself. "He was living in Greece for a while some twelve years back. Constitution says you have to live in the U.S. for fourteen years minimum, uninterrupted."

From her stance to the side, jotting notes in a steno book, Debbie got the distinct impression that the very light in this room seemed to be avoiding its new occupant. The Oval Office had great illumination, the shadows soft and soothing. After all, it needed to shed both literal and figurative light on the tangled affairs of state. Yet Walken seemed to attract those shadows, so that they fell upon his heavy jowls and high cheekbones, all of which accentuated the hard facial planes and made him look more imposing, more immovable than ever.

Also, he hadn't so much as cracked a grin yet. His face was closed and his eyes were cold.

"Which brings us to the Secretary of State." C.J. tried not to keep the relief out of her words. Every member of the Cabinet was, of course, a Democrat.

"Only until a new Speaker is elected," and Brad made no attempt at all to mask the gloating in his words. A vote in the House now, with its Republican majority, would mean another Republican Speaker.

As an added twist, if Walken stayed in office long enough to nominate a Vice President personally, that individual would certainly be from his own party as well. This could become a complete turnover in the Executive Branch.

Even as that appalling idea cannoned through the minds of the home team, Walken settled possessively back in his chair until it creaked in protest. "All right. Enough domestic issues for now. We'll let the House solve its own problem first." Easy for him to say; the odds were their decision would back him up. "Let's get focused on the foreign situation. That's where the real problem is."

Towards the rear and safely beyond notice, Debbie frowned. Wasn't the real problem Zoey's abduction, and the need to find her captors? From the uneasy glances flying between her four colleagues, they thought so as well.

"Debbie." Donna quick-marched into reception, almost exactly the same way she had some six hours ago.

The executive secretary's head bobbed up so fast she almost got a crick in her neck. "Hey, Donna. Glad you're here. I've had a thought."

"Yes?"

"But you go first. You must've come by for a reason."

"No, it's all right. Go ahead." Donna could be surprisingly assertive when she wanted or needed to, but she always knew when to step back and grant others some space: space to move, to think, to speak. It made her seem deceptively delicate - a deception that emphasized those moments of assertiveness all the more.

"Well, you and I both know that none of our people are going home anytime soon." Debbie's use of "our people" suggested both a division in the ranks and a consolidation of the faithful, both of which were true. Her prediction of the overtime hours to follow showed her growing knowledge of the depths to their comrades' loyalty.

"Batting a thousand on that one," Donna agreed wholeheartedly.

"And only some of the senior staff offices have couches. So I was wondering if we couldn't set up a temporary dorm or something below deck." Debbie shrugged, eminently practical. "There are so many rooms in this building; surely we can find a corner or two that no one else will need over the next while."

Donna's gentle smile lit up her face. "Great minds think alike."

Debbie blinked. "There's already a crash pad set up?"

"I just finished it." Josh's assistant didn't sound the least bit smug at her prescience. "We had to do this once before, during the... revelation."

She didn't blush with pleasure at her own initiative, and she didn't need to extrapolate any further. Her sudden downcast expression said enough. There had been only one revelation in this Administration that overshadowed all others.

The executive secretary got the idea, and swung onto another angle - one of more current concern. "I'm not trespassing on your domain, am I?" She could not forget that, though she technically ranked highest among the support staff, she was still a relative newcomer.

"Oh, no! I just wanted you to know about it, in case you'd like to take advantage of the option yourself."

Pause. "That's kind of you. But I've already sent Nancy home for a bit of sleep. She'll spell me off later."

Donna waved a dismissive hand. "You'll spend more time traveling than sleeping. Both of you can feel free to bunk below for a nap any time you need it."

Debbie appreciated this offer, a sure sign that she had been fully accepted into the elite circle of the President's closest people. "Thank you. I would prefer to stay on site."

"We'd rather have you here, too." Donna was gazing towards the shut portal to the Oval Office; she missed the look of amazement that crossed the executive secretary's face. "We really need to keep on top of this."

That vote of confidence spawned Debbie's first sensation of pleasure and optimism today. The subsequent observation prompted her to probe the limit of the more open links between all staff members in this emergency.

"The news has a lot to say about troop movement, bigger and faster all the time, but only in the most general terms. That's almost more terrifying than the ugly details. Of course foreign correspondents and satellites don't have the inside scoop from the Situation Room..." She trailed off, just a bit hopefully. How much did Donna know, and how much of that could she share?

The assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff picked up on this subtle plea, and fell right in with the script - yet another endorsement of trustworthiness from the Bartlet Team. "I'm afraid the troop movement is only going to increase. The President -" and you knew whom she meant by the clear respect in her tone "- started it, of course, but slowly and carefully. Josh says the Acting President -" a not-so-subtle stress shift there "- is so gung-ho that he's starting to make Fitzwallace a bit nervous."

Debbie pondered this wealth of information and implication. "The Chairman and the NSA seemed to be right behind their new Commander-in-Chief." The presence of Fitz and Nancy McNally at the swearing-in proclaimed that. "Now it sounds like there's a rift - and in the highest ranks of the military at that. Just what we needed."

"What we need is someone whose judgment we can trust," Donna almost whispered.

Debbie cocked her head, balancing variables. "If the news is at all accurate, there are a few nations we both could name that are already moving to take advantage of our situation, right?"

"Right..."

"Then a crack-down is pretty much the only option we have. Sounds to me like we have someone with, if not better, at least less compromised judgment at the moment."

Slowly, Donna nodded in comprehension. "You couldn't expect the President to concentrate on foreign squabbles at a time like this."

"No, you couldn't. And he didn't. That's why he stepped aside." Debbie rested her chin on one hand, keeping her somber vision aimed at her companion. "President Walken got dumped into the deep end with no time to prepare, either in experience or in mindset. He's suddenly gone from mediating the House of Representatives - which concentrates mostly on domestic affairs - to confronting the most severe international dilemma of the year."

This analysis got Donna's mind churning. "You think he's overcompensating?"

"Maybe. I just think it's not too surprising that he's trying so hard to clamp down on the foreign threats, large or small. They're the most obvious danger to the nation he now has to lead. He's not used to looking at a picture quite this big."

Josh's assistant nibbled nervously at her lower lip. "Let's hope he's a fast learner."

"Well, you're still surviving your briefings." Debbie arched a deadpan eyebrow at the Press Secretary as she walked in.

"Julien's the only one who's more disappointed than you are," C.J. riposted with a straight face. Her eyes danced just a bit, though. She nodded towards the closed white door. "Is this a bad time?"

"Another couple of minutes; he's got the new Speaker in there right now."

"Oh, by all means let's interrupt that." C.J. tried not to sound too sour on the matter. "One more hurdle that the real President will face when he returns to office."

Every member of the senior staff fiercely refused to believe that Bartlet might not be back - but the Press Secretary seemed to be having the hardest time with any hiatus. Debbie had formed her own conclusions, based both on hearsay and on shrewd observation. Toby and Will had promptly endorsed the decision to step aside, a decision made by a President who at the time was more father than leader. Josh, the most militant political animal of the four, had been somewhat slower to come around, but come around he did. C.J. still persisted in lingering on the fence... perhaps because Bartlet's relationship was even more paternal with her than with the others. Her protective instincts towards him had an even deeper emotional element.

Now C.J. searched for another topic to distract them both. "While we're waiting, here's the latest..."

These last few hours had radically altered Debbie's role in the White House. Both senior and support staff members came to her with any new information, and checked constantly with her on Oval Office events and temperaments. She'd become the unofficial clearing-house for the entire West Wing; everyone brought her their news, knowing that she would in turn brief them as events developed. Nothing like this had been in her job description or her training, but she welcomed her expanded duties eagerly. This way they all contributed to a unified front against the adversary elevated into their very midst.

The two viewpoints dovetailed perfectly. She was constantly aware of Walken's activities. He could do almost nothing without her knowledge, however much he might like to try. Her long-established responsibilities demanded that she always know where he was. She couldn't hear and shouldn't hear what was actually said inside that Office, of course, but just knowing who's dropped by provided the foundation for many valuable conclusions and preparations. In this way all employees were better informed, and better equipped for whatever might come next. By default she provided an essential link between the boss and the staff - supposedly his staff - with or without his knowledge, and probably with his suspicion.

It didn't sound very loyal when you put it that way... but this was a House under siege. And not just besieged by Walken & Co., either.

C.J. leaned against Debbie's desk and folded her arms, looking both angry and self-satisfied. "I'm still trying to find out how anyone got hold of those family videos to begin with. They should never have been aired. It's disgusting, that level of exploitation."

"Concurred." Debbie fulfilled her role as a sympathetic ear quite well; far better, in fact, than almost any of the staff would have thought before yesterday. She'd never make a diplomat, but right now her tendency to say exactly what she thought worked with them all.

"A lot of other citizens think so, too - and don't even ask about the rest of the staff. Anyway, most stations have already pulled the clips, and the others will follow suit in a hurry if I have any say. I also plan to wring a public apology out of every single one of them." The Press Secretary's eyes snapped. She knew how to wage war as well as any of her male colleagues. This had been her crusade, on behalf of the Bartlets, and she could almost taste the victory.

"Go for it." C.J. didn't need encouragement from Debbie or anyone else, but the executive secretary provided it just the same. Imagine how Zoey would feel about those private moments from her childhood being aired for all the world to see?

The door latch clicked as someone prepared to exit the Oval Office. C.J. drew herself up to attention at once, fitting the carefully neutral mask of her job back into place. No matter how uncomfortable that mask might be, she had to wear it.

"Thanks," Debbie offered, sotto vocce.

"See you later." That was a promise. As soon as more data came through, it would find its way here.

Not even the watchdog of the West Wing could stay at her desk indefinitely. Reassured that Nancy was back and right at hand, Debbie had seized on a trip to the ladies' room. A splash of cold water on her face helped keep her own weariness at bay, at least for the moment.

She stepped back into the hall -

"Debbie."

The voice was low yet sudden, the presence unseen and unexpected. An electric current shot straight up her spine; somehow, she managed not to jump. No one would be critical of a case of nerves today, but she didn't like to appear jumpy at any time. Especially not to this person.

She turned slowly, her dignity intact. "Do you count lurking outside washrooms as one of your favorite habits?"

Toby bore her rebuke calmly, just as he ignored whatever he felt did not merit a response. "It does break up my day."

"It also spares you from loitering outside the Oval Office, either for instructions or for news." She wasn't fooled. He hadn't sought out her sparkling company for any old reason. This had to be the least demonstrative person in the District of Columbia... after her, of course.

Hands in pockets, one shoulder holding up the wall, Toby didn't shift under her scrutiny. "No sense giving the visiting team any extra reason to suspect our loyalty." Having offered that nod to the unpleasant truth, he swung straight into business. "I heard a rumor that the drug dealer's been found dead."

Debbie enjoyed this rare treat of the taciturn Communications Director coming to her for any kind of assistance. Toby never took kindly to what he perceived as an encroachment upon his territory, whether that applied to the Communications Department, the White House in general, or his reigning status as the chief sourpuss. Likewise, the executive secretary didn't welcome being force-fit into an established mold for the sake of another's sensibilities.

Plainly put, they were too much alike. They both cultivated an impression of withdrawn solitude, even downright surliness, and for the exact same reason: armor. It was inevitable that each would see the other as a competitor.

But they were on the same side now, with a common objective. They always had been, of course... today just brought that fact into full focus.

"You heard correctly." Debbie didn't hesitate to confide in him - not about this.

He sighed and looked down. "So. Leo was right on the money. As usual. And there goes another piece of evidence." Frustration visibly gnawed at him. "Took the Service long enough to find him."

She rolled her eyes. "Dead men tell no tales. They're also harder to ID."

This time Toby did not reply, his shadowed eyes turning towards something no one else could see. When he really went after a goal, political or personal, he refused to take prisoners. Beyond a doubt, this goal ranked very high indeed... and suddenly Debbie had a fresh inspiration as to why.

"By the way, congratulations." She hadn't had the chance to speak to him before this, but the news of the Wyatt-Ziegler twins had circulated as rapidly as one would expect, crisis notwithstanding. It provided the sole bright point to this relentless nightmare.

Now he looked embarrassed. Watching closely, Debbie caught a glimpse of a very rare softness to this man's guarded vision.

"Yeah, thanks." He looked down, shuffling his feet. "But... it doesn't feel right, somehow, to... you know... celebrate."

Debbie re-engaged her argumentative mode. "Because Zoey is missing, and Agent O'Connor is dead." She knew what Toby's daughter had been named, and no one had to explain why. In this case, she most definitely did not want to even chance mistaking the two identities. "So we have three sets of parents: one pair that's distraught, one pair that's bereft... and one pair that has every right in the world to rejoice."

Sure enough, this lecturing tone ruffled every quill in Toby's prickly image. "I know it's illogical to feel guilty. But since when does logic have anything to do with this madness?" He braced for combat. "Do you have any children?"

She had to work hard not to flinch. "No."

"Well, then. That leaves Leo and me as the only other parents in the immediate vicinity. We can at least partially understand what the Bartlets are going through."

Debbie's tone sharpened. "The rest of us don't have to understand to sympathize. Be that as it may, I have my share of honorary nieces and nephews. I've seen friends weep with worry over how their children's lives might turn out. But worry alone doesn't make them regret their choice. Do you think the O'Connors regret raising Molly and watching her grow up to help others? Do you think the President and the First Lady are wishing they'd never had Zoey in the first place, just so that she wouldn't have been exposed to this risk?"

For once in a long, long while, at least to the knowledge of the White House staff, Toby Ziegler seemed at a loss for words. He recovered quickly, though. "You are most definitely in the wrong job."

"I'm not so convinced of that." Especially if it provided opportunities like this. "Just the same, thanks for the compliment."

He hesitated, becoming almost introspective. "I seem to be saying this about a lot of people today, but you're right. Children are our hope. Every child we raise well is one more bit of insurance for a bright future."

Debbie allowed a bittersweet smile. This man was a writer through thick and thin.

Out of death, life. She chose not to put it quite like that, though. And she sincerely hoped that Toby would not feel obliged to name his next daughter Zoey.

Turnabout is fair play; now she wanted something from him. Her point of view from reception was rather limited in some aspects. "Meanwhile, what's the mood in the rest of the country? Any decent person would be shouting foul at the least."

Toby rose to the occasion at once, clearly relieved to get away from the discomfort of debating his emotions. "Oh, yeah. Most of the world is united in outrage. Except for the totally unprincipled, of course. There's always someone who hates authority - who confuses necessary questioning and challenge with just plain destructive defiance." His exhalation bordered on an ironic chuckle. "Funny thing is, even the more radial groups aren't all cheering."

Debbie let out a snort. "I see. Venting your anger against the President, even violently, is okay in some eyes - but harming an innocent child is not."

"Don't let Zoey ever hear you call her a child," Toby warned seriously. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched in an aborted grin.

"I won't." If only they got the chance to run that risk again...

Then Debbie's voice dropped to a positively gentle level. "How is Congresswoman Wyatt doing?"

"Uh..." He had to change gears, again straying reluctantly towards personal terrain. "Recovering. On a bit of an emotional see-saw, too."

"No doubt. Give her my regards. These are her first children as well, right?"

Even paternal pride had a hard time making inroads through Toby's gruff exterior. Perhaps, with time, he'd adapt to it. "Yeah."

The executive secretary paused, then allowed a private element of her soul to escape. "Tell her - that I'd give a lot to be in her shoes right now."

"Excuse me."

Debbie turned from her computer, rather surprised that she had become so engrossed in her tasks as to not notice the approach of others. She felt no real surprise, though; she knew Will's voice, and she'd known that he was due to speak to Walken at some point around noon. True to his training and his habits, he'd arrived right on time.

He had not, however, come alone. Like Leo and C.J., he could not go very far without his Walken shadow.

There were only three of these virtual immigrants, but all of them had developed two very annoying habits: showing up without warning, and hovering around where they most definitely weren't wanted. Just like flies, and just as heartily disliked.

They also wore their new status like medals, as though they'd earned such awards themselves: "We work for the real President."

"Yes, gentlemen?" Debbie presented a careful, neutral image; she had no desire to come under suspicious scrutiny herself. Let these rookies forget her presence and chat within her hearing range. She could be of much more help to the White House in general and to the Bartlet Team in specific if she was overlooked, invisible - or, when she was noticed, if Walken's men thought of her as an impartial mediator rather than firmly entrenched on the other side.

Will had much the same idea. He phrased his words cautiously, determined not to let anything slip out in certain company that could be twisted around and used against them all. "Hi, Debbie. You've met Brad?"

"Of course." She didn't quite smile; she almost never did. Let conclusions be drawn; she didn't care that much what the invaders thought. "President Walken is in the Situation Room; he should be back in a few minutes."

She'd improved on the use of that title, if only through sheer practice. It still didn't come easily, though, and required conscious thought to get it right.

"He's expecting us. We've got some fresh oration on the Middle East stance." Will graciously included Brad in the credit. He really had no choice.

"Your military experience is coming into its own." Debbie threw that out with studied carelessness, and she watched Brad obliquely. The way he and his pals acted, one would think the West Wing staff hadn't one redeeming character trait between them.

Will resisted a grin. "Perhaps. I may be the only one around with that kind of training, after Leo, but my record's pretty minuscule by comparison. Besides, I'm low man on the senior totem pole, so I won't be asked for an opinion any time soon."

Debbie cocked an eyebrow. "Of course they'll ask you. Everyone counts towards the whole. This is no time to waste any assets we have on hand."

Brad started to fidget - whether in irritation, frustration or guilt she couldn't tell.

"Oh, we've got lots of other strategists available," Will said dismissively. Sure enough, Brad looked a little smug at that. "After all, this is a war."

He paused for one extra calculated second, allowing Brad's ire to percolate just for the fun of it, before continuing his thought. "We're going to find those kidnappers and get Zoey home if it's the last thing we do."

Both staffers pretended to miss Brad's deflation, in the hope that this message would sink in better if it wasn't applied too directly. The real enemies were not each other, but the kidnappers of the First Daughter. Territorial the White House certainly was, but today it had far bigger things at stake than ego jabs.

Tiring of the act, Debbie gave the Deputy Communications Director a frank once-over. "As I recall, you're the only staffer who's had less time here than I have. You seem to be fitting in very well."

He shrugged self-consciously. "Well, I am glad the hazing is over."

They traded a glance of mutual comprehension. Both of them had replaced skilled, trusted, beloved employees, but life moves ever onward. He'd finally been accepted... and so had she.

They understood each other.

Brad looked about ready to pitch into the conversation, if only to shift it towards a more interesting topic. He'd be a less than delightful contribution for sure, so Debbie beat him to the punch.

"By the way, I heard that the first thing President Walken did when he arrived this morning was to ask about the First Lady. That was very considerate of him."

There - that should allay any doubt Brad might have been harboring about her.

Will clamped his mouth shut so as not to shatter this illusion. However, judging from his slight grimace, Debbie got the distinct impression that, in the eyes of the senior staff, Walken's thoughtful opener had thus far been his only saving grace.

She fervently hoped he had others in store.

The work slogged on, and the hours sped past... At times one wondered if this day would never end - and then one feared that it would end too soon, with not much done.

When Margaret dropped by to deliver a fresh stack of paperwork, Debbie marveled at her brisk pace. "How many coffees have you had so far?"

"I lost count some hours back." Leo's assistant looked weary, but then they all did. Her determination and her ability to stick it out had not diminished. They all felt the same way. It had become a bizarre contest to see who could endure the longest, a competition that drove them onward, keeping them sharp.

"I've ordered up coffee for President Walken a few times already. That also gives me a chance to get my own." Debbie started sorting her newly-inundated in-box. "I can only imagine how much the President's had... and that sure won't help his blood pressure."

Surprisingly, Margaret didn't leave at once. Usually she blew in and blew out, too rushed to spare more than half a dozen words. After a couple of elongated seconds, the executive secretary noticed this departure from the norm.

"Is something wrong?"

"Well, not as wrong as it could be."

Debbie frowned. "How so? Because we're rather overdue for some positive news."

Margaret glanced around surreptitiously, but not even Charlie was present. "This seems pretty positive to me - or at the very least entertaining. Team A and Team B almost came to blows a few minutes ago. Leo's spending a lot of his time playing umpire."

Debbie sat very still, brain churning in confusion. "Team A and...?"

From her colleague's expression, it couldn't be more obvious. "B for Bartlet. A, naturally, means -"

"Acting. Got it."

"I thought it would help if we clearly delineated the players."

"You have entirely too much time on your hands." Maybe so, but a genuine Fiderer smile peeked out at last - and not just for these two newly-established franchises. A fistfight in the West Wing would have been quite the sport to watch. Still, their general morale was under more than enough strain already. Thank God they had Leo's steadfastness to fall back on, no matter the provocation.

Margaret must have heard that criticism before; it failed to perturb her. "Speaking of delineations, I really like the way you differentiate between the President and the Acting President."

Debbie's frown returned as she tried to follow this, and came up blank. "Oh? Come to think of it, I'm not even sure myself how I do it."

"You always refer to our guest as President Walken."

Pause. Debbie still didn't know where her colleague was going with this. "We do have to be polite. He was sworn in. He is President, like it or not."

"I know. It's just that you've been reserving a simpler 'The President' for the President."

It really was weird how one's mind could take the initiative without one realizing it. Now that this detail had been pointed out, Debbie saw how she'd instinctively developed her own way of keeping the two men straight in her mind, while still granting them the deference they deserved. After all, the President didn't need any extra identifier.

"Really, it's a good method." Margaret insisted. "In fact, it's not all that different from how the British Royal Family used to operate."

Now Debbie felt totally at sea. "Really?"

"Sure. For fifty years they had Queen Elizabeth II and Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. Know how the staff around them kept things straight? They never used 'The Queen Mother' themselves; that was for people outside the inner circle. To her friends she was 'Queen Elizabeth', and her daughter is just 'The Queen'."

Debbie's lips pursed. "Okay, I'm not sure I want to know how you knew that. You are quite the repository of data at times."

Margaret blushed. "Just don't tell the President. He'll want a trivia duel."

Then she broke off, no doubt feeling bad about any humor during this horrid situation.

"It might help take his mind off things," Debbie suggested quietly.

Margaret shook her auburn hair in firm disagreement. "It wouldn't. Not even Leo has managed to help him there."

Silence fell. If Bartlet's oldest friend was at such a loss...

Debbie pursued this angle to its next logical point. "And how is Leo doing?"

Margaret sighed. After Jed Bartlet, she knew their Chief of Staff better than anyone in the House.

"He's been in politics for over thirty years. He's known the President... for over thirty years." She paused. "This is the ultimate division of loyalties."

She didn't have to say any more; Debbie got the point. By his nature, Leo defined both loyalty and duty. He had been placed in a position every bit as unbearable as the President himself.

Charlie exited the Oval Office, closed its door and returned to his desk, flopping into his chair with a depressed sigh.

Debbie studied him indulgently. She worked closest with him; by now she knew him better than most other staffers, just through constant association.

Before last night, this young man had leaped up eagerly to answer the executive summons, and had almost regretted those moments when he was not needed to be right on hand. Even though the President often ran him ragged, kept him up late, and preferred to bellow for him rather than use the intercom, he never hesitated to obey.

Between midnight and five AM, it had been less pleasure and more desperation that kept him on the go. Like the rest of them, he did everything he was asked to do, at once, and wished with all his being that he could do more.

Since the swearing-in, though, the body man had shown a distinct reluctance to enter that chamber and serve the replacement who now occupied it. Naturally he persevered; it was his job, and it was still the best way he could contribute.

But he didn't like it. He wanted to be with his real boss, to back him up in his greatest trial, to stand by him personally and literally. By this point he must have felt that he owed more allegiance to The Man than to the office.

If asked, The Man's response would have been predictable. At this time, with no work at all to do, he really didn't need a personal aide. Walken, shouldering the enormous burden of national and international leadership in Bartlet's stead, did need one - in fact, more even than Bartlet would have had he stayed in office. Walken had no experience in this executive role at all. Walken needed guidance in the smallest matters as well as the biggest. Logically and administratively, Charlie belonged nowhere but here.

Just the same, serving Walken probably felt like both an insult and a punishment, when in truth it was neither. Charlie couldn't possibly help the President any better way than to help his replacement. Charlie was needed to keep the office running properly, so that the crisis could be resolved that much sooner and the President could return - with his job, his health and his family intact.

So Charlie served here, served a man he did not like... as much for the sake of Jed Bartlet as for the high office that Jed Bartlet no longer held.

Debbie read all of this in the set to Charlie's shoulders and the pinch around his eyes, in his taut muscles and his clenched teeth. She agreed with him, too. Both of their jobs were difficult, but all the workload and stress couldn't possibly match up against their pleasure at serving their leader. Their true leader, that is.

One definition of duty is performing a task you do not enjoy, because others rely upon you to do it regardless.

For now, Debbie pretended to be oblivious. If Charlie wanted to talk, he would. If not, there was plenty of work to distract them both.

"They've got the preliminary police report."

The executive secretary froze. Now she knew the deeper reason behind that dispirited sigh a few minutes ago. Then, slowly, she looked up.

The personal aide to the President did not look up. His voice might as well have been directed towards the carpet. "Molly O'Connor was hit by a sniper. That means the kidnappers were lying in wait all along, with one of them on the roof." Pause. "They'd planned this a long time ago."

Debbie's unfocused eyes flicked back and forth, as though processing lines of vital text that flashed rapidly before her.

Words came to her, almost unbidden, as patterns tumbled into place. "If Zoey hadn't gone to the club last night, they would certainly have tried something else. Somewhere else." Realization caused a fresh stab of horror. "She's been a target since long before this."

Nancy all but staggered into reception, her arms full and her eyes bagged. Even though she'd been one of the lucky ones to sneak out for a nap earlier, the benefits were wearing off fast. She uttered no word of complaint, though, heading for the chair near Debbie's desk so that she could help sort the latest deluge of papers.

Back in his own spot, Charlie offered a glance of empathy. Certainly he hadn't slept yet.

Neither had Debbie herself. All of them were visibly slowing down. If this kept up much longer, Leo's prediction - relayed through Margaret - of a band of dedicated staffers unable to lift their arms anymore would soon become reality.

Debbie didn't mention that, or attempt to insist that everyone take a break. You can lead a horse to water...

So, as she watched her own assistant sink wearily into the chair, she tried a different tactic. "We need more people." That way they could spread the work around and spell each other off more efficiently. "Is there no one else who's free to come in?"

Nancy sighed. "I've been over the list four times. Everyone who's not sick or out of town is already here." She propped up her weighted head with both hands. "I have to say, too bad we can't draft the East Wing staff. They've got nothing at all to do."

"Why can't we?" Debbie demanded at once.

Pause. Nancy and Charlie looked at each other in mild disbelief. Disbelief that anyone should even consider such an unthinkable option... or disbelief that they themselves hadn't thought of it sooner?

Debbie had been around long enough to know about the inherent rivalry between the two separate sets of employees. She had even reached the stage where she understood some of it. However, she saw no point in adhering to traditional barriers and "No Trespassing" signs when it comes down to a matter of survival.

"You mean no one's asked them?" But she already had her answer. If Josh - and certainly Leo - had invited the First Lady's staff to cross the floor of the White House, they'd have been here post-haste.

Of course, all of Team B (Margaret's moniker was making rapid inroads) had a great deal on their minds. It honesty might not have occurred to any of them. If they could control their tempers around Team A, which was a real alliance under pressure, then they wouldn't cling to petty differences of opinion between the two poles of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Of course, someone needed to show some initiative. Debbie had three choices: interrupt Leo, waylay Josh... or take steps herself.

It wasn't her business; it wasn't her place; it had nothing to do with her.

"Hold the fort." She rose and headed into the corridor without a backward glance. A pity, perhaps; the expressions of both Nancy and Charlie might have been worth seeing.

The activity level in the West Wing could best be described as frenetic: one thin inch from outright pandemonium. The White House proper, by contrast, managed to maintain most of its quiet dignity, despite the persisting "black" alert and the armed guards stationed absolutely everywhere.

The East Wing... seemed shockingly still.

Ever since the First Lady retreated - or was escorted - to the Residence, in what state no one wanted to imagine, her entire office had ground to a halt. Normally they faced their own ongoing work whether she was in town or traveling... much the same way the President's staff rolled endlessly onward no matter where he went. Of course all meetings, all luncheons, all appearances had been canceled for both of them. However, most of Abbey Bartlet's public functions revolved around such social activities; with their suspension, her employees found far less to do. They certainly weren't supposed to get involved in real political issues - not unless specifically invited by the Other Side.

This quiet, however, went even beyond that. It felt like no one dared move, lest they upset a delicate balance or drew unwelcome attention. Perhaps, after their boss's maternal instincts ran squarely counter to the political hardball game for her daughter's life, they feared to try anything without clear direction in case their actions made matters even worse for all three Bartlets. Debbie saw several administrators sitting around, none talking, all just waiting.

She went straight to the office of the East Wing Chief of Staff.

"Amy."

The slim, stylish brunette jerked away from her reverie out the window. "Oh - Debbie! What brings you all the way over here?"

"You. What's happening on your spread?" Debbie glanced around; this office looked larger and more handsomely appointed even than Leo's. Of course the West Wing tended to cram its staff in tighter, and to push them harder. That left less room or inclination for luxuries.

"Absolutely nothing." Amy threw a listless hand towards her door, encompassing the employees beyond. "Mrs. Bartlet doesn't need us; the Acting President doesn't want us. Since he's divorced, there isn't even an interim First Lady. Just as well; I have no idea how they'd work that out." She sat back and heaved a sigh. "Yeah, we're really useful right now."

The mere thought of anyone crowding Abbey Bartlet's personal terrain defied conception - both that anyone would dare, no matter why, and that she'd tolerate anyone to try. But then, like her husband, the First Lady had more urgent issues on her mind for the nonce. Still, it was a genuine relief that their new Commander-in-Chief hadn't brought a wife with him as well - for more reasons than one.

"Yes, you are." Debbie's blunt contradiction caught Amy off-guard. "It doesn't matter what President Walken thinks he wants or needs; we know better. We're as swamped as you are bored. Talk to Josh; he'll okay it."

"I'm not calling Josh." Amy sounded immovable on that point, far more so than the White House version of the Berlin Wall really justified. "We have a... history."

Ah, that explained a lot. She didn't quite blush, but her expression shifted from anger at past memories to pride that loathed admitting to dependence. According to the scuttlebutt, Josh and Amy had collided on several occasions, some romantic and some not so. As a strong and nervy figure in a prominent women's lobby group, she once went behind his back to the First Lady for a vote of support that he couldn't guarantee. She once jumped on a casual comment of his while they were both off-duty and rallied her troops against one of the Administration's private initiatives, causing no small political trouble in the process. He'd proceeded to get her dismissed as a result... and then he had been unwittingly responsible for her landing this assignment in the White House itself.

"Screw it." Debbie knew there was a double entendre in there someplace - Amy's start and half-grin proved that - but she didn't care. "No one's going to slam the door during a state of emergency. If we can get along with the Walken team, then Josh can work with you, and you can work with him. So if you want to pitch in, then have at it. Everyone this Wing can spare, bring them along too. We'll keep you busy."

As a rule, this bright female activist never backed down from a challenge. In fact, she was one of very few who could look Abbey Bartlet in the eye and say exactly what she thought, no matter how unwelcome... which had contributed hugely towards her appointment. She knew how to use toughness, shrewdness and style to full advantage. She also knew how to give ground where necessary, and how to find the advantage even in an apparent surrender.

Amy rose smiling, eager to pull her weight and join the battle. "Anything's better than inaction. Of course I'd be happy to do a favor for the Bartlets. Besides," she added for good measure, "it's been awhile since the last time Josh owed me."

Still, she did insert a caveat for what they were both about to do. "Talk about jumping the chain of command. I dare say we're both going to get into some little trouble."

The executive secretary showed no concern. "If I always followed the party line, I wouldn't be here. Neither would you." They traded a nod of full endorsement. "Anyone who'd like to fire either of us can give it a try - afterwards. For now, we have work to do."

As with all decisions of great import, there must afterwards come a reckoning.

"Hey, the new Deputy Chief of Staff is in." Josh sauntered into reception. Judging from his tone, he had not meant himself.

Those who didn't know him would have been charmed by his affable grin. Those who did know him would have taken warning from the combative glint in his vision.

Charlie knew Josh quite well. However, Charlie wasn't present to offer advice.

Debbie didn't even glance up at first. "Only because the Deputy Chief of Staff just arrived." She wanted to make it clear she wasn't after that job. "I expected you half an hour ago."

"We were getting President Walken set up in the Residence." Of course the Acting Chief Executive had to move into the White House, if only as a matter of security. There was no safer domicile in the world.

Debbie didn't ask how anyone planned or hoped to maintain a decent residential buffer zone, but the Bartlets deserved that courtesy at the very least. Somehow, letting a replacement step into the Oval Office, while an invasion in itself, didn't feel half so rude as letting that replacement select a bedroom upstairs.

"And wrangling desks for the Speakerphones." Debbie almost grinned; Josh could give Margaret some competition on comical nicknames. Meanwhile, scrounging office space for their three visitors must have been no picnic in itself. Next thing they knew, Leo, C.J. and Will would be served with eviction notices. Even so, Josh tried to make it sound like that detail hadn't demanded any real exertion of his abilities at all.

Now he paused for impact, his humor fading, his eyes narrowing. "Not to mention finding tasks for the latest influx of support staff."

This time Debbie lifted her head. She made no attempt to avoid his bone of contention. "I'm not a diplomat, Josh, or a politician. I don't care about stroking egos or festering grudges or disruptive influences or keeping people in their preferred place. I'm a pragmatist, and this is a crisis. If you need help, you should get it wherever it can be found."

She returned to her writing. "So long as this White House doesn't crumble around our ears before Zoey is rescued and the President is reinstated, I don't care what happens after. My employment status will be a minor detail."

"Yeah." Josh's voice undertook a subtle change. "You see, unfortunately a lot of people want to agree with you."

Now she raised just her eyes.

He crossed his arms and rocked on his heels, a stance that resembled Jed Bartlet more than a little. "There's still a bit of a gray area between dodging the hierarchy and filling in the blanks. Around here, of course, the end justifies the means more often than not." Just like that, Josh had segued from angry supervisor to public supporter.

Now Debbie put her pen right down. She wanted to hear him say it.

"Anyway, I've managed to work a minor miracle and defer your court-martial to a later date." Now he acted like he'd been her sole defender, and risked his life in the process. This young man was a sharp political operator, but he could still be so boyish at times.

That wasn't quite what she'd had in mind for a word of thanks, but she could tell that he'd gotten over her breach of etiquette and weighed in on her side. "That was uncommonly kind of you."

He shrugged modestly, then changed the subject. Clearly that was as close as he intended to come to praising her actions. "I have to go in." He hooked a thumb at the closed white door nearby.

"You can't."

He stiffened, oscillating between amazement and irritation.

Debbie revealed a mischievous sparkle of her own. "And not for any of the reasons that have kept you out in the past." Or, to be more accurate, that she had used to keep him out. "President Walken is meeting with his three hit men right now."

"Ah." Josh slumped in place, his crushed-puppy look very much in evidence. "Getting the dope on how Team B is behaving, no doubt."

The executive secretary shook her head. "That label has really taken off."

"Anything sports-related finds a firm foothold around here."

"So it would seem." She relaxed in her chair, studying him far less abrasively now. He reflected the appraisal in silence, probably wondering what this enigmatic employee had in mind next.

"Tell me, Josh: what's your take on our new leader?"

The question went deeper than it seemed at first. Debbie wanted to know about motives, skills... intentions.

Josh paused, gauging his response carefully. Then he stepped back until he could lean against Charlie's unoccupied desk.

"I have to admit, he makes a fairly effective leader in a tight spot. More pugnacious than I personally like - but then we need pugnacious right now. He's getting the job done, too. It's a very clear message to the world that the U.S. is perfectly capable of standing its ground against any kind of assault."

Debbie nodded her comprehension. "The government is functioning exactly the way it's designed to do."

"For sure - internationally." Here Josh hesitated, not sure how revealing he should become, on either the official stance or his private opinion. "I wish I could say the same for the home front. We've got some very nervous Democrats right now. Of course the Republicans are predictably ecstatic."

Debbie had little patience for partisan follies, as she saw them. "Nobody can ignore that this is expected to be the shortest Presidency in American history! In fact, anyone with a speck of decency should be hoping it will be!"

"Yeah, those are the odds we're playing right now. The Republicans sure don't have much time to advance their own agendas - but that won't stop some people from trying." Josh looked so depressed that she had to resist the urge to pat him on the head in condolence. "At the very least, they're planning for next time."

Next time being if Walken ran for President on his own merit? With the knowledge and experience he was gaining right now, he'd be the logical party candidate, and the logical voters' choice... assuming he didn't screw up along the way.

Logic and politics tended to be mutually exclusive. Still, that unusual combination would make anyone sit up and listen.

"To his credit, our new boss hasn't shown any hints of yielding to the same temptation - yet. Then again, it's not like he's had any time to spare." Josh ran a hand through his already unruly hair, and stifled a yawn.

Debbie noted to herself that, of the senior staff, only Josh and C.J. had raised party divisions around her so far today. Toby was better at seeing past that line in a tight spot, and Will just didn't let it bother him as much.

"I imagine the nation as a whole is relieved to have a strong leader, come what may," she mused, almost to herself. "One who's able to defend us effectively, besides providing a constitutional way of easing the President's pain at least a little."

"Sure - but if only he was one of ours!"

"And what will happen when the President finishes his last term?" she challenged.

Plainly Josh didn't like to contemplate that thought, either. On that day, any personal control would permanently pass out of the senior staff's hands, after eight years of being in control.

He took the only out he had. "Then we just vote."

"A Republican candidate will get elected eventually; your party can't hold out forever. And I say, better a Republican who can do the job than a Democrat who can't."

He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. And then exhaled. "Fair point." Put that way, he had no grounds for rebuttal.

He cast a bleak gaze towards that closed door. "It's just that... all of us..."

Debbie gave him a moment, then finished the thought. "All of us don't want to see anyone except President Bartlet in the Oval Office. Which is perfectly understandable."

Josh's features took on an even more youthful glow. "You got that right. No one can measure up to him."

The room was black, with no windows to let in the dim light of a thoroughly wet day. It also had little ventilation and even less space. However, it served the same purpose as a nun's cell: providing privacy and a flat surface in order to rest. Nothing more was really needed.

Debbie lay on the simple cot, fully dressed, a blanket draped up to her shoulders, and concentrated on sleeping. She needed sleep badly, at least a little sleep; she wouldn't get another opportunity anytime soon.

To her acute annoyance, sleep didn't cooperate. This was the first chance she'd had to rest her head since she arrived at work yesterday morning, over thirty-six hours ago, and now she couldn't doze off at all!

Perhaps "concentrating" on sleep was her mistake. Her mind refused to relax. She'd been wound too tightly for too long to just relax on command. Granted, most people had trouble sleeping in the middle of the day, but sheer exhaustion should have made it easier.

She had no legitimate cause for concern during this hour. Nancy was in reception. Walken had finally been persuaded to take a nap as well, allowing everyone on Team B to heave a giant sigh of relief; surely he couldn't cause trouble for them or for the nation while he himself was asleep. The Situation Room stayed at high alert, naturally. Some of the support staff and at least a couple of the senior staff likewise remained on duty, so that they could respond instantly just in case, but almost everyone else had seized this brief window with both hands.

Debbie hoped the others would emerge more rested than she was going to be at the present rate. She exhaled heavily and tried to stop her brain from churning in ceaseless circles.

She wondered how many cubbyholes had been set up like this one. The White House and both Wings had countless rooms between them, most of which would not be used in a crisis. She couldn't see maintenance workers spreading mattresses across the floor of the enormous State Dining Room or right underfoot in the well-trafficked Cross Halls, but virtual closets like this one were made to order. They'd probably figured out the mechanics of it during the long strategy days prior to the MS disclosure, even though that marathon had been confined mostly to the senior staff and their closest assistants. It hadn't taken long to prepare beds for everyone, and all without going anywhere near the Residence.

Debbie reminded herself angrily that when this hour ended, not only was she due back at work, but someone else would be waiting for his or her turn to flake out here. She sighed at the further depressing idea that this would probably be the closest she ever came to being an overnight guest at the White House.

Her mind stubbornly returned to her job. Nancy had worked here longer, but she didn't have the concentrated training that the President's personal secretary needed to go through. The Maxwell School's crash course did exactly that: crash down on you with a tremendous load of very diverse information in very little time. Still, Nancy would manage just fine for short intervals like this... and should something really blow open, she'd be able to call her supervisor upstairs in short order.

Even so, Debbie considered it her direct and personal responsibility to stand guard over the Oval Office, and over its temporary incumbent. If something new did break, she needed to be there at once. Being summoned from the basement of the East Wing, scrambling to respond, and trying to clear her head of sleep-induced cobwebs would all take precious minutes.

But she wouldn't do her job a lick of good if she couldn't keep her eyes open for sheer fatigue. Maybe she should consider taking a few uppers - just to help her stay alert and get through this. No one in the House would openly condone such a method... but like Josh said, the ends usually justified the means. She'd be willing to risk public disapproval afterwards if it would help her to help the President even more right now.

No. Not only would The Man totally frown upon any kind of drug usage for any reason, but he wouldn't want Debbie to risk either legal repercussions or physical harm to herself. Not even for his sake. He was that kind of man.

Besides, while the pills would keep her awake, might they also impair her judgment?

Then there were two other trivial facts to consider as well: Leo had his own drug history... and drug abuse had led directly to Zoey's abduction in the first place.

Suddenly, even a relatively harmless upper lost all appeal.

Of course, Debbie wouldn't even consider it in the first place if she could just sleep!

Now that she thought about it, the First Couple probably hadn't slept yet either. If she was having trouble, imagine their difficulty.

No one had had any idea what to say to Bartlet after he stepped down. Even the news of his MS couldn't have compared for sheer discomfort. That might have been an additional reason why, except for the joint press conference shortly after Walken was sworn in, the President had virtually barricaded himself inside the Residence ever since. This way, he didn't have to face anyone else's turmoil.

Except his wife's, that is.

If the worst came to the very worst, what would happen next? If Zoey died, what impact would it have on the First Couple? Could Abbey bring herself to resume her social program, while forever mourning a young life that had been such a critical part of her? Could the President hope to resume his vital responsibilities without second-guessing himself every time, fearing to create another enemy just as unprincipled? Would either of them suffer a breakdown in health from the merciless grief? Might they choose instead to withdraw from the public eye altogether, rather than risk a similar nightmare descending upon another of their children?

If Bartlet didn't return... well, Debbie didn't much care who took his place. All of the skill and wit and intelligence and compassion that he had brought to the most powerful office around... would be gone.

If a twenty-three-year-old woman died, what impact would it have on the world?

Now really annoyed at herself, Debbie shook off these defeatist images. Every law officer in the capital region, not to mention the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA and the Army, was looking for the First Daughter. They would find her. They had to find her, alive. Any other option was simply too horrific to contemplate. In the meantime everyone had to pull together, keep wor