THE WEST WING FIRST STRIKE

AUTHORS: The White House Angst Committee for the Love Of Bartlet (WHACLOB).

- Stenographer and Majority Whip – a really BIG whip: SheilaVR.

- Committee Leader, Conscience and Troubleshooter: Anne Callanan

- Espionage and Rock Transportation: Kelly

- Security and Gatherer of Rocks – Thrown and Un-thrown: SamSingingWolf

- Carpentry, Fiddling and Genesis: Kathleen E. Lehew

TIME INDEX: Projected continuation of "Memorial Day" (fifth season finale).

RATING: General (crisis)

DISCLAIMER: Even pooling our resources, no way could we have ever come up with such a brilliant creation entirely on our own. sigh Oh, and let it be iterated from the get-go that this is fun. Leave your reality check at the door and just enjoy the ride.

ELABORATION ON COLLABORATION:

- Kathleen: "When the credits faded, that was a shot."

- Sheila: "It was?"

- Anne: "It was not!"

- Kathleen: "Yes, it was!"

- Anne firm : "It wasn't."

- Sheila: "Too bad."

- Kathleen persistent : "Okay then, what if it WAS?"

- Sheila creative urge clearly rising : "It would certainly be a hell of a dramatic scenario."

- Anne: "Well, if you two want it that badly, you should write it."

long thoughtful pause on the part of the others

- Anne: "Oh, dear Lord…"

NOTES FROM THE COMMITTEE CHAIR:

- Anne: "This is what happens when things start to get silly in an AIM chat. Especially when you're also caught up in Season One-finale nostalgia and wild flights of fancy. I'm just saying, I was the voice of reason here."

COMMENTS ON CAUSE AND EFFECT:

- Kathleen protesting around a mouthful of donut hastily snatched from the frenzied grasp of the aforementioned Committee Chair : "NOT my fault!"

PREDICTION ON SAID EFFECT AND THE REQUISITE BLAME:

- Sheila feeling very self-conscious about being heaped with credit by fellow conspirators : "I am not a homicidal maniac. (Of course, you only have my word on that.) But what I put the President through –! Is the Secret Service after me yet? Is Martin Sheen after me?"

SUBJECT: When Bartlet threw out his opening pitch, was that sound the smack of a catcher's mitt – or the crack of a gunshot?

CHAPTER 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really? I didn't know that."

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

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

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

"It was?"

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

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

"Why, I'm flattered."

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

"No!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mere seconds later, the public address system drowned out even the legions of fans: "And now, for our ceremonial first pitch, tonight we are pleased to welcome… the President of the United States!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Several things happened at once:

"Strike!" Harry shouted gleefully into his microphone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leo's simmering anger instantly evaporated.

Charlie's left arm went limp, slowly spilling the executive coat and waistcoat to the floor.

C.J.'s cheer cut off short.

Toby's scowling expression went dreadfully blank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The entire world shared one electrifying thought:

What happened?

IS HE ALIVE?

Not one of them knew the answer.

Ron bolted forward at a dead run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TBC…