The dust rising around them made him cough heavily. Waving a hand near his face to try and clear some breathing room, Sullivan pushed gently away from the men he had covered with his body, and realized he couldn't move his legs. Pulling the flashlight from his pocket, he snapped it on and pointed it toward his feet; his breath caught as he assessed the steal girders leaning across his ankles, and the pool of blood forming beneath.

Sputtering dust and debris, Toby shook his head. "Agent Sullivan?"

Sullivan turned to look the man in the eyes and was not surprised to read the barely contained fear. "Are you all right, Mr. Ziegler?"

"Yeah," Toby said softly. He stared into Sullivan's eyes. "You?"

"I've had better days than this, sir," the agent responded.

Toby gently shook Seaborne's shoulder. "Sam? Hey, Sam..."

"What?" Sam asked as he came around.

"You okay?"

"Aside from a broken leg, yeah," Seaborne said, coughing. "Why is it so dusty in here?"

"They forgot to install the air filter in the new ventilation system," Ziegler quipped. He looked again at the secret service agent. "Sullivan?"

"I can't move, Mr. Ziegler. My legs are trapped by some girders."

Toby sighed, extracting himself gently from Sam's grasp, and taking the light from Sullivan. He tried to move the girders trapping the agent, but to no avail. He sighed and stood up straight. "Okay, let's see here..."

"Mr. Ziegler--"

"--Sullivan, I'm the only one with legs that, you know, work."

Sullivan nodded reluctantly. "Be careful wandering out into the debris; everything has shifted, and God only knows how much of the building is still standing, and for how long."

"All the more reason I should get moving," Toby countered.

Without another word, Ziegler carefully made his way toward the wall where the crews were working only a short time before and shining the light across it, felt his adrenaline kick into a higher gear when his eyes landed on a section of wall that had crumbled, leaving a small tunnel to the other side. He quickly made his way back to Sullivan and Seaborne.

"There's a hole large enough to crawl through," Ziegler said less than enthusiastically.

Sam looked up at Toby. "I doubt neither Agent Sullivan nor I can do that about now, Toby."

Ziegler looked expectantly at Sullivan who smiled faintly. "It's up to you, Mr. Ziegler."

Toby stared at him. "To crawl through the hole?"

"Unless you can think of another way out..."

Toby's dark eyes met Sam's blue ones. "Toby..."

"I..."

"Toby," Sam swallowed dryly, "there's no telling how long the building will hold in its current state. If you don't do it..."

"Yeah, Sam," Toby growled, "I think I've got the picture." He could feel the sweat trickling down his back just thinking about it.

Sullivan's brow furled, confused. "What the hell? Old football injury preventing you from crawling out of here?"

Toby cleared his throat nervously as he shuffled his weight from foot to foot. Sam finally answered for him, "He's claustrophobic."

Sullivan stared at Seaborne. "You're kidding, right?" Sam didn't answer, and Sullivan raised his voice, "You're kidding, right?"

"He's not," Toby said quietly.

"Well all due respect, Mr. Ziegler," Sullivan said steely, "but you're just going to have to suck it up."

"Ya think?" Toby yelled back at him.

"Toby," Sam said gently, "just take it slowly, take calm breaths and you'll be okay."

"Okay?" Toby yelled. "OKAY?" He screamed. "It's a tiny little space big enough for maybe a squirrel to get through. You think I'll be OKAY in there? Without enough air? Pitch black, with nowhere to go if--"

"Toby!" Sam yelled. And after a moment, Ziegler made eye contact and Seaborne smiled gently. "You can do this. We need you to do this."

"I know," Ziegler said softly.

"They'll be pie..." Sam offered hopefully.

"What kind?"

"Cherry."

"Lattice across the top?"

"Uh-huh."

"Okay."

And growling under his breath, Toby Ziegler made his way back over to the hole in the wall, and getting on his hands and knees, entered the small tunnel, praying to God that he wouldn't have a panic attack somewhere in the middle...

"Get Parnum on his cell," Josh yelled to Donna, "NOW!"

CJ stared at the ruins of the hotel on the television. "Oh God, Josh, oh God..."

"Donna?" She handed Lyman the phone and he said, "Agent Parnum, please tell me they're not all dead..."

Parnum's voice was hoarse from dust and debris, "Right now, Mr. Lyman, I don't know a damned thing. Not all of the work crews made it out before the collapse, I have no idea how many more may be," his voice broke slightly, "dead."

"What are you saying to me?"

"I'm saying I don't know. There could be pockets of the building that have air and some space, but I just..." He swallowed hard. "I just don't know what to tell you."

Josh's face turned ashen as he tried to take in a breath. "I want to speak with the DC fire chief. Or the FBI, or the CIA or the Director of Homeland Security, but damnit I want to know where we stand!"

"I'll track him down for you, but it might take a little while. It's chaotic here..."

Lyman looked toward the images on CNN. "Yeah, I can see that. Agent Parnum, I need to know if there's any chance that the president--" His voice caught in his throat and he swallowed. "That the president is still alive. I need to know that, and I need to know now."

"I understand. I'll contact you as soon as--"

"--You'll contact me every fifteen minutes unless you learn something sooner. Understand?"

"Yeah."

The line went dead and Josh gently set the handset into the cradle. He glanced up at the pictures on television and then at CJ. "I can't imagine anyone coming out of that in one piece."

CJ's eyes filled with tears, but before she could comment, Donna's voice broke in, "Josh, the vice-president wants to see you immediately."

Lyman sighed. "Yeah, I'll bet he does..."

Hoynes paced in front of the desk in the Oval Office. "So they can't tell us a damned thing right now?"

Josh shook his head. "No. It's too early for an assessment."

"Damn it. What the hell are we going to say to the American people?"

"CJ's working on a statement now," Josh offered.

"My office is already on that," Jeffrey cut in.

"Because you have so much experience with presidential press statements," Josh sneered.

"It's not rocket science, Josh," Jeffrey countered, "and your end of the building doesn't have it locked up."

"Back to your corners, boys," Hoynes warned. "This is definitely not the time for political posturing. I know this is a difficult situation, Josh, and I would appreciate it if CJ and her people could work with my people for now."

Josh nodded, acquiescing. "Is there anything else right now, sir?"

"No." Josh started for the door and Hoynes added, "Josh, I want to know the minute you hear something."

"You can count on it, sir."

Josh walked out of the Oval and Jeffrey turned to Hoynes. "If Bartlet's dead, Josh is gonna have to learn to wipe that smug look off his face--"

"--Jeffrey, damnit," Hoynes barked, "I don't need to have this be any more adversarial than it is by nature, do you get me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." John ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Get me whomever's in charge of the rescue effort, Jeffrey; and I mean whomever it is who is handling overall coordination. The top rung of the ladder."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"And Jeffrey?"

"Yes sir?"

"Don't refer to me as the president until we know one way or another about Jed Bartlet."

"But--"

"--Jeffrey, I'm not comfortable with it. Despite our differences in tactics, I consider Jed Bartlet a friend. Acting-president is fine in public for now, but in private...just don't."

"Yes sir."

Hoynes watched his aide exit the room, and he stared at the large wooden desk looming in front of him. He had yet to sit down behind it. His relationship with Jed Bartlet had been fiery since the beginning, but John Hoynes had never aspired to garnering the Oval Office in this manner. A good old fashioned fair fight for it was his style; inheriting it because of some madman's bomb just seemed candy-ass. And that thought made him smile, for he had picked up that expression from none other than the President of the United States...

The makeshift command center for the rescue operation - a diner down the street from the hotel - was buzzing with activity. Led by the Department of Homeland Security, members of the FBI, CIA, FEMA, local firefighters, police officers and EMT workers moved in and out of the building, in an effort to coordinate their movements. And the man charged with keeping track of all emergency task work stood in the center of the room, with phone lines, computers and people at his fingertips. He looked up as Secret Service Agent Parnum entered, making his way quickly toward the center.

"Director Marsh," Parnum said crisply.

"Agent Parnum..."

"Where do we stand, sir?"

Marsh looked over the top of his glasses at the man. "Up to our asses in the mud of hell, I would think, Agent Parnum."

"Yes sir," Parnum said softly.

"A division of marines have been deployed and are on their way here to speed up the recovery effort. But we're still waiting for the Naval architects to tell us whether or not the rest of that building's going to cave in on us and when they think that's likely to happen."

"There's still no news of--"

"--No," the director cut the man off. "I need you to coordinate the actual ground efforts of all the emergency crews. Let's make sure we do it quickly and we do it right. Not only am I responsible for the rescue of the leader of the free world, but his understudy's breathing down my neck." He stared at Parnum, hard. "A second chance at any kind of rescue effort is unlikely, and failure is not an option. Do I make myself clear, agent?"

"Yes, sir."

Parnum turned and walked back outside, heading toward the large CIA van with all the state of the art communications equipment, and reluctantly he pulled out his cellphone. He hated to update Lyman with nothing promising, but at this point, maybe no news was the best news of all...

Holding the flashlight between his teeth, Toby continued to limp forward on all fours, trying his best not to put any weight on his injured hand. The idea that the jagged walls of the crawlspace were closing in on him, and all the oxygen present in the chamber could not reach his lungs, were facts that he needed to ignore. He stopped for a moment and took the flashlight from his mouth, clutching it tightly in his right hand. He closed his eyes and tried to make himself breathe slower. But the walls were getting closer and there was no way out. Toby could feel it starting in the pit of his stomach. He could feel the panic rising. He had to find some way to stave it off. Sam and Agent Sullivan were counting on him. Hell, for all he knew, the President of the United States might be counting on him to get through the small tunnel and let the emergency crews know that there were still people alive in the rubble of the building.

There was no room for some stupid, childish phobia. There was no time for him to waste idly in search of his common sense and nerves. Yet here he was, on all fours, about to hyperventilate. God how could he be so weak that he would give in to this madness? His muscles began to shake and he couldn't keep the moisture from filling his eyes and slipping down his cheeks. He slammed his good hand against the hard concrete beneath him, stifling any sound that threatened to escape his lips. He fought the nausea tumbling in his stomach and a slight sob emitted from his mouth.

Damn him. Damn him all to hell.

It had started as an innocent enough childhood prank. David and his friends couldn't have known the lifelong fear and pain that they were about to instill into the little boy they locked inside the dark hallway closet of the abandoned house. They couldn't have known how much Tobias worshipped his older brother, nor how he looked forward to following them all over town on Saturdays after temple. That he had gone into the abandoned and supposedly "haunted" house at the edge of Flatbush with the older boys had simply been another Saturday adventure to Toby. He hadn't known that they were all tired of him as a tag-along, to the point of playing a cruel trick on him. From the moment that they slammed the door on him, locking it from the outside, he could feel the air disappearing. And the more that he banged on the wood, screaming for them to let him out, the less oxygen seemed to make it into his lungs. Pitch black as anything he had ever experienced, young Toby couldn't see the items in the closet with him; the ones that brushed up against him in the dark, causing him to jump and scream all the more. He pounded on the door for two hours until the boys came back to let him out, his hands bloodied from striking the heavy wood, his eyes swollen and red from his tears.

From that day forward, Toby Ziegler couldn't stand being confined in tight, dark places.

"Damn you, David," he screamed. "Damn you!"

And the Director of Communications for the President of the United States collapsed into a ball of shattered nerves and irrational fear, frozen by a thing he could neither understand nor name.

Butterfield stirred, feeling a tightness in his chest. He coughed trying to clear it and found that it hurt like hell. He gently pushed away from his protectee and reached for the flashlight he'd jammed in his pocket as he dove for President Bartlet and Leo McGarry. He extracted it, flicked it on and shone it on the two men below him. Both Bartlet and McGarry were unconscious. He gently shook the president's shoulder.

"Mr. President?" He called softly. "President Bartlet..."

Jed's eyes slowly opened and he squinted at the light flickering into his pupils. "Ron..."

"Are you all right, sir?" The agent asked, gently feeling the President's vital areas with his hands.

"Yeah, I think so. What the hell happened?"

"Building caved in, sir." Ron shone the light around the space, shaking off the debris that had struck his back. "Miraculously we're still here and we're in a pocket."

"Yes," Bartlet drawled sarcastically, "God watches out for children and fools, Ron, I thought you knew that already."

"Yes sir," he answered lightly. "How is Mr. McGarry?"

Jed glanced down at the unconscious form in his arms. "I don't think he was hit with anything, I sure wasn't." Then it dawned on him why nothing hit them. "Ron? Are you okay?"

"Yes sir," the agent lied. "Fine."

"Nothing hit you?"

"Nothing of any magnitude, Mr. President."

Bartlet didn't believe him, but pushing Butterfield at this moment would be fruitless. "Now what, Ron?"

"Now I assess our new situation, and you sit tight, Mr. President."

Butterfield slowly moved away, and the fact that he was in tremendous pain not lost on Bartlet, who shook his head trying to stave off his own emotional response to his agent's overwhelming sense of duty. Jed glanced down at the pale, still face of his best friend and he swallowed hard. As gently as he could, he adjusted Leo's body against him and McGarry groaned.

"Easy, Leo," he said softly, "it's okay."

"Mmmm..." Leo began to stir slightly. "It's so damned hot in here..."

Bartlet frowned and laid a soothing hand on Leo's forehead: it was burning up. "Damn..."

"Sir?"

"Nothing, Leo," he said easily, "just close your eyes and rest."

"Thirsty..."

Bartlet looked in the direction of the flashlight and called out softly, "Ron?"

After a moment Butterfield appeared. "What do you need, Mr. President?"

Bartlet stared hard into the dark eyes of the man who would give his life for him without a moment's thought. "Leo needs water. He's burning up with fever..."

"Mr. President--"

"--Ron, I know you have some and I know you're reserving it for me, and I'm telling you - no, I'm ordering you to give it to Leo." Butterfield stoically stared at him, unmoving. "Did you hear me? Leo needs it."

"I heard you sir," Butterfield said coldly, "but I can't do it."

"Mr. President," Leo's scratchy voice croaked, "leave him alone..."

Bartlet ignored McGarry and glared at Butterfield. "What do you mean, can't?"

"I mean I can't, Mr. President."

"In case you missed my inauguration, Agent Butterfield, I'm the President of the United States, and I'm telling you to cough up the water. Now."

"I have no idea how long we're going to be trapped down here, sir; the water can only be for you, Mr. President."

"Ron, goddamnit, give me the friggin' bottle and do it now, or I swear to God I'll take it from you."

Butterfield's normally smooth expression bobbled slightly at the president's outburst, but his voice remained neutral. "Mr. President, secret service procedures are clear and unmovable on such issues. You are my primary responsibility. You are my protectee. My duty is very clear."

The mixture of anger, fear and pain in Bartlet's eyes made Ron's stomach turn. The president's voice shook with fear, "Ron, please...I'm begging you."

Butterfield's eyes slammed shut against the raw emotion on Bartlet's face. "Damn it," he muttered softly against his failure to stay uninvolved with the protectee. It was the first rule of an agent: don't become involved on an emotional level, or you will be unable to serve. And Ron Butterfield had failed miserably to remain uninvolved with Josiah Bartlet. He had worked on presidential details before and managed to not develop anything beyond a sense of duty toward the protectees. But this man... this man was special. He was honest and true in his desire to do right and in his commitment to the American people. Ron's admiration and respect for Bartlet was immense, and on some level he had fallen prey to thinking of Jed Bartlet as a friend, although he had no idea exactly when it had happened: but at this moment, he was certain that he had.

Ron understood all too well Bartlet's desire to save his best friend. He understood only to painfully the agony of failure in that regard. Shaking his head in shame, Butterfield opened his eyes, reached into his pocket and handed Bartlet the bottle of water.

"Thank you, Ron," Jed said quietly.

"Don't thank me, Mr. President. I am at this moment, derelict in my primary duty, and that's going to be one hell of an expensive bottle of fiji..."

Butterfield turned as Bartlet frowned, not understanding his agent's comment, but Ron was already looking for a way out, and Jed chose not to press him any further. He turned to McGarry and gently poured some water into his mouth. Leo swallowed hard, trying to take in more than he should.

"Don't drink it so fast, Leo."

Bartlet poured a little water over McGarry's forehead, wiping it over his face, in the hope of cooling him down slightly.

"Mmmmm..."

"That's it, relax and try and sleep."

Leo's eyes fluttered closed and Jed held him close. He glanced once more at Ron, and a gnawing sense of foreboding filled him.