Jed's legs were beginning to ache from supporting most of Leo's weight, and he longed to stand up and stretch them. He glanced over toward the beam of his agent's flashlight and wondered why it hadn't moved in awhile.

"Ron?" He called softly.

After a long beat, Butterfield responded in a tight voice, "Yes sir?"

"Everything okay over there?"

"Yes sir."

But Bartlet could hear the distress in the man's tone. As gently as he could, Jed lifted Leo's upper body and slowly extracted himself out from under, lying Leo carefully back down, adjusting Ron's jacket over him and his own jacket under his head. Leo moaned slightly, but didn't come to. Jed felt his friend's brow and frowned at the heat of his fever. He loosened McGarry's tie and pulled it off, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. He rubbed his hand lightly over his best friend's chest.

"I'll be right back, Leo," he said softly, "just rest easy."

Jed stood, shaking his legs out a little, and pulling the flashlight from his pocket, worked his way over to the other light in the chamber. And as he suspected, he found Butterfield sitting on a concrete block, doubled over in pain. The president put a light hand on Ron's shoulder.

"Ron? How ya doin'?"

Startled by the touch, Ron grunted, "Mr. President, you need to stay by the retaining wall..."

"Uh-huh. How bad is it Ron?"

Trying his best to straighten up, the agent feigned ignorance. "How bad is what, sir?"

Jed sighed audibly, his tone turning brittle, "How badly are you injured, Agent Butterfield?"

"Sir..."

"I want you to look at me and answer the question, Ron."

Butterfield looked up at him then, pain dulling his dark eyes. "It's bad enough that I didn't stand in your presence, sir."

Bartlet nodded slowly. "Okay, Ron. Can you stand if I help you?"

Butterfield shook his head, his voice squeaking out through gritted teeth, "Not at this moment, Mr. President."

"What hurts?"

Ron shook his head. "I'll be fine, Mr. President, and I'd really prefer that you head back over to the retaining wall where it's safer. If this rubble shifts again, there's no telling--"

"--For God's sake, Ron, Leo's lying over there unconscious, and you're doubled over in pain, but by all means, let's worry about the one person in the room who's perfectly fine."

Ron closed his eyes in pain as he tried to draw in a breath.

Jed's voice turned gentle then, "Is it difficult to breathe?"

Butterfield whispered begrudgingly, "Yes sir." Bartlet reached for Ron's chest to check him, but Butterfield shook him off. "Mr. President, my welfare is not your concern, and I must ask you, sir, to return to the safest area available to us right now."

"Ron--"

"--Mr. President, I say this with all due respect, sir, but you need to do as I ask. Secret Service procedure does not--"

"--Agent Butterfield, I don't give a damn about your procedure right now," Jed bellowed, "And don't treat me as if I'm some kind of porcelain doll that's going to break if I have to actually DO something. Both you and Leo have been seriously injured trying to protect me, and now you're going to accept my help without lecturing me on some inane secret service procedure--"

"--It's my job, Mr. President."

"Don't patronize me, Agent Butterfield."

"Sir, I didn't mean to--"

"--And don't interrupt me, agent, I'm not through. I will not stand idly by while you kill yourself trying to dig through a wall of concrete, debris and dirt, only to find out that it leads to another impassable wall of concrete, debris and dirt. My guess is that by now, Percy Fitzwallace has called out the military and they are, at this very minute, using every means available to them to get us the hell out of this pit, and our job is to sit here quietly and stay alive. All three of us, Ron, not just me."

The two men stared at each other, a silent test of wills being waged. After several minutes of quiet, and a lack of verbal acknowledgment from Butterfield, Bartlet's impatience took its toll.

"Well, don't you have anything to say for yourself?" The agent's dark eyes narrowed in anger, something Bartlet had never seen the man allow himself. "Go ahead Ron, say it," he challenged.

And after a moment of fighting all his years of training, an emotional edge crept into Butterfield's timbre; one that Jed had never heard. "Mr. President, has anyone ever told you that you're an overly sentimental son-of-a-bitch?" The statement had the effect that Ron was looking for: Jed Bartlet was stunned into silence. "You pull everyone in with your damned sincere affection, to the point that any of us - secret service and senior staff alike - would gladly walk through fire for you if it was your pleasure. And the worst part sir, is the fact that you don't even know you do it. You don't even realize the power of your own passion for people; and that has nothing to do with the power of the office, although it's certainly magnified by it." Ron shook his head, trying to get air into his lungs and he grimaced slightly in pain. "You care too much and too deeply about everyone around you, and I'm afraid that--" Ron's voice cut off, his own emotions closing down his throat. Kneeling next to Butterfield, Bartlet placed a soft hand on the agent's forearm, and Ron swallowed hard to hold back the tears filling his eyes. "I'm afraid that it will destroy you," he said quietly. Ron looked Jed in the eye then. "I'm trained to protect you from almost every threat imaginable, Mr. President, but I don't know how to protect you from yourself."

Bartlet's voice was as soft as a whisper, "I don't think agents on my detail are allowed to be afraid of anything, Ron."

"We're not, sir."

Bartlet smiled wearily as he squeezed the arm under his hand. "Come on, Ron, let me help you up, and you can keep an eye on me from over there, where it's 'safer.'"

Butterfield allowed the president to help him to his feet, but then said, "You look after Leo, sir, I need to keep working on a way out of here."

"Ron--"

"--No sir, Mr. President. I appreciate your kindness, but like so many things between an agent and his protectee, this isn't something we discuss, it's a procedure, and I need to follow it."

"Okay," Bartlet capitulated softly, "Okay."

Butterfield watched the leader of the free world carefully make his way back to Leo McGarry, and satisfied that his protectee would stay put for awhile, Ron slowly forced himself to begin digging again. But he didn't know how much longer he could last...

McCracken was more exhausted than he could ever remember, but he kept himself and his men digging. So far, his crew was the only one to find survivors. The other men, working in different areas around the rubble had only discovered bodies. That thought made him inwardly shudder; what if they'd found the only survivors? What if the president...

He couldn't allow himself to think that way. It was counterproductive and defeatist, and not befitting of the uniform he was wearing.

"Keep it goin' fellas," he encouraged, "we need to keep it goin'..."

But how long could they allow themselves to believe survivors would last in the rubble? He dug harder into the earthen wall in front of him, not wanting to contemplate the answer. And then he heard it. The sound of someone crying.

"Hold it!" He yelled. "Listen!"

And they all heard it. Frantically the soldiers concentrated on the area closest to the muffled sounds of weeping until finally one of them broke through.

"It's a woman, lieutenant!"

McCracken and his crew pulled out a woman, followed by five men, all of them hurt, but still alive.

"Let's go!" Shouted McCracken. "Get these people out of here and to the EMTs. Move it!"

As soon as they had been safely removed, McCracken returned his attention to the task at hand. But as happy as he was to find survivors, some part of him was defeated by the fact that it hadn't been the one man they all so desperately sought...

Marsh set down his radio and turned to Parnum. "Six more survivors..."

"The president?"

"Not yet."

"Damn."

"Whaddya know about the rest of the crews?"

"Aside from exhausted, we've recovered 21 bodies and 11 survivors, including Ziegler and Seaborne."

"That leaves 31 unaccounted for, including POTUS, McGarry and two members of his detail."

"Yes sir."

"Where are we on the investigation?"

"We've had some movement on that end..."

Hoynes sat to the right of the head chair reserved for the president at the Sit room table; he simply couldn't bring himself to sit in it. Not yet anyway. Not like this. His eyes wandered across to the vacant chair usually occupied by Leo McGarry and his stomach turned. This was going to be so much harder without the man they all relied on to see to it that no matter how bad things were today, America would still be there tomorrow. What was the line everyone in the West Wing fell back on when things got rough?

Ah yes, 'Leo will know what to do.'

And Leo would know what to do. He was vaguely aware of Fitzwallace droning on about something, but he hadn't been listening until the booming voice turned in his direction...

"Sir? Are you with us, sir?"

"What?" Hoynes started as he looked right into the emblazoned eyes of Admiral Percy Fitzwallace; on his worst day the man was incredibly intimidating. "I'm sorry, admiral, I was..." What could he say he was doing? Daydreaming during a security briefing in the Situation Room? Hoynes shook his head. "I'm sorry, Admiral Fitzwallace, please continue."

"Yes sir," Fitz replied dubiously. "I was saying that sources coming through Homeland Security place the responsibility of the hotel bombing with Citizens for a Fascist America."

"Pardon me, admiral," Hoynes said, "but it seems like we culled that awfully fast."

"Yes sir, the Secret Service moved very swiftly in order to uncover all the leads at their disposal and determine those responsible."

"So why didn't they know about it before it happened?"

All activity within the room ceased and all eyes turned toward the acting-president.

"Excuse me?" Fitzwallace said, not attempting to cover the irritation from his tone.

Hoynes fought the urge to swallow hard as the big admiral glared at him from a chair away. "I'd like to know how it is that the Secret Service landed on this information so quickly after the fact? Shouldn't the agency's priority be to root out this sort of thing before the bomb actually goes off?"

"I don't know, Mr. Vice-President, but maybe they didn't receive your memo on revised security procedures and antiterrorist techniques."

"That's Acting-President, Admiral Fitzwallace, and I'm not being flippant in my question. It's just that the president and his chief of staff are still missing, and I'm trying to understand how it is that we've found the time to uncover something we should have known beforehand, and why it is that we haven't found President Bartlet."

"You don't get it, do you?" Fitzwallace growled. "This was accomplished with inside assistance. We need to find out who it was and how this organization slipped such a person on the inside, and put the bastard away for treason. Surely you can understand that, can't you?"

Before Hoynes had a chance to come back at him, Nancy McNally jumped in. "Guys, before this spins out of control, let's remember that we're all on the same team, okay?" She waited until the staring contest between the two men ceased and they both looked at her. "What Admiral Fitzwallace was leading up to, sir, is to tell you that we know where the organization's hub is located, and we've got teams in place for a strike which will hopefully round up most of its members for questioning. We just need your order to put it in action."

"My order?" Hoynes said. "Homeland Security doesn't need a presidential go ahead for something of this nature..."

"It's not the Secret Service, sir," Nancy said. "It's a military strike force."

"Military... We need that much firepower for a gunfight with a few guys in the woods?"

"This isn't a bunch of hicks in the sticks, Acting-president Hoynes," Fitz rumbled, "It's a bunch of wealthy college kids using the latest technology and some impressive weaponry. Frankly sir, I don't know how the Secret Service would fare up against them in a 'gunfight.'"

"This is best left to the military," Hutchinson broke in. "Our guys wouldn't want to handle it either, and we've got bigger guns than either the FBI or the Service..."

Feeling like the kid nobody wanted to have lunch with in the fifth grade, Hoynes licked his lips and looked at the only slightly friendly face in the room. "Nancy?"

"Sir?"

"I'm asking for you to weigh in on this."

Her eyes darted toward the empty seat across from Hoynes at the table, and realized that the man was at a terrible disadvantage. President Bartlet always had Leo in moments like these, and Leo could stand toe to toe with anybody in the room. All the active servicemen respected him, and guys like Fitzwallace genuinely liked him. For her part, as national security advisor, she admired Leo's intelligence and courage in making the tough calls, and on a personal level adored his kind heart and wit. And everyone in the room knew that when the stakes were this high and hairy, President Bartlet relied on Leo McGarry to steer him in the right direction. Hoynes was without experience in such a situation, and was not oblivious to the disdain many in the room had for him. He was utterly alone, and he knew it.

Nancy's voice softened, "I'd go in, sir. There's no down side for us. If President Bartlet and Leo both make it out alive, then we have the people in custody who killed the innocent bystanders; and if God forbid, they don't make it out, then we have the people in custody who killed the president, his chief of staff and several innocent bystanders. And even more than that, we'll have leads pointing us toward the person or persons on the inside who thought they could get away with killing the president. We should go in. There's no down side for us."

"What about the risks?"

"Risks?" Fitz asked.

"Yes, admiral. The risks to the military unit, to the people in the organization, and to anyone caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"The soldiers understand the risks to military service, sir, but if our intelligence is correct regarding the firepower inside the building, we could lose about 14 of the forces going in. The risk to any bystanders is minimal since we'll clear the area before we go in. And as for any risk to the individuals inside, I really don't give a damn, sir. They shoulda thought of that before they launched an attack on the President of the United States."

Hoynes swallowed, looked at Nancy for silent support, then back at Fitzwallace. "Okay, admiral, go."

CJ gently pushed the heavy door and peered inside, then turned and motioned for the others to follow. "Hi Spanky," she said as she leaned over Sam, kissing his forehead. "How're you feeling?"

"Okay," Seaborne said sleepily, "painkillers are making me loopy."

"And that's different...how?" Toby asked from the other bed in the room. He looked at CJ then. "Sam got a kiss. What do I get?"

She walked over to his bed, sat down on the edge and leaned in close. "Other than a stern talking to, Pokey?" CJ gently pressed her lips on his for a moment, then brushed a soft hand over his forehead. "You okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Hand hurts a little, but they're probably going to let me go tomorrow morning."

"Thank God," Sam muttered.

"A little tired of his sense of humor?" Josh asked.

"Josh, you know on his best days Toby doesn't have a sense of humor."

Lyman gently slapped Sam on the shoulder. "You look okay for a guy who was buried in rubble overnight."

"Yeah."

Ginger and Bonnie both leaned in to kiss Sam on the cheeks.

"How long will you be in here?" Ginger asked.

"Probably about three days," Sam replied. "My leg's broken in three places, and they want to make sure no infection sets in."

"What about physical therapy?" CJ asked.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, it's gonna be awhile before I'm running through the halls of the West Wing, but the orthopedic surgeon thinks I'll make a full recovery."

"And you, Pokey?" CJ looked into Ziegler's dark eyes.

He held up his cast-enclosed hand. "Broke most of the bones in it, but eventually it will be fine." He glanced over at Ginger. "I believe my handy assistant will be doing most of the typing for me."

"Do I get pie?"

Toby hid the smile that started to pull at his lips. "Only if you do it very well."

"What about the president?" Sam asked quietly.

Josh looked at him sadly. "Nothing yet, Sam. They um, found a couple more people. Six to be exact, but there's been no sign of President Bartlet or Leo yet."

Toby shook his head. "They couldn't have been that far from where they found us. They were walking right in front of us. I tried to tell Marsh that..."

"The thing is," Josh said gently, "with blasts like that and the subsequent shudder when the building collapsed, debris packs in, leaving only pockets. So even though you guys weren't far when you were walking, there could be a truckload of dirt and concrete between you."

"Yeah, thanks," Toby said.

CJ took Ziegler's good hand in her own. "Andi's on her way back from the free trade conference in Canada. She should be here in a few hours."

"Okay," Toby's voice was almost a whisper.

CJ exchanged a worried look with Josh. "Hey, come on, Pokey, we're all really glad that you and Sam are here and that you're both all right."

"Yeah, but what about the president and Leo?"

"They'll find 'em, Toby," Josh assured.

"And if they don't we get Hoynes and Jeffrey?" Toby shot back. When no one responded, Toby growled, "Yeah, that's what I thought."

"Hey, Tobus," CJ cooed, "there's a ton of people looking for them. They'll find them." Toby's dark eyes darted to hers, looking for the assurance he needed that those closest to his heart would survive. "They'll get them out, and they'll be okay."

"I hate this," he whispered as his eyes filled with moisture.

"I know," she said quietly, pulling him into her arms. "I know."

He couldn't remember the last time he'd told her he loved her. On a very intimate level, Jed knew Abbey didn't need to be told, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd said the words. He sighed letting his head roll against the wall he was leaning on. It was Friday, and they hadn't made love since Monday. Monday... that was the last time he'd said the words. Monday. It was too long to go without voicing it. Too long to go without holding her naked body tightly against his. Why had he let the burdens of the office distract him from her? A woman as beautiful and smart as Abbey deserved to have her man fawn over her and make love to her every night of her life. Did she really know how much he deeply loved her? What if he hadn't told her enough?

Jed closed his eyes against the sadness that closed down upon him like a woolen cloak on a hot summer's day. It threatened to suffocate and pull the very life from him. Abbey... God how he wanted to hold her just once more, and tell her how much his heart adored her and how his soul needed her. Tears stung his eyes as his thoughts drifted to what she must be going through. And he prayed that the girls were there with her. His girls. That's who they all were, the Bartlet women. They were Jed's girls. Abbey was the first and the light of his life, who gave him Liz, her mother's equal in strength, possessing a heart as big as the largest ocean; and then Abbey gave him Ellie, the quiet child who inherited her mother's intelligence and passion to save others; and finally, he was given Zoey, the one most like him and if he was honest, the one he pinned his greatest hopes upon. The Bartlet women. Jed's girls. He didn't want to leave them. Hell, he wasn't ready to leave them. But did God understand that?

The soft whimper to his left startled him out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes and leaned over toward McGarry, laying his hand on his friend's brow.

"Aw Leo, you're just so damned warm."

McGarry whimpered again in discomfort and Jed opened the water bottle, pouring a little into Leo's mouth, and some over his forehead, softly wiping the cool liquid over McGarry's face. Leo's cry of pain grew more insistent as the fever raged on, and Jed cursed his inability to help as his best friend clutched at his own abdomen in agony. Kneeling by McGarry's shoulders, Bartlet put his hands under his head, cradling it, in a vain attempt to steady him.

"Leo just calm down. I'm here with you. Relax."

But Leo's cries intensified and sweat began to lather his pale face and neck. Jed sat on the floor, gently pulling McGarry's head into his lap. Tears of suffering slipped from Leo's tightly closed eyelids, and his lower lip began to bleed from his teeth biting down on it. And Bartlet was lost to despair when Butterfield quietly appeared next to him, although Jed noted that Ron didn't look much better than Leo.

"He's bleeding into his belly," Ron said.

"How do you know that?"

"Seen it before with trauma victims. He's losing blood into his abdomen and from the looks of his color, it's bad."

"What can we do?"

Ron shook his head. "Not much, Mr. President. He needs surgery."

Bartlet's eyes sharpened with fear. "We can't just leave him like this, Ron. He's in so much pain..."

Butterfield hated seeing the distress in his protectee's eyes almost as much as he hated seeing Leo McGarry writhing in agony.

Leo's eyes opened slightly then, tears flowing freely down the sides of his face. "Jed?" He whispered softly.

"Right here, Leo," Bartlet said brushing a hand over his forehead.

"Hurts...so... bad, Jed," Leo choked out.

Bartlet swallowed hard as he felt the sting of empathic tears. He looked up at Butterfield. "Ron, please, there must be something..."

Ron knelt next to Leo and leaned in. "Mr. McGarry, I need you to tell me exactly where it hurts."

"My stomach," Leo croaked out.

"Yes, sir, but I need to know if it's up here," he said gently pressing on McGarry's upper abdomen, " or down here," he said as he pressed gently lower.

"Here," Leo ground out as he covered Ron's hand with his own, moving it to the exact spot of radiating agony.

"Okay," Butterfield said. "Mr. McGarry, I'm going to lift you up to lean against the president, I think you'll be more comfortable that way. It'll take some of the pressure off the wound inside."

Exerting what little breath and strength Ron had left, he gently raised Leo's upper body into Jed's waiting arms. Bartlet wrapped his arms around Leo's chest. "It's all right now, Leo, I've got you and I swear to God I won't leave you." Bartlet glanced over at Butterfield and saw the difficulty he was having catching his breath. "Ron?"

Butterfield waved him off. "It's nothing, sir. I'll be all right in a minute."

"Come sit down over here, Ron."

"No sir, I'll be fine, really."

"Ron, you've been at it for almost 23 hours. Even in the best of circumstances, that's asking a lot of yourself, and this is far from the best of circumstances. Sit down, at least for a little while, catch your breath."

Butterfield's dark eyes met Bartlet's concerned ones. "Mr. President," he said, "I'm afraid if I sit down, I won't be able to get up, sir."

"Yeah, I thought it was something like that. Sit down anyway, agent. We're not going anywhere until somebody finds us."

"You mean if somebody finds us..."

Bartlet stared at his agent in surprise. "I don't think I've ever heard you say anything like that, Ron. Are you channeling Toby Ziegler all of a sudden?"

Butterfield flushed with embarrassment as he sat down slowly next to the president, leaning against the wall. "No sir. I apologize, Mr. President, I shouldn't have said it."

"Don't be silly Ron, it's sort of funny, the idea of you channeling Toby..."

Butterfield frowned. "I fail to see the humor in that, Mr. President."

"Yes, I'll just bet you don't see the humor." Bartlet chuckled until Leo stirred, moaning. He brushed a hand over his best friend's brow. "Shhhh, Leo."

McGarry settled down slightly and Jed took a sidelong glance at Butterfield. "You're really not lookin' much better than Leo there, Ron."

"I'm really fine, sir. Stop thinking about it."

"Okay, what should we talk about then?"

"Sir?"

"Well, we're just a couple of guys sittin' here... what should we talk about? Girls?"

Butterfield rolled his eyes. "Mr. President, all due respect sir, but we're not two guys sitting here. You are the President of the United States, and I'm the secret service agent assigned to keep you ...safe..."

Bartlet caught the stumble of Ron's voice and looked at him sharply. As soon as Butterfield realized he was under Jed's scrutiny, he switched off the flashlight and slid it into his pocket.

"Conserving the battery?" The president asked flatly.

"Yes sir."

"This isn't your fault, you know." Ron didn't say anything so Bartlet continued, "This isn't your fault." When Butterfield still didn't respond, Jed prompted him, "Ron?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"This isn't your fault."

"Yes it is," Ron whispered. "And there's nothing we can do or say to change that."

"But Ron--"

"--Mr. President? Could we please just be quiet for a little while?"

Sensing the inconsolable guilt from the head of his detail, Bartlet's voice turned soft, "Okay."

And in the crystal dark, President Josiah Bartlet thought he could almost hear the silent tears he knew to be streaming down Ron Butterfield's face.