With the truck unloaded, there was nothing for him to do but come inside and wait for Miner and his fellow Lions.

The small family room was warm, and its large window provided the groundsman as good a view as was possible through the blowing snow of anyone coming up the driveway. The television was still on, tuned to a station with an American football game.

Halfway through the third quarter and a pack of cigarettes later, the groundsman began to feel the telltale signs of his low blood-sugar level. Healthy as a horse since a child, he had made his doctor in Zurich explain three times how diabetes could have chosen him when no one in his family had ever had it. The doctor explained that there was no specific reason but that it was quite manageable, provided he took the right precautions. Of course the first precaution he took was never to let Miner know about his condition.

From a pocket in his coveralls, he withdrew a Nestlé’s chocolate bar and broke it into perfect little squares, calculating how many he might need to keep his blood sugar up for the rest of the day. He lay the silver foil, with its purple-and-white wrapper, on his lap and put a piece of the creamy milk chocolate into his mouth. He sucked on it slowly, savoring it as he closed his eyes.

Then, from out of nowhere, came the sound of breaking glass from upstairs. The groundsman leapt from his chair and grabbed the German-made pistol from the end table beside him. Cautiously, he moved forward toward the stairs, crept up them and then down the hallway’s green shag carpet. He inched toward the master bedroom, which was where he believed the sound had come from. He gripped the pistol tighter, grateful that he had replaced its spent magazine. As he neared the bedroom door, he inhaled deeply, applied slight pressure to the trigger, and spun into the open doorframe.

In an instant, he had not only surveyed the room, but also the condition of the two bodies lying atop the bed. The source of the noise was apparent at once.

He had left the woman’s arms above her head and now noticed that one arm was splayed across the nightstand and the glass frame of a picture of seven small children lay broken on the floor. Post mortem reflex.

The groundsman lowered his pistol and laughed out loud. As quickly as he started, he stopped. His ears had picked up the high-pitched whine of snowmobiles. He looked at his watch. Miner and the men were ahead of schedule.

He took the stairs three at a time and landed with a large thud in the downstairs hallway. As he bounded into the family room, he found his chocolate wrapper and bent down to gather up the pieces that had fallen on the floor. Not wanting Miner to find him away from his assigned post, the groundsman folded the wrapper around the chocolate and shoved it back into his coverall pocket. He used his handkerchief to grasp the half-filled water glass he had been using to ash his cigarettes in and flushed the contents down the hall toilet. He rinsed the glass with rusty brown water from the kitchen tap and returned it to a drying rack next to the sink.

He made it outside just in time to pick out the first glimmer of snowmobile headlights. Through the swirling and blowing snow, he could see them speeding toward him at the rear of the farmhouse.

With Sam Harper, the Secret Service’s number one man on-site, missing in action, Tom Hollenbeck was now in charge. When word reached him that Agent Harvath and the president’s daughter had been recovered and brought in unconscious, he left instructions that he was to be notified immediately when either one came to.

The storm was making it impossible to coordinate search-and-rescue efforts. Even so, Hollenbeck contacted Hill Air Force Base’s commanding officer and requested that they locate the two closest choppers with advanced heat-seeking FLIR, or forward looking infrared, units and have them flown to Deer Valley as soon as humanly possible. Hollenbeck hoped that by the time they got there, there would be no need for them, but contingency plans always had to be made.

All the officers the Secret Service had available were sent out to try and locate the president and his team. As Longo was still having no luck getting the Service’s Motorola radios to work, Palmer had taken it upon herself to get hold of Deer Valley’s resort manager and have him send over as many portable CB radios as he could scrounge. Communications wouldn’t be secure, but at this point that was the least of the Secret Service’s worries.

Every available ski patroller and search-and-rescue volunteer from the surrounding three counties had been called in to help with the search. At risk were not only the president, his daughter, and their protective details, but the countless number of civilians who had been skiing on runs affected by the avalanche.

Hollenbeck sent Palmer out with a civilian team to comb the area where Agent Harvath and Amanda had been found. The remaining Secret Service agents took two of the best search-and-rescue people from Deer Valley’s team and as many local law enforcement personnel as they could muster to help coordinate their search for the president. As much as he hated it, Hollenbeck knew that his job was to stay behind and run the operation from the command center.

When the call came that Agent Harvath was regaining consciousness, Hollenbeck grabbed a microcassette recorder, his parka, and flew out the door.

The soft, orange glow of a bedside lamp was the first thing Scot noticed as he began to come to. As his eyes opened further, he saw the boards of knotty pine that paneled the ceiling and below that a wallpaper border that ran the length of the room and depicted moose and deer in a wooded area. The blanket on top of him was heavy. It felt as if he had on more than one, but the one he could see was red and gray wool with white snowflakes. As Scot looked further down toward his feet, he noticed the footboard was carved from rough-hewn logs. He then realized he was in one of the guest rooms of the president’s chalet and it was still night.

“Well, it looks like the wee lad is finally waking up,” came a voice with a mock Scottish accent.

Scot’s reflexes kicked in, and he tried to sit up. “Amanda! Where’s-”

“Whoa!” came the voice again. This time the funny accent was gone and the man spoke in his normal Texas drawl. “She’s here, Scot. Just across the hall. Dr. Paulos is taking care of her.”

“How is she?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. My main concern is you right now, so let’s relax and let me take a look.” The doctor removed a penlight from the bag next to him and shined it in both of Scot’s eyes.

“I want to see her.”

“First I am going to complete my exam; then we are going to get an update from Dr. Paulos, and then if he says it’s okay, you can see her.”

The voice, bad accent and all, belonged to Dr. Skip Trawick. He and John Paulos had been friends of Scot’s since his ski team days. Scot was a pretty good mimic, but the Scottish accent was one he just couldn’t get down, so Skip always used it as his funny way of saying hello.

As head of the advance team for the trip to Park City, Scot had recommended both Skip and Dr. Paulos as the on-site medical pros. Now he wondered if that had been such a good idea.

“Damn it, Skip. Who the hell do you think got you and John these gigs as docs for the presidential party? Let me up; I have to see her.”

“You, my friend, haven’t changed a bit. You know that? Still as haggis-headed as ever.”

“Cut the crap.”

“It would be my pleasure, but first the exam. Now, how many fingers do you see?”

“None, you haven’t poured anything yet.”

“So far I’m going to say your neurological function is the same as it always was, low to subpar.”