"We saved the president's life today and lost at least eighteen of our own men… I would hardly—" Baxter slammed a fist to the table, and with a rage no one in the room had witnessed before, other than King and Tutwiler, he cut Director Tracy off in mid-sentence.

"You have lost the White House, and you have embarrassed the entire country!" Baxter glared at Tracy a moment longer and then sat back in his chair. After taking a deep breath, he reined himself in a notch and continued in a quieter but equally firm voice, "I have consulted with Treasury Secretary Rose and have decided I want your resignation on his desk before I address the nation tonight." Shaking his head, Baxter added, "It is entirely beyond me how you could have let this happen."

Rather than cowering, the tenacious director stood his ground. The combination of the murder of his people and becoming the sacrificial lamb to satisfy the media sent Tracy's blood pressure shooting upward.

Baxter had no idea what it was like to devote one's life to the pride-sucking job of guarding men such as him, some of whom had fewer scruples than a pimp. Tracy's complexion reddened as he stared at Baxter. In the briefest of moments he had to decide if he would bow to protocol and be dismissed like a servant or stand and fight. He decided on the latter. He owed at least that much to the men and women who had died under his command.

"I'll tell you how it happened. It happened because you and all of your esteemed colleagues have ignored every request the Secret Service has made for increased security since I have taken over the agency." Tracy raised his voice.

"It happened because in your obsession with raising money for your beloved party, your chairman sidestepped Secret Service procedure and invited the most notorious terrorist in the world to the White House!"

Baxter shouted, "That will be enough. Director Tracy! You may gather your things and leave!"

Tracy stared down the long table with a look of flagrant disrespect. In a voice dripping with contempt, he said, "You go ahead and blame all of this on the Secret Service when you address the nation tonight, and when I hold my press conference tomorrow morning, I'll be sure to remind everyone of your comment regarding the Secret Service during the last election." Tracy shook his head.

"I remember it verbatim because it seemed rather inconsiderate of you to be taking a shot at the very people who were putting in one-hundred plus-hour weeks protecting you. You said that 'the Secret Service is comprised of a paranoid group of people, who, although well-meaning, have an inflated sense of self-importance." I'm sure those words, combined with your and President Hayes's recent refusal of a request for an increase in our budget, will go over just great with all of your voters. And let's not leave out the fact that while my people were being killed, you were getting ready to attend a five-thousand-dollar-a-plate breakfast with all of your network buddies in New York."

Tracy turned his rage on the secretary of the treasury.

"And let me remind my boss of his response to my request to expand the security perimeter around the White House. In a letter this last February, Secretary Rose refused, saying that the White House is one of the securest buildings in the world and that any further requests to expand the buildings security perimeter will be denied."

Tracy grabbed his file from the podium.

"How dare you call into question my commitment and professionalism! I have spent twenty-nine years of my life protecting presidents and their families!" He started for the door and then stopped abruptly, turning to look at the assembled crowd.

"Right now we need to be worried about saving the men and women who are trapped inside the White House… not worrying about our careers."

Having spoken his piece, Tracy turned for the door, and with a stiff arm, he slammed it open and disappeared into the hallway.

Director Tracy's exit left the room in a shocked silence.

After several moments the attendees began to whisper comments to one another, and then the room broke into a series of regionalized conversations. At the far end of the table Dallas King asked his boss if he had, indeed, made such a comment, and all Vice President Baxter could do was nod in frustration.

King then turned to Treasury Secretary Rose and asked him if he had put his words in writing. Rose confirmed that he had, and Dallas King turned back to his boss and stated the obvious, "We're screwed."

Baxter shot his chief of staff a look of irritation and then turned his attention to General Flood at the far end of the table. The vice president twirled his finger in the air, signaling to the general that he wanted to get things moving. The general nodded, and with his baritone voice, he quieted the room.

Flood then nodded to Irene Kennedy, who rose from her chair and made her way to the podium.

RAFIQUE AZIZ LOOKED at the Situation Room's TVS and then his watch. It had been almost twenty minutes since the vice president had arrived for the meeting. The timing should be about right, he thought to himself.

Aziz studied the large phone next to him and looked at the twenty or so labels that marked preprogrammed telephone numbers. Most of the labels Aziz didn't recognize, but some were familiar. Not far down the first column he found the one he was looking for. It was marked Pentagon JCBR, which he understood to be the Joint Chiefs briefing room. Aziz went over his scripted words one more time, and then picked up the phone and pressed the button.

GENERAL FLOOD WAS listening to Kennedy give the background briefing on Aziz when he heard the quiet ring of the phone next to him. Flood glanced down and looked to see where the call was coming from. The screen at the top of the phone read "WH SIT ROOM." Flood raised one hand to stop Kennedy from talking, and with the other, he snatched the handset from its cradle.

"General Flood here."

"I hope I'm not interrupting your meeting." Flood squeezed the phone and asked, "Who is this?"

"That is none of your concern. Put me on speakerphone so I can talk to the entire group. I do not want to have to repeat myself."

Flood considered the demand for a moment, and then reluctantly gave in and pressed a button. He then placed the handset back in its cradle and folded his arms across his chest.

"You are on speakerphone. Go ahead."

Aziz's voice came pouring down from the room's overhead speaker system. "I have complete control of your White House.

Any attempt to retake it will be futile. The United States currently holds fourteen point seven billion dollars in frozen assets that belong to the country of Iran. You illegally seized this money when the corrupt government of the Shah was overthrown by the people of Allah. If you return all of this money to Iran by nine tomorrow morning, I will release one-third of the seventy-six hostages I currently hold. This is nonnegotiable. If this demand is not met precisely as I have stated, I will kill one hostage every hour until it is met. I will remind you one more time, any attempt by you to rescue the hostages will be futile.

FBI's vaunted Hostage Rescue Team is no match for my men; just as your highly touted Secret Service was no match. In fifteen minutes I will place all of the wounded and dead outside of the West Entrance. Medical technicians in short-sleeve shirts and pants will be allowed to come in groups of two, one stretcher at a time, to pick up the bodies. No equipment or bags. Only two men at a time and a stretcher.

Anything unusual and we will open fire."

The voice paused for a second and then said more firmly, "The account numbers that the money is to be transferred to are as follows…"

IT TOOK AZIZ a little over a minute to give all of the numbers. Then without giving them a chance to ask any questions, he repeated the demand one last time and hung up the phone.