Trailing behind the three agents and the president as they reached the guardhouse was a small van—a Mitsubishi, with a nurse and corpsman inside. He had met each in the White House clinic.

The thirty minutes were down to twenty-nine, maybe even twenty-eight.

Stay cool, Gabe urged himself. Just stay cool and think.

He approached the president and shook his hand warmly.

"Why didn't you tell me about the van?" he whispered through nearly clenched teeth.

It took several precious seconds for the significance of the vehicle to register.

"In the heat of all that planning, I just never thought of it," Stoddard said. "Are we dead?"

Gabe glanced over at the van. From where he stood he could see the spare that was mounted on the rear.

"I need a minute alone by the van," he whispered suddenly. "Can you get me that?"

"Watch me."

Without hesitating, the president doubled over, grabbed his throat, and crossed unsteadily over to the entrance. Then, using a corner of the guardhouse to brace himself, he started to cough . . . and cough. The moment the agents realized what was happening, they raced to him. By then, Gabe had slid the hunting knife from his backpack.

"A bug!" one of the agents called out. "He says a bug or a bee went down his windpipe."

The racking cough continued—Academy Award quality, Gabe acknowledged. Now, completely concealed from the agents and the medical team, he set the knife handle against his chest and leaned against the side-wall of the spare with all his weight and all his strength. The powerful blade easily slid through the rubber and became buried to the hilt. He withdrew it and had it back in his pack when Griswold called to him from beside Stoddard.

"Hey, Doc, what's going on? Get over here!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

Without bothering to explain the delay, he raced over to the group, all of whom were standing helplessly around the hunched-over, distressed, sputtering commander in chief. Gabe set one hand on the front and one on the back of Stoddard's chest.

"It's okay now, Mr. President," he whispered.

He applied a slight, quick thrust with each hand. Instantly the hacking stopped. Stoddard sputtered once for effect, then stood up, smiling.

"Gone," he said. "Damn, but that was scary."

The entourage, amazed and totally impressed, turned to Gabe.

"Kind of a Wyoming version of the Heimlich maneuver," he said matter-of-factly. "Now, let's ride."

With six minutes gone, they mounted and headed up the trail.

One tire down, Gabe was thinking, at least one to go.

Quickly the Secret Service trio dropped back, allowing twenty or thirty yards to open between them and the two riders ahead.

"Nice acting job, Mr. President," Gabe said.

"Just like the olden days. Remember those coeds from Goucher?"

"This was better."

"Did you accomplish anything?"

"I disabled the spare. Now I have to get at one or two of the other tires and we've got a chance."