Chapter 1
Josh Lyman returned his seat to its upright position and flexed his shoulder blades, trying to work the kink out of his back. He was used to taking long flights. It was in the job description when you were the Deputy Chief of Staff to the President of the United States. But he usually worked or slept to pass the time. This time he couldn't do either of those things. He had tried to work, but after unsuccessfully reading the same paragraph on school vouchers five time he finally gave up and turned off his laptop, thinking he would try to get some sleep; although he suspected that if the paper on vouchers hadn't put him to sleep, nothing would.
"We need to kill them! We need to find them and to kill them! We kill them, then we find out who sent them and kill them, too! You kill the people who did it, you kill the people who planned it, and then you kill everyone who was happy about it!"
Josh flinched, as he remembered those tense moments outside the Oval Office, the way everyone had been staring at him as if he had just suggested painting the White House magenta. He still didn't think his proposal to carpet bomb the entire Middle East had been that unreasonable. He couldn't remember feeling this angry since he had exploded in the Oval office just before Christmas three years ago, but that had been due to the PTSD he suffered from after getting shot at Rosslyn. This time there was no five-piece orchestra playing in his head. Just her voice. Over and over again.
"I just want to grow in my job. I only have one career and I want it to matter."
And now she was lying in a hospital in Germany, in critical condition, losing blood. The thought of blood made Josh's stomach swoop and he forced himself to stop thinking about it. What was it Leo had told him?
"We've got excellent people in Germany."
That had become his mantra. He recited it over and over in his head to combat the thoughts of "significant blood loss issues."
Josh didn't even realize he had been drumming his fingers on the armrest until one of the stewardesses came to check on him.
"Sir, is everything alright?" she asked cautiously. He must have looked as nervous as he felt.
"Wha? . . Yeah. Yep. Just a little . . . you know." When she didn't say anything he added, "Can I get some coffee or something?"
"Maybe you should try to get some sleep," she suggested. "Especially if you are nervous about flying. I can bring you a pillow if you'd like."
Seriously? Who was this lady and since when were stewardesses qualified to give advice about . . . well, anything other than how to buckle your seat-belt and locate the nearest emergency exit? "Just the coffee will be fine," he replied. She looked at him critically before walking away.
He wished he had ordered himself a good strong sedative. With all the adrenaline coursing through his system, it was no wonder he couldn't relax. That, and every time he closed his eyes he saw the footage from MSNBC, the smashed SUV, upside down in the middle of the road, still smoking from explosion, bodies being loaded into ambulances. . .
He unconsciously started drumming his fingers against the armrest again, thinking to himself that this was going to be the longest 9 hour flight of his life.