A Frightened Peace
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 2/12
Bartlet paused for a moment and with hunched shoulders, hands jammed deep into his trouser pockets, studied the tips of his shoes. Though he didn't answer McGarry's pointed remark, his face and the far away look in his eyes spoke for him.
A concerned Chief of Staff respectfully observed him for a moment, then leaned in. "Sir," he said quietly and discreetly, "Abbey's worried about you. Hell, I'm worried about you. I don't know what happened that night between you and Toby, and Stanley's been playing the doctor/patient confidentiality card for all it's worth. Maybe it's not important that I know. But this I do know; you need a break. Maybe only for a day or so, but you do need it."
Bartlet glanced up sharply in surprise, and what looked suspiciously like a hint of relief. "Stanley didn't tell you what we discussed? I thought that …"
McGarry shook his head. "He said that the actual cause of the problem was not related in any way to your job and so was none of my damn business. At least unless it actually continued to affect you to the point where you were diminished in your capacity to perform that job. He saw no evidence of that yet and felt that the worst of the sleeplessness would ease soon, if only because you would be too exhausted to resist it. He did say that he felt a few more sessions might be beneficial, but that was entirely up to you."
Bartlet was regarding him oddly. "Toby didn't say anything either?"
McGarry snorted. As if Toby would ever open up on that subject! "Apart from acknowledging that you two have been avoiding each other as much as possible, a not so easy task when you consider he is your communications director, Ziegler has been about as communicative as you'd expect."
"I really thought one of them would have told you. I was waiting for someone to say something." Bartlet shook his head abruptly and turned away.
"Something about what?"
For a brief moment, a look of withdrawal came over the President's face. Then he laughed shortly, putting the matter aside with sudden good humor. "Nothing. Come on, Leo. I can see Ron from here. He's just looked at his watch for the third time and glared at me. Do I have any skin left?"
"Are you telling me that you're afraid of your own agent?" McGarry needled good naturedly, making a mental note to find out whatever it was Bartlet seemed so reluctant to reveal at a more opportune moment.
Bartlet regarded his Chief of Staff with open amazement. "Afraid of Ron? Are you insane?" Suddenly that impish grin that McGarry was surprised to realize he had missed in recent times broke out. "Of course I am! Do you know, that man once picked me up and carried me by the scruff of my neck during an emergency evacuation? I make it a basic rule never to annoy people who can do that."
Grinning, McGarry followed the President towards the waiting agents. His amusement bubbled up even further as he watched his friend instinctively duck as he passed under the wash of the blades, which cleared his head by at least six feet. Shaking his head, he wondered idly exactly where that particular habit had originated.
"Ron!" Bartlet enthusiastically greeted the tall, lanky head of his security detail, raising his voice over the roar of the motors. The two members of the accompanying Marine detail saluted the President smartly as he passed.
"Good day, Mr. President." Butterfield allowed his charge to precede him up the steps into the Sea King's passenger area. "You'll be pleased to know that we are proceeding more or less according to schedule. Our ETA at Concord is in approximately three hours time. A secret service detail will be waiting and the motorcade will then take you and Mr. McGarry to the Manchester farm."
"Three hours?" Bartlet paused abruptly on the way to his seat, something unreadable flickering in the back of his eyes. "Surely that exceeds the normal flight time?"
"Yes, sir. But Colonel March thought that, as this was a vacation trip, you might like a more scenic route. Accordingly, he has filed a flight vector that will take us slightly further inland, along the east side of the Catskills."
McGarry saw the President swallow a bit convulsively and grimace. He didn't have to ask why. He raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry to ask if Bartlet wanted him to veto the suggestion.
Bartlet gave his worried friend a quick shake of his head, refusing the offer. "That was very thoughtful of the Colonel, Ron," he replied instead, surprised that he actually meant it. "Tell him I appreciate the gesture."
"I will, Mr. President. Colonel March's co-pilot for this flight is Captain Johnston. The only passengers are you and Mr. McGarry, accompanied by Agent Sandler and myself and the Marine detail." Satisfied that this information had been passed on as efficiently as possible, Butterfield turned to the Chief of Staff and said, "Mr. McGarry, I would like to take this time to discuss some of the security details relating to the upcoming campaign schedule, if you can spare me a moment."
"Sure Ron." McGarry nodded and turned to Bartlet. With sympathy for the man's predicament, he offered a bit lamely, "Mr. President, Ron and I are just going to sit over here and go over some stuff."
Bartlet, who was buckling himself into his seat, waved him away distractedly. Sandler was just sitting down next to him in the adjoining seat. Taking his glasses from his coat pocket he slipped them on and picked up the book he'd brought along. He doubted he was actually going to be able to read and enjoy it –he never had before, not on Marine One— but it was worth a try.
McGarry shrugged at the somewhat curt dismissal and settled into a seat that would allow him to converse with Butterfield over the noise of the engines. The President may have been on a short vacation, but his Chief of Staff and the head of his security detail never really got that chance. Still, he didn't begrudge him that, or the answers his friend wouldn't give up.
The President of the United States would talk when he was ready. He always did and McGarry had the patience to wait.
A considerable time later, McGarry looked up from the schedule he had been going over with Butterfield and glanced at the clock set into the forward bulkhead. They were over halfway into their flight time and rain clouds were plunging the cabin into premature dusk. He reflected ruefully that the Colonel's well-meant gesture had turned out to be a little pointless. What little he could see of the mountain range through the cabin window was shrouded in a thick mist of rain and dark, low hanging clouds.
Glancing across the cabin at the President, he couldn't help but smile at the sight. At least Bartlet wasn't missing much, which all things considered was a bit of a blessing. Drifting in and out of sleep, the President's chin was resting on his chest, his book precariously balanced on crossed knees. As usual when he wasn't really paying attention his reading glasses had slid almost to the end of his nose.
McGarry frowned slightly and found himself openly studying the man with some concern. Bartlet looked a little better than he had during that stressful week when they all had begun to fear he would break down under the accumulated weight of the MS disclosure, the censure, the campaign and his wife's unresolved problems with the Medical Board.
However, McGarry couldn't help but note that his face still had a few lines too many, and the shadows had not faded from under his eyes. The man still needed to make up a considerable amount of sleep and he'd finally laid down an ultimatum; either Bartlet took a weekend to rest and recuperate or his Chief of Staff --as was his right-- would drastically reduce his schedule. To say that the President's initial agreement had been unwilling was to put it mildly.
Given no other choice, McGarry had finally wheeled in the big guns and conscripted the First Lady to his cause only to find himself reluctantly co-opted into the weekend vacation as Bartlet flatly refused to go alone and Abbey had several appointments in the capital.
Still, he didn't regret it. It was worth the price paid to his ego and the layer of skin he'd lost to Abbey's sharp tongue. Protesting that the President didn't need a babysitter to his concerned wife hadn't been one of his most sterling moments. Truthfully, he was relieved. It had been a long time since he and Bartlet had been able to spend some time together. McGarry hadn't realized till now how much he missed that. He was determined to use the opportunity and see if he could discover just what had been going on with his friend --over and above all the other crises-- in recent days. He had no idea just what wound Toby might have inadvertently opened, but the President's reaction had been unusually troubled.
Even now, his fitful napping was an indication of just how exhausted he must be. As much as he tried to, Bartlet never slept while flying, as McGarry knew from painful personal experience. Either tension or excitement always guaranteed that he would be wide-awake and talkative throughout any flight. Even on the huge 747 the claustrophobia didn't help either. The senior staff had quickly learned the necessity of catching a catnap before embarking on long trips with their President.
Suddenly, a muffled boom reverberating from somewhere forward interrupted McGarry's meditations. A manic thought, 'Mechanical?" was all he could manage when, almost simultaneously with the ominous noise, he found himself rising bodily into the air as his seat dropped sickeningly away from beneath him. The brief moment of weightlessness ended when his safety belt slammed him back into place with his stomach still churning.
Across the cabin, the President's book crashed to the floor as he was jerked violently awake. For the moment more surprised than frightened, he stared wordlessly across the aisle at his Chief of Staff.
"What the hell…" McGarry glanced instinctively upwards as old, near forgotten habits enabled him to detect the fearful sound of unevenly beating rotors.
"Ron?" The President's voice blended authoritative inquiry with ruthlessly controlled fear.
"Please remain as you are, Mr. President, Mr. McGarry." Butterfield grimly unbuckled and stood up, making his way across the swaying floor towards the cockpit door. He had barely passed McGarry before a second, much louder bang caused the craft to swing and dip violently, sending him stumbling to his knees.
McGarry reached down and managed to snag Butterfield's arm as the helicopter went into a steep sideways dive. Somehow, he was able to swing the agent around until he was able to grab the arm of his seat and scramble back into it.
"Sandler!" Butterfield bellowed as he struggled to refasten his seatbelt.
McGarry saw Sandler reach out and snatch the glasses from Bartlet's nose, then twist in his seat and fling his arm across the President's chest, pinning him against the backrest. Bartlet's lower face was buried in the crook of the agent's shoulder, but the Chief of Staff could clearly see his eyes; wide, fixed, almost silver discs in his face.
Clinging desperately to his seat, half-deafened by the high-pitched whine of laboring engines, McGarry risked a glance out his window to see a mountain face approaching with distressing rapidity. For a second, the treetops disappeared only to be replaced by sky as their descent momentarily halted and they began to climb laboriously above the ridge once again. Then the nose of the craft tilted and they plunged past the top of the ridge.
McGarry had a brief, dizzying view of rock and greenery and heard a swishing sound --were they actually scraping the treetops? -- before the whole craft suddenly jarred violently and whipped totally around, throwing everyone against their seat belts. Then came a confusion of whirling sight and tearing metal.
Then nothing.
To be continued…
