A Frightened Peace

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 5/12

When nothing happened, McGarry breathed a sigh of relief. And for once the storm left out its mocking comments. Dragging out his flashlight, he shone it down into the dark space they had created at their feet.

President Bartlet blinked dazedly in the sudden blinding light, one hand coming up to cover his eyes.  His face was dusty and had a deep bruise on one cheekbone. Another bruise darkened the line of his jaw.  Blood coated the side of his head and matted his hair from a deep scalp wound just above his hairline, which was still bleeding profusely.  His chest heaved convulsively as he struggled to bring his breathing under control.

Butterfield dropped to a crouch beside his charge, wadding a handkerchief against the head wound in an effort to stop the bleeding. 

McGarry carefully lowered himself down on the other side and placed a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. Afraid of what he might see, he played the flashlight down over the President's body.

Bartlet's torso was visible to just below his chest.  At that point his body disappeared beneath a heavy steel girder, clearly what was left of one of the bulkhead's main supports.  To McGarry's vast relief, the weight of the girder was held off the President's midsection by the debris on either side.  One of Bartlet's arms was free and now lay across his chest, fingers nervously clenching and unclenching.  The other arm disappeared beneath the girder. The trapped man had plainly been unable to withdraw it because of the awkward angle at which he lay among the rubble.

McGarry scowled as he looked at the point where that arm vanished beneath the debris.  Somewhere under that pile, just within reach of Bartlet's fingertips lay…he pushed the mental picture firmly from his mind, swallowing his deep regret for the young agent dead beneath the rubble.

Kneeling down, he gently touched his friend's shoulder. He nearly swore out loud when Bartlet turned a strained and slightly dazed face towards him. 

"Sir?"  he asked softly.

Shifting as best he could under the weight pinning him down, Bartlet coughed and grimaced slightly.  "Think…I may have bruised my ribs," he explained. Catching his breath, he summoned up a weak smile.  "Thanks, Leo. I was starting to feel a little confined, and you know how much I like to have room in which to expand my considerable personality."

McGarry smiled down at him. The humor, however weakly given, was a good sign. "We'll see if we can't find you a little more room, Mr. President."  He looked inquiringly at Butterfield.

Butterfield looked up from his rudimentary first aid. The handkerchief was already soaked crimson. Catching the Chief of Staff's alarmed expression, he nodded reassuringly.  "It's not as bad as it looks, Mr. McGarry.  Head wounds always bleed a lot.  It needs stitches and if I can't stop it, the blood loss may make him nauseous and light-headed, but it's not exactly life-threatening."

The agent shifted his position slightly to better view his President's situation.  His eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned into a bleak line.

From the look on the man's face, McGarry knew he didn't like what he saw.

"There's no way we can move that girder, or access under it," Butterfield was saying, giving the remaining wreckage pinning his charge a supremely sour look, as if it had dared to offend him somehow. Shaking his head, he asked, "Mr. President, do you feel any weight on your legs?  If the girder has created a pocket of space for your body, and nothing is pressing down on you, we may be able to drag you back out from beneath it."

Closing his eyes, Bartlet grimaced again and frowned in concentration.  "My left leg is fine…can even move it a little.  Just feels like the time that Michigan linebacker stomped on it at that college game.  My right leg…I don't know.  It hurts pretty badly, and there seems to be some kind of pressure…" His voice trailed off and he paused. Uncertainty clouding his voice, he finally answered, "No, I don't think there's anything heavy lying on it though."

McGarry regarded him with some concern and more than a little suspicion. He hadn't missed the hesitation and what it meant. He knew Josiah Bartlet far too well. He was a terrible liar. "Sir, are you sure?  I mean, I know you want to get out of this, but we can't afford to take chances…"

"I do want out of this!"  Bartlet interrupted vehemently, his voice laced with a desperate determination.

Although his expression changed very little, Butterfield looked on helplessly and waited, watching the two men. The President's breathing had started to become labored again and he saw the Chief of Staff squeeze the man's shoulder reassuringly. This call was out of his hands.

 Stopping just short of pleading, Bartlet took a deep, gasping breath and said softly, "Leo?  I need to get out of this.  Just…try."

"Okay, okay. We'll try. Please, sir, relax." McGarry patted his arm helplessly. There wasn't much more he could do. "You won't do yourself or us any good if you tense up or pass out.  Now, slow breaths, remember?  Get it back under control and then we'll try."

He held his friend's hand, feeling the fingers cold in his grasp as Bartlet fought valiantly to get the panic back under control.  His clothes were slightly damp. Rainwater was trickling in beneath him from the cracks in the fuselage and dripping off the twisted girders. That wasn't going to help if he started to slip into shock.

And that smell. There it was again. McGarry turned his head, trying to capture it and the memory. He was so close. He started as a particularly nasty peal of thunder cracked overhead, chasing away the memory he was so close to catching.

Turning his attention back to the President, McGarry watched in powerless silence as Bartlett slowly calmed and regained his control.  He mentally cursed the phobia that was making things so much harder for his friend.

When he was sure Bartlet was as calm as he could get under the circumstances, he nodded to Butterfield and they both eased up to slide their hands under the President's arms.

Keeping his voice as even as he could, McGarry said, "Sir, we're going to try to draw you straight back and out from under the girder. There's just enough room behind you. You ready?"

Swallowing hard, Bartlet nodded his assent and braced his free hand on McGarry's upper arm.  He felt Butterfield's hand slide beneath his armpit on the other side and lift him slightly. He winced at the sudden pain the movement caused. Tensing in anticipation, he looked up just as the agent signed his readiness to McGarry.

Lips pressed tightly shut so no sound could escape, he braced himself as the two men pulled and together drew back on his arms.

Both men stopped abruptly, shocked as a sharp cry burst from the President. McGarry winced as the man's fingers closed convulsively on his arm.  Panicked, he looked down.  Bartlet's eyes were closed and his lips drawn back over his teeth in a grimace of pain.  His body held rigid, and then suddenly deflated as the worst of the throe passed.

"What happened?"  McGarry heard his own voice, high with fear.

The President shook his head, unable to answer.

Grim faced, Butterfield seized the flashlight and ran its beam over the President's body, looking for injury. He almost snarled his frustration when he failed to see anything obvious.

Finally the pain subsided enough to allow Bartlet to speak.  "My leg!"  He gritted out between his teeth, perspiration gleaming wetly on his face.

Butterfield crouched down further, his head nearly resting on the President's chest and shone the flashlight into the tiny space between the man's body and the girder.  He stayed in position for some moments, carefully peering into the limited field of vision.  Finally he drew back, shaking his head in angry self-disgust.

"What is it?"  McGarry had eased an arm under his friend's head and was cushioning it in the crook of his elbow. It was a useless question and from the look on Butterfield's face, one he really didn't want the answer to.

Bartlet lay still with eyes closed and face pale, his breathing punctuated by short gasps.  Occasionally his throat moved as he swallowed convulsively against the bile rising in it as the pain in his leg burned and clawed at him.

"I should have checked before we tried anything."  Butterfield shook his head, for the moment unable to answer further.

The agent was as angry as the Chief of Staff had ever seen him. That anger was no less intimidating for being directed at himself.  McGarry could also see the pain hovering behind his eyes as he explained further. More problems added to the growing list.

"It's barely visible, but it looks as if one of the metal spars from the interior wall has embedded itself deep into his leg just above the knee.  I can see blood welling up around the shaft, so we must have aggravated the hell out of the injury when we tried to pull him out of there."

Shocked, McGarry looked down at his friend.  "We can't get him out?"

Butterfield shook his head.  "I definitely wouldn't like to try it. There's no way we can reach the spar and we have no means to cut or extract it.  We try to just haul him out, no telling what damage we could do. As it is, we may have already done more than enough harm. I just hope the bleeding slows, and that we didn't tear a major vein."

"And if we did?" McGarry already knew the answer, but had to ask.

"Then you had better hope that help comes very soon, Mr. McGarry."  Butterfield was painfully blunt, his professional mask once again in place, his own pain and discomfort disguised by the concern for his charge.  "At the moment I can't even reach the wound to try to place any kind of effective compress on it to slow the bleeding."

McGarry sat in stunned silence as the wind whistled noisily around the wreck, driving rain into the cramped interior. He looked down abruptly as the President stirred in his arms.  Bartlet's eyes fluttered open and the Chief of Staff winced to see them dull with pain. This shouldn't be happening. It tore at his heart when the man smiled weakly up at him.

"Guess I called that badly, huh Leo?"  Bartlet's voice was thin, a weak shadow of the vibrant instrument that could weave spells with words.  "I'm…sorry, old friend.  I had a feeling something was wrong, but I wanted out so much, I just hoped it wasn't anything major."

McGarry tightened his arm around his friend reassuringly, felt the cold hand grip that arm tightly in return.  "It's okay, sir.  We'll deal with it. Don't we always?"

Butterfield looked away.

"You'll have to be the one Leo…you and Ron.  I'm afraid I'm not going to be much help." Bartlet laughed weakly and he flashed a pale imitation of that impish grin.  "The worst I have to worry about is maybe not making it. You on the other hand will be stuck with the joyful task of explaining to my loving spitfire of a wife just why you allowed her jackass of a husband to talk you into trying to haul him out of wreckage with a spar of metal through his leg."

McGarry froze, the implication of those words washing over him in an icy wave of powerless terror. If Bartlet himself honestly did not expect to come through this ordeal …he forced the thought away from him with violent anger.  Damn it, no!  He had faced the possibility of losing his friend too often since he had taken office.  First the stunning news that his friend was suffering from a chronic disease that might one day rob him of his tremendous vitality and that alert intelligence, perhaps even his very life.

Then that dreadful night at Rossyln, the first panic and the false relief when he heard the President was on his way back to the White House.  Fleeting release only, to be followed by that terrifying moment in the car when the agent told him he was sorry, but they had orders to divert instead to GW Hospital. The mad dash down the corridors to finally burst through the exam room doors and see…

He closed his eyes and swallowed, then looked down again at his President.  Bartlet's face had a grayish tinge, and the hand that once again rested inside McGarry's was cold and clammy. However, those pain-drawn features continued to gaze up at him quizzically and the blue eyes still retained their usual sparkle of intelligence, mingled with a faintly self-depreciating humor.

McGarry's face felt stiff, but he forced the muscles into a smile. "Yeah, right!  Don't think you're going to get away with landing me with that task. This one you're going to have to explain for yourself."

Bartlet's lips quirked up on one side.  "Are you telling me," he teased gently, "that the man who told a House Disciplinary Committee that it was his job to take a bullet for the President…oh, yes." At Leo's abashed look he tightened his grip momentarily in unspoken gratitude. "I heard about that…is still afraid to face the President's wife?"

McGarry swallowed and spoke with deliberate lightness. "Sir, with all due respect, a bullet can only kill me. The First Lady tends to maul her victims rather badly, especially those who have been careless enough to damage her husband in any way. I'd much rather die with all my limbs intact."

He was rewarded with a low snort of laughter and a faint murmur of, "Chicken!" before the President's eyes closed and his head rolled to one side to rest against the Chief of Staff's chest.

Alarmed, McGarry looked up at Butterfield, who had remained silent throughout the exchange.

The agent leaned forward to touch his fingers lightly beneath the President's jaw.  McGarry's eyes widened at the gesture and he sucked in a breath of relief when Butterfield pulled back and reassured his anxious audience with a slight nod.

"It's alright, Mr. McGarry, he's just passed out for the moment."  Butterfield began efficiently ripping a long strip from the lining of his jacket.  "We'll need to wake him again in a minute. Between the leg injury, the bleeding and the wound to his head it would be dangerous to allow him to sleep. He's already in danger of slipping into shock and we have no means of determining whether or not he may have a concussion."

"Oh God," McGarry swore softly. A curse or a prayer, he wasn't sure. A wave of apprehension, sheer dread, swept through him and he snapped, "Wake him, now!"

"In a moment, sir.  I want to take advantage of the circumstance.  This might hurt him otherwise."  Butterfield understood McGarry's fear, shared it. But he couldn't afford to let it rule him or his actions. He held out his hand. "Can I have your handkerchief?"

"Huh?" McGarry blinked and gave the man a blank look, totally caught up in the feeling of the weight lying against him.

"Your handkerchief," Butterfield repeated patiently. "I want to put a compress on his head wound.  See if I can halt the bleeding there at least, given that we can't do much about his leg."

"Oh!"  Flushing at his own stupidity, McGarry balanced Bartlet's head as well as he could while digging through his coat pocket. He became aware of an oddly warm, clammy patch on his shirtfront that cooled rapidly as he shifted position. He swallowed convulsively when he realized that the blood still streaming from the injured man's head had soaked right through the lining of his jacket.

Gritting his teeth, he silently handed the handkerchief to Butterfield and watched as the other man added it to his own soaked linen, pressing both down firmly on the wound, and started to wind the strip of jacket lining tightly over them and around the President's head.

"Ow!"  Bartlet was awake now, startled by the manhandling and managing to throw a pretty good elbow into McGarry's stomach.

Grunting and catching the flailing arm, McGarry pressed down gently on his friend's chest to prevent him moving suddenly.  He'd wanted the man awake, but not like this. "Sir…"

"Damn it, that hurts!"

"Sorry, Mr. President," Butterfield did not pause in his task. Truthfully, he was rather pleased Bartlet had the strength to grouse and complain. "Almost done."  He reached down and snagged the pin from Bartlet's tie, using it to secure the rough bandage in place.

"Careful with that", the President growled irritably. "Abbey gave me that for our anniversary three years ago and I copped hell when I mislaid it for a week."

"I remember the search, sir."  Butterfield's voice may have contained just a trace of ironic amusement. "I'm sure the First Lady would understand in the circumstances and approve."

"Whatever. Just so long as you know you'll be the one doing the explaining this time."  The President's voice trailed off and his head began to loll back against McGarry's chest again.

"Mr. President?" Worry clouding his voice, Butterfield tried to regain the man's attention. "I'm sorry sir, but you can't fall asleep." 

The only reply the agent received was a slightly peevish mumble.

"Mr. President?" McGarry tapped his friend's cheek gently, this time easily evading the feeble swatting motion that Bartlet made in response.

"Leave me 'lone…tired."

McGarry sighed heavily.  "I know sir, but we really need you to stay awake until help gets here. You could have a concussion and we have no idea how badly your leg may be wounded.  How does it feel?"

"Hmmm?"  Bartlet roused himself with an effort.  He shifted slightly, before freezing with a stifled groan.

McGarry tightened his arms around him instinctively, felt the man's muscles tense, then relax. But only a little. "Sir?" He prodded, trying again for an answer.

"It hurts, Leo…a lot.  And it's cold.  My foot seems numb, can hardly feel it.  In fact," Bartlet's whole body suddenly shook in an involuntary shiver, "I feel pretty cold all over."

McGarry shivered slightly in sympathy and suddenly became aware once again of the sound of wind and rain playing through the cracks in the damaged fuselage. If at all possible, the storm had become worse. The constant drip of water around them, the frequent and alarmingly close rumbles of thunder were testament to that unwelcome fact.

Gritting his teeth to stifle a grunt of pain, Butterfield rose abruptly to his feet. "I'm going to see if I can find blankets in the lockers remaining in the cabin. I'll be back in a moment.  Please keep him talking, Mr. McGarry."  He twisted around and ducked under the cleared area of overhang.

McGarry watched him leave, then looked down at the man resting against his arm and sighed. Bartlet's eyes had already closed again and his breathing had softened as he hovered precariously close to sleep.  He gently joggled the arm on which his friend's head was laying.

Forcing himself to keep the alarm out of his voice, he said loudly, "Hey!"

Bartlet's eyes snapped open and he snarled angrily, "What!"

For a moment, the full force of the President's formidable temper left McGarry speechless. Then he grinned and said, "You know, I'm getting a whole new appreciation for Charlie's hatred of waking you up in the mornings."

"Ha, funny."  Bartlet countered with a cynical curl of his lip. Shifting as much as he was able, he thrust his free hand impatiently against the heavy girder imprisoning him.

"Careful." McGarry gently captured the wavering hand. "You'll cut yourself and you can't afford to lose any more blood."

"Whatever."

McGarry was dismayed at the weary, pain-laced tone of the President's voice. Underneath that was a hint of something he'd never heard before. Resignation. That more than anything sent a chill up his spine.

"I feel like it's weighing down on me, Leo.  Like I can't fill my lungs."

Closing his eyes briefly, McGarry tried to ignore the dull ache of foreboding those exhausted words produced. Bartlet was riding the ragged edge and there was nothing he could do to help. How did you cope with an irrational yet very real fear, especially under these circumstances?

To be continued…