A Frightened Peace
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 6/12
He had always admired his friend's strength of will, but never more so than now. He knew it was taking every shred of Josiah Bartlet's self control to prevent himself from trying to rip that metal spar right out of his leg in a frantic struggle for freedom from his coffin-like confinement. Even now, he could feel the man's chest laboring slightly under his hand and hear the uneven breathing. With frightful certainty he knew that the rigid tension of his friend's muscles came almost as much from that effort for control as from the terrible pain emanating from his leg.
"I'm sorry." He gave his friend's hand a gentle little shake. "You're doing really well. I'm proud of you. Just try to hang on a little longer. Help will be here soon."
He silently prayed those words were true.
Bartlet nodded weakly, for one of the few times in his life without words. A heavy, tense silence fell for a moment, only to be broken when the wind howled mournfully through a crack in the fuselage. He nearly smiled at nature's rather snide commentary on the whole proceedings.
"You know," McGarry tried for a light tone, "When we get back I'm probably gonna kill Jonathan."
Bartlet twisted his head slightly to regard his chief of staff with puzzled surprise. "Jonathan …as in my brother? Why?"
"For the steamer trunk." At Bartlet's blank expression, McGarry continued, still trying to keep his words and mood easy, "That comment you made, about Jon locking you in one when you were kids. I asked Abbey if you had told her about it, thought it was funny, he being your kid brother and all. She told me you'd said that you actually passed out."
McGarry paused for a moment, unsure as to whether he had the right to continue. Another time, another place and he would simply ask. But this was the President of the United States. How far do you push?
Thunder roared outside and made the decision for him. He had to know. "Wasn't that what started the claustrophobia? You've had it for as long as I've known you."
"It wasn't Jon's fault, he didn't know it would affect me like that. Besides, he was only a kid. He was just imitating…" Bartlet broke off abruptly.
McGarry regarded him sharply and with some surprise. "Imitating who?"
He was stunned by the expression he saw steal over his friend's face just before it went carefully blank. It was a chaotic mixture of anger, sadness and remembered fear and shame.
"Nothing." Bartlet shifted and grimaced slightly. His voice became deceptively light. "Practicing psychotherapy without a license, Leo? For shame. Seems to be becoming a bad habit for everybody lately."
McGarry frowned, a sudden sense of revelation overcoming him. "Was that what Toby did that night, Jed?" For a brief moment he once again forgot protocol, the rigid and unbending rules he'd lived by for three years. This was his friend and he was in pain. "Try to play mind games? What on earth did he say? Because I've never seen you…"
"Leo!" Weak though the voice was, there was no mistaking the tone, the sudden anger that flashed and clouded his eyes. Thunder chose that moment to rumble a spiteful accompaniment overhead and Bartlet let out a short, bitter laugh. "Thanks for the assist," he muttered ironically, feeling a bit put out that the director of this whole piece felt it necessary to add his two cents in.
The Chief of Staff practically ground to a halt. Forty-year old friendship or not, and despite Bartlet's normally open nature, he was plainly walking a line that his instinct told him Toby had stomped all over with trademark Ziegler doggedness in pursuit of an ideal.
"Jed, please." McGarry pressed forward, trying to force the issue. He could be as dogged as Toby on any day and he sensed he was hovering on the edge of discovering just what had wounded Bartlet so deeply that night.
It had troubled him more profoundly than he could easily express to watch his friend over the course of that week. In fact, he had been the direct instigator of Dr. Stanley Keyworth's involvement in the whole affair and had been frustrated beyond belief by that gentleman's refusal to be forthcoming about matters.
Bartlet's lips twisted and he opened his mouth to utter a curt response when he was interrupted by the sound of Butterfield endeavoring to worm his way back into the small space with a couple of blankets in tow.
Bartlet turned his head away as the agent approached, closing his eyes and feigning sleep.
It was a poor ruse and McGarry knew at that point the conversation, unsatisfactory as it had been, was officially over. He sat there for a moment, shoulders slumped and with a worried expression on his face he made no attempt to hide. Wearied by events and indecision, he reluctantly let it go, for now at any rate.
There would be another time.
"Here," Butterfield handed him the blankets. Uncertainty crept into his expression as he looked down at his sleeping charge. He wasn't fooled by the act any more than McGarry was. He hesitated; measuring the situation for a moment, then asked quietly, "Can you handle things here, sir?"
"Why?" Accepting the blankets and shaking one of them out, McGarry gave the waiting agent a curious look. "Is there a problem?"
The corner of Butterfield's mouth twisted slightly in what might have been described by someone who didn't know him as a mocking –albeit only slightly—smile.
"Okay, okay," McGarry growled, glad of the semidarkness that hid his embarrassed wince. "Is there another problem I should know about? 'Cause I'll tell you right now my plate is a little full."
A snort and a low chuckle of familiar though tired executive amusement greeted that rather loaded statement.
Eyes narrowed with profound and long-suffering irritation, McGarry looked down and gave his friend a supremely sour look. "No comments from the peanut gallery."
One Presidential eye opened. "Peanut gallery?"
"Yeah. As in annoying, sir."
"Lucy?"
"Shut up."
Butterfield shifted, becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. Most of the secret service had that reaction when these two started going at it. As the senior agent was doing now, most only half listened to the absurd byplay, wondering exactly where or when it would leave off and things could get back to normal.
'Back to normal?' He nearly did smile openly at that thought. Having served under two previous sitting Presidents, Butterfield and his staff had quickly come to the realization that nothing in the Bartlet administration could be considered normal.
Truthfully, most found it a refreshing, if slightly disconcerting, breath of fresh air.
Still, there was a time and place for everything and the President's senior agent had a job to do. "Mr. McGarry?"
"Yeah, Ron?"
"I'm going to head forward. One of the hatches is clear of debris and I might be able to get it open."
McGarry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Caught up in the nightmare, he'd forgotten about that possibility. His fingers clutched the blanket in his hand, twisting the heavy cloth. They might be able to get one of the hatches open. But then what? What choices did they have?
Two of them could leave and find relative safety. One couldn't. And McGarry knew with the certainty of over forty years friendship what the man who couldn't leave would order them to do.
One thing was certain. There was always a first time and McGarry had always wondered what it would be like to defy a direct executive order.
Not waiting for an answer, some of the same thoughts chasing each other through his own mind, Butterfield crouched low and began to scramble back through the opening.
"Ron?" McGarry called softly.
Pausing, Butterfield turned back. "Sir?"
"How long?"
Caught off guard by the question, knowing what the Chief of Staff wanted to hear in reply, Butterfield hesitated. What to tell him? The storm was still raging outside, thunder and lightning contemptuously joining the howling wind in an insane mockery of circumstance. He tried weighing the whole structure of events, to find something that would satisfy McGarry and not cause the trapped man any more anxiety or pain.
Reluctantly, he realized that a loaded silence was the only answer he could give.
"I understand," McGarry said softly, accepting the unspoken answer and what he felt was the inevitable. Had he truly expected anything to go right?
Unfortunately, it wasn't an answer that Bartlet found in any way satisfying. "Answer him, Ron."
"Mr. President…"
Bartlet opened his eyes and drilled the agent with a demanding glare. "Answer him!" he snapped, for the moment frustrated anger driving away the pain and demons haunting him.
Thunder and lightning flashed overhead and the President bit back a curse. He was starting to get just a little tired of the ridicule being tossed at him like so much cheap stage decoration. A tiny, self-depreciating smile and he had to candidly admit that by now he should be used to it.
Under Bartlet's steady and unwavering scrutiny, Butterfield had no choice but to answer. "Under normal circumstances, given the location of several air bases…"
"Cut to the chase."
"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at the most."
"But?"
Butterfield sighed heavily, though his expression remained as stoically blank as ever. "The storm, sir. Even with the locator beacons, any rescue crew is going to have to be able to see the wreck."
"And they can't see us." Assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness, Bartlet gave a choked, desperate laugh. What else was there left to do? "Thank you, Ron."
"Sir."
The determination he heard in Butterfield's voice gave Bartlet a strange, numbed comfort. He'd always been amazed at the man's air of calm and self-confidence. Some things in this world never changed, or allowed to the world to change them.
Inclining his head towards the narrow opening leading forward, the President of the United States told his senior agent, "Go."
Determined not to fail, Butterfield nodded and without further word scrambled through the gap.
Watching him go, McGarry felt a bit of that same resolve. This wasn't over yet. Draping one of the blankets over his friend, he said firmly, "They'll see us."
"Always the optimist, Leo."
"Me? An optimist?" McGarry's brows rose with open amazement, caught off guard by the absurdity of that statement. "You really did bang your head a good one, didn't you?"
"One of us has to be."
McGarry's mouth snapped shut, stunned by the obvious resignation, the glaring lack of humor in Bartlet's voice that had been there only moments before. Not for the first time, he realized that the complex man he dared to call friend was an ever changing and uncategorized mystery. He'd always wondered how much of the man's cutting wit was simply a personal shield, or his way of shielding others.
Unable to form a reply, McGarry chose to ignore whatever was being implied and leaned over the prone man to tuck one of the blankets around his shoulders as best he could, the other behind his head for support. It wouldn't help much, not in the position he was in, but the comfort would be as much psychological as it was physical. He cringed when his hand came away wet from under Bartlet's shoulders, felt the cold, soaked fibers of his suit jacket heavy with moisture.
Holding his hand up to his eyes, something else struck him. Bringing his fingers closer to his face and wrinkling his nose, he caught it again. That smell. Faint and familiar, it once again began to clutch at some half forgotten memory.
A shadow of annoyance crossed the President's face when he got no response. "Leo…"
"Sir, please…" McGarry's voice trailed off, trying desperately to put the odor in its proper place. It was important. Once, long ago, he'd known it. It was thin, heavily diluted with rainwater, but he knew it…
Unused to being told to shush, however indirectly, Bartlet opened his mouth to issue as scathing a rebuff as he could manage under the circumstances. Then the look on McGarry's face registered, the absolute concentration. Lifting his head from the rough pillow, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed his friend's, felt the muscles of the man's forearm tighten beneath the sleeve of his coat.
"What is it?"
For a brief moment, he saw McGarry close his eyes. Then he opened them and the flash of near panic he saw for a moment in their depths had Bartlet wishing he hadn't asked.
McGarry let out his breath and swore, "Aw, shit."
A long, brittle silence stretched between the two men, far too long for Bartlet's tastes. Blinking slowly in the near darkness, he let the moment draw out a beat longer, as much as he dared, then asked quietly, "Is it a secret? Or do I have to guess?"
McGarry felt as if a hand had closed around his throat. For a brief moment, he considered not telling the President, of hollering instead for Butterfield. But what good would it do? Neither the lie nor the secret service agent's presence would change anything.
"It's fuel, sir," he answered with a calm detachment that left him wondering as to its source. "Aviation fuel. One of the tanks has ruptured. It's leaking into the cabin."
The President's reaction to that revelation wasn't exactly what McGarry had expected.
He laughed.
There was nothing hysterical about it, nothing bitter or cynical. For a confused moment McGarry couldn't place it or the reason, but when he did he couldn't help but laugh himself. It was a joke, a cruel, unending, twisted and mean play on fate, but still a joke and they both had finally caught the punch line.
Wincing as his laughter broke off into a rough cough, Bartlet let his head fall back against the makeshift pillow. Sighing wearily, he offered his companion a tired smile. "It's all getting a bit ridiculous, isn't it, Leo?"
Truthfully, McGarry felt like hitting something. Ridiculous or not and in spite of himself, he chuckled and replied dryly, "I'm not about to argue with you, sir."
"Is it bad?"
"It could be worse."
The President blinked slowly, then asked very carefully, "How?"
"Do you want me to tempt fate and ask?"
"Given my track record the last few years?" Bartlet's mouth twisted wryly, "That would be pushing it."
Settling back against what remained of the bulkhead, McGarry put his arm around his old friend's shoulders and gave a gentle snort of sympathetic agreement. "There's not much we can do about it."
"Is that supposed to cheer me up?"
"Does it?"
A short brittle laugh. "No."
"Not much longer now, sir. The rescue teams must be nearly here by now. Ron was right, if it weren't for the storm they probably would be here already, but all this heavy rain must be playing hell with visibility and flying conditions."
Bartlet's mouth pulled into a sour grin. "This is wisdom from a man who hasn't flown a plane in nearly thirty years?"
McGarry ignored the somewhat cynical presidential teasing with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. He cocked his head slightly as the ever-present background creaking of the wreck suddenly increased in intensity. "Wind seems to be picking up, too."
Prepared to accept being forced to stay awake but not to do it meekly, Bartlet started to offer a reply when the wreck resettled itself with a sudden lurch. Clutching helplessly at the girder laying across his chest, he felt something move, tear at the leg he'd thought too cold and numb to feel anything anymore. Bile rose in his throat at the agony and he arched his back, mouth opening in a wordless cry of pain.
McGarry clutched at him in panic, trying to hold him still, prevent him from damaging himself further. For God's sake, what now? "What is it?"
The President subsided with a low hiss of pain. Through tortured gasps for precious air, he managed, "My leg…something's happening to my leg…" his voice broke off in mid-sentence and he arched up again in a spasm of agony.
"Ron!" McGarry bellowed, holding tight to Bartlet's tense shoulders. He could barely hear his own voice over the sounds of the storm and the man's tortured breathing. The roar of adrenaline in his ears nearly drowned out everything but the hammering beat of his own heart.
Butterfield slid under the overhang and hastily scrambled across the debris, adrenaline rendering him indifferent to the stabbing pain in his side and the new cuts as the sharp metal sliced through his hands and knees. Dropping down beside the Chief of Staff, he demanded breathlessly, "What?"
To be continued…
