A Frightened Peace

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 8/12

McGarry inclined his head in acknowledgement of both the request and the unspoken regret that Bartlet himself could offer no constructive assistance.  With a quick smile to his friend, who was attempting to settle himself securely against the wall, he cautiously followed the agent towards the hatch.

The last slide had caused the cabin to roll slightly, so the hatch was no longer set at quite so precipitous an angle. However both men were still obliged to brace themselves with one hand in order to avoid sliding back down the angle of the floor while they battered at the warped hatchway.

McGarry was making way for a particularly heartfelt assault by Butterfield on the hatch when overhead a familiar, booming roar that momentarily overrode the ever-present thunder suddenly drew his attention. His hand closed excitedly on his companion's arm, interrupting the next enthusiastic shoulder charge.  "Listen."

Startled, Butterfield did just that, grateful for the brief reprieve and using it to wait for the now ever present stitch in his side to abate. Straining, for a moment all he could hear was the steady fury of the storm. Then, there it was, utterly unmistakable.  Feeling an almost unbearable weight begin to ease from his shoulders, he shared an unbridled smile of sheer relief with the Chief of Staff. He then turned to share the good news with the man lying on the other side of the cabin and frowned at what he saw.

Bartlet had his head back against the bulkhead, eyes closed. One hand rested lightly on his wounded leg, the other lay limply at his side. He was asleep, or as close as Butterfield was going to allow him.

"Mr. President?"

"Huh?"  The response was drowsy.  Damp, chilled clothing, wounds and aftermath from the emotional release of earlier were making it harder and harder for Bartlet to accede to his companion's wishes and stay alert.  "What is it?"

"Jets." Butterfield waited until he was sure he had the man's full attention before continuing. "There are fighter jets circling our position. We've been spotted. The medivac helicopters have a location to home in on now. Help will be here very soon."

The news took a moment to sink into Bartlet's exhausted and stressed mind, and then he looked up, almost afraid to hope.  The beaming grin on McGarry's face was worth more than any number of spoken reassurances, and he offered up a tentative smile in return.

The brief moment of relief was broken when McGarry's face abruptly seemed to dip in his field of vision. Bartlet essayed a grunt of protest as his head bounced against the bulkhead behind him and he suddenly found himself almost fully reclining and beginning to slide down an ever-growing slope in the floor.

Above him, McGarry and Butterfield grabbed hastily for handholds in order to prevent themselves from sliding gracelessly down the steep gradient as the cabin rolled again, pitching up the angle of the floor even further.

Hanging on for dear life, McGarry heard a sudden pop and crackling, and then a muffled exclamation of pained exasperation from Butterfield.  Twisting his head, he saw wisps of smoke issuing from around the edges of a panel on the far bulkhead a few yards from where Bartlet lay.

"That last roll must have pulled loose some wiring, one of the batteries must still be hot."  The secret service agent was releasing a fire extinguisher from its housing next to the hatchway with unhurried efficiency.  "I'd better get it out before any sparks have the opportunity to fan into flame…" He turned and blinked, unexpectedly finding himself addressing an empty space.

At the word 'sparks' the Chief of Staff had given a panic-stricken gasp and released his handhold to slide in ungainly haste down the incline, fetching up almost on top of the startled President. Attempting the difficult task of interposing his body between Bartlet and the panel while simultaneously dragging his protesting victim further away, he yelled over his shoulder to the bemused agent, "Put it out!  For God's sake, get it out now!"

Confused, but responding to the unmistakable sense of urgency in his voice, Butterfield began his own equally rapid but rather more controlled descent of the incline. Reaching the panel, he unleashed the extinguisher over it, and then paused to rip it away one-handed before directing the remaining contents of the cylinder into the circuitry behind to ensure that no danger remained.  Putting down the empty extinguisher, he turned to face the two men.

McGarry, finding it difficult to drag the nearly limp body of a full-grown man at any speed, had abandoned the attempt and instead flattened himself over the form beneath him to shield it.  Judging from the general tone of the muffled remarks issuing from under him, the President was less than happy about this quixotic gesture.

"Leo, get the hell off of me!  Now!"  A lucky thrust with an elbow, and a slightly winded grunt from McGarry granted Bartlet his wish and his self-appointed protector lifted his weight off him. Rolling over awkwardly, and uncertain as to whether to clutch at his abused ribs or his leg --to which McGarry in the course of his frantic lunge had administered a fairly hefty kick-- the President glowered up at his friend.

"What," he inquired with strained patience, "did you think you were doing?"

McGarry returned the look with heat, riding his own adrenaline high. "Didn't you hear Ron?" he hissed. "Or have you forgotten what effect a spark could have in here right now? And what about you? You were only a few feet away and your clothes are soaked in the stuff!"

He almost bit through his tongue as he watched Bartlet's features freeze and heard his friend draw in a short choking breath. Impulsively, he reached out to rest a hand on the President's upper arm, squeezing it gently in regret. Always the one to remind the senior staff when to think before speaking, McGarry found himself in the unenviable position of having failed to do just that.

"Mr. President, I'm sorry.  That was thoughtless…"

McGarry's apology was curtailed by the sound of an ominously clearing throat behind him. He could have sworn it sounded like a growl. He turned and found himself almost skewered by the glare the secret service agent was directing at him. He had sometimes wondered what it would take to make the unflappable Butterfield lose it. Wincing, he now came to the conclusion that some questions were better left unanswered, especially when you yourself were the unwitting catalyst.

"Mr. McGarry." Butterfield's tone was flat, but his eyes burned with the fury of a man who had had one too many curve balls flung at him by a malicious fate this day. "Would there by any chance be some details you need to fill me in on?"

The Chief of Staff couldn't help himself; he actually gulped before summoning up his voice to respond. "Earlier, just before we had to pull the President out …" he paused, then took a deep breath and completed his explanation in a rush. "I realized that his clothes were soaked in aviation fuel as well as rainwater. One of the fuel tanks is leaking into the cabin."

Offering a tentative smile of any kind at this point would have been only one more nail in his coffin, so McGarry didn't even bother to try. He was starting to have just a bit more sympathy for the President and his caution around this man.

"So." Butterfield's voice was beginning to rise, the volume slowly increasing with each carefully uttered syllable. "You knew that we had highly flammable fuel leaking into an unstable area where grating metal or damaged wiring could ignite a spark that might start an inferno, and you didn't see fit to mention this fact to me?"

McGarry flinched back from the sheer volume of that last outraged bellow, banging his head a good one against the bulkhead in the process. Wincing and at a complete loss for words, he stared up at Butterfield helplessly. To try to explain that he had felt it would change nothing, or that there had simply been no time as they lurched from one crisis to the next, sounded rather feeble in the face of such incandescent fury.

He felt an elbow digging into his ribs, then the unmistakable voice of his friend and President accusing him, "Way to piss him off, Leo."

If McGarry had felt it safe to take his eyes off the still glowering Butterfield, he'd have given Bartlet a good fielding return. Right now, self preservation dictated he keep his attention focused on the bloodied man towering over him.

As much as he was enjoying watching McGarry squirm, the President decided --rather wisely he thought-- to break the deadlock.  Slightly startled himself by his security chief's blow-up, he raised a calming hand, catching the man's attention.

Butterfield whipped his head around, and then hastily modified his glare when he met the tolerant eye of his chief executive.

"Don't blame Leo, Ron. He didn't intend to keep anything important from you." Bartlet tapped the other man's knee to emphasize his point.  "A lot of stuff happened very fast.  And, well, I haven't exactly been making things any easier for either of you."  He waited until he saw the agent's shoulders sag slightly and the anger fade from his features, then continued. "But I would suggest that your point about our not being able to afford to simply sit and wait for rescue is well taken. We have more to worry about now than a very short, unscheduled flight if this heap of junk decides to shift again."

This timely reminder galvanized Butterfield into action. With a final, accusing glare at McGarry, he turned to scramble back up towards the hatch without even his usual courteous acknowledgement of his charge's edicts.

McGarry began to follow, then halted in his tracks at the sound of the President's voice.  He saw Butterfield also turn to listen.

"One last point, fellas," Bartlet's voice was low and his gaze intense. "I don't want any pointless heroics.  I know our chances are a lot better now you got me out from under that crap, but I'm still not going anywhere fast. You will be closer to the hatch and mobile.  If our luck runs out and we take fire…" he closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively at the possibility. A deep breath and he continued, "…we're going to go up like a Molotov cocktail. I don't want you to risk yourselves needlessly. Get out. Fast."

Seeing the two incredulous faces regarding him, his voice gained a distinct edge. "Do you understand me?"

Butterfield regained his voice first. "Sir, I took an oath…"

"And I'm giving you an order!" Bartlet snapped. "As your President, I am directly ordering you both to take no unnecessary risks to your lives." He glared as he saw his two companions exchange decidedly mutinous looks.  "Tell me you understand that order."

McGarry snorted. "You have an interesting definition of 'unnecessary risk'.  No."  He held up a hand at his friend's attempt to interrupt. "Our oaths of loyalty and our duty aside, what the hell makes you think we would ever obey an order like that?"  He regarded his friend's averted head and softened his voice.  "Jed, we've been friends for more than half our lives. You're closer to me than a brother.  I know you wouldn't leave me, as surely as I know you never really expected me to obey you."

Bartlet tilted his head to look up at his Chief of Staff.  "I know, I know", he sighed.  "But I had to try, Leo.  I don't want to be the cause of anything happening to you."

McGarry looked up at Butterfield and jerked his head slightly. The agent took the hint and silently moved to resume his attack on the hatch.  Urgent as that task was, this was a conversation McGarry was determined not to leave unfinished. There had already been too many such conversations in recent times. He'd never had the chance to finish them and this time he wasn't about to lose the momentum.

He settled down awkwardly next to where Bartlet lay slumped against the angle of the bulkhead wall, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, and an arm gently cradling his ribs.  The end of the temporary bandage on the President's head had come adrift of the tiepin during their recent scramble, and McGarry attempted clumsily to secure the frayed end back in place.  He sat back on his heels, shaking his head in disgust at his efforts.

Bartlet gave him a quick grin. "Cheer up, Leo. You were never Boy Scout material anyway."

"You on the other hand I'll just bet were a natural," McGarry countered sourly. He regarded his old friend gravely. "Sir, why did you even bring it up? You know we wouldn't leave you here."

Cold, wet and exhausted, Bartlet gave him a weary look. "I know, Leo. That was never my fear. I just didn't want to lose you." He closed his eyes and turned his face away. "Sometimes lately I think that I've done nothing but endanger or lose all those things that really matter to me since I took this office.  Oh, don't get me wrong; I'm grateful for all the opportunities it's granted me.  But it's taken its dues..."

And whose fault was that? McGarry's stomach knotted, guilt raising its ugly head. He'd convinced Bartlet to run, to take on the job and pay those dues. "Jed…"

"Let me finish, Leo." There was steel in his voice.

McGarry almost rebelled, but something told him to simply listen. Jed Bartlet didn't need an advisor; he needed a friend, someone to talk to, one man to another. Sadly, he realized it had been a long time since they'd just sat and talked.

Bartlet had settled back against the bulkhead, his gaze turning inwards. "I put Zoey and Charlie at risk because of who I am. We nearly lost Josh that night. They tried to ruin you because you were my closest advisor." A choking, bitter grunt that never quite made it to a laugh, "I did lose Dolores. And now with the MS, we don't know what kind of fall out everyone may experience."

Sighing, he looked up and the last traces of resistance vanished. His eyes were anguished.  "I'm not even sure that it won't cost me Abbey, and that's not just whining on my part Leo. That prospect frightens me more than anything else."

McGarry struggled to find a response. "Surely you don't really believe that all those things are your fault?" Even as he said them, he knew the words were empty and of little comfort.

He should have known Bartlet would find something to latch on to, a thread of dark humor directed at himself.

The President smiled crookedly. "Nah. I've got a pretty healthy ego, Leo, but it's not that inflated. Intellectually, I know most of those things were outside my control, or else the result of the actions of others. Except for Abbey. That I really have handled badly. And that scares me. I was stupid, and stubborn.  Yes, I know", slightly annoyed at his friend's quiet snigger. "Nothing exactly new about that revelation.  It's just that lately I've become so tired of it all."

"Sir, you've been fighting a great many battles on a variety of fronts recently. It's natural to be tired, especially when you also haven't been sleeping. And depressed." McGarry sobered. It was pointless to try and deny the harsh truths Bartlet had uttered. It was an argument his years of friendship assured him he would lose. There was a future though. "But it's going to pass. I'm certain of that. The staff may have been shocked and disappointed, but they still have faith in you. They put their trust and their support behind you. And deep down you know that Abbey does too."

Bartlet gave him a grateful smile, and grimaced slightly as he tried to shift position.

McGarry leaned forward to ease his friend upright.  As he drew back he again caught that faint but now utterly unmistakable smell on the man's wet clothing and it reminded him both of the continuing precariousness of their position, and of another more personal concern.  He eyed the President uneasily, unsure of whether or not to broach the subject.

"Sir?  How are you doing?  I mean, I know we got you out of that rubble, but we're still not free, and I happen to know that claustrophobia isn't your only problem." Watching the muscles of his friend's jaw tense and the lines of strain in his face deepen, McGarry regretted bringing it up.  Leaning forward, he laid a hand on the injured man's arm in an effort to provide a reassuring presence.

To his surprise, he felt the tendons under his hand relax slightly, and Bartlet gave a short laugh. It was a dry, cynical sound McGarry couldn't quite place.

"You mean the fuel danger? As in poof?" Snapping his fingers on the last word, he shook his head in gentle amusement at his friend's worried nod.  "Leo, can I be honest with you?  Right now, I'm simply don't have the energy to support more than one phobia at a time."

The worry on McGarry's features faded, but only slightly. "You feeling okay?" he inquired anxiously.  "Not going to have another attack?"

The President let his head fall back with a weary sigh, and smiled tightly at his companion. "No, I don't think so. Oh it's still there, Leo, scratching away at the back of my mind, but I think I've managed, if not to control it, to at least achieve a sort of …" he paused to grope for the right words.  "…frightened peace."

Seeing his friend's puzzled and not overly reassured expression, he quoted in a low voice, "So shaken as we are, so wan with care; Find we a time for frightened peace."

McGarry's face cleared and he nodded, understanding the sentiment even if he couldn't quite place the quote.  He gave Bartlet's shoulder a quick squeeze.  "You gonna be okay now?  Only I really should help…"

"Go", Bartlet interrupted him, jerking his head in the direction of the hatch, where Butterfield seemed to finally be making some progress. Judging by the satisfied sound of the occasional muttered exclamation that drifted down towards them, the agent was taking out a few of his repressed aggressions on the unyielding metal.

Oddly loath to leave his friend, McGarry gave the supine man's shoulder one last pat, and then turned away to negotiate the slope behind him. Slipping, sliding and uttering muffled curses, the Chief of Staff managed to scramble up to Butterfield's side.

"How's it coming?" He demanded breathlessly, anchoring himself in position next to the hatchway.

The agent spared him a brief glance of cautious satisfaction. "Not so bad. I've managed to make some real progress here.  With luck, another couple of minutes should see the hatch clear." He paused momentarily, hanging on as the wreck rocked slightly, before continuing grimly and with more than a touch of exasperated disgust, "And not a moment too soon, I'd say. I think our time is running out."

Senses straining nervously as he attempted to gauge the ferocity of the storm and the instability of their position, McGarry could only agree. Leaning back slightly to allow Butterfield space to wield the metal bar he was using to lever away the hatch, he glanced back down towards the President.  Worry clouded his eyes at what he saw.

Bartlet's eyes were closed. Apparently he had finally lost the battle with exhaustion and fallen into a light doze. Deciding that a few moments respite from tension could not hurt, McGarry didn't attempt to wake him.

To be continued…