A Frightened Peace

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 9/12

He gazed across the cabin at his friend, taking the opportunity to really study him for the first time since this nightmare had begun. Taking in the pale, bruised face, bloodstained head bandage and injured leg, he felt a sick fear begin to form in the pit of his stomach. Looking at the steep slope that separated them, and remembering his own difficulty in traversing it, the apprehension rose into his throat.

"Ron."

McGarry's voice sounded strained and Butterfield turned to regard him with curiosity, and some small degree of impatience. The bottom corner of the hatch had finally yielded to his ministrations and come away from its housing. The agent was convinced that just a few more wrenches on his improvised lever would see the entire thing fall away, leaving their exit clear.  Given his own waning strength and energy, he was naturally reluctant to defer that moment, however briefly.  But the other man's expression held his attention and he waited for him to continue.

When the man remained silent, he prompted somewhat impatiently, "Mr. McGarry?"

The Chief of Staff swallowed; feeling a childish reluctance to voice his fear, as if articulating it would somehow give it life. "The President." He gestured down towards the fitfully sleeping man. "He pegged the situation pretty good earlier, you know. About not being very mobile. Ron, what exactly are we going to do when that hatch finally opens? There's no way he can manage that climb by himself, we can barely make it on our own.  And you…"

Butterfield's eyes narrowed, tightening his grip around the bar in his hands and daring McGarry to finish his thought.

Not about to let him dodge the issue this time, McGarry's answering gaze hardened in return. "Don't tell me it's nothing. I've seen you. You're hurt."

"It doesn't matter. I don't matter."

"He'd argue that one with you," McGarry pointed that truth out calmly, blithely ignoring the warning threat barely hidden in the agent's angry tone and gaze. "What is it? Broken ribs?"

"Cracked…maybe."

"And I'm supposed to believe you?"

"I'll manage." Despite his well-trained reserve, more than a hint of exasperation tinged Butterfield's voice. Turning back to the hatch, he shoved his improvised lever into the widening crack. "It's what I do."

"You can't lift, and I certainly can't do it alone."

A grunt as he pulled angrily on the lever, equal parts pain and frustration, was the agent's only response. The ensuing silence clearly forbade any more questions.

McGarry knew how to take a hint. "Fine," he muttered, finding very little reassurance in Butterfield's stoic attitude. It was starting to get on his nerves and wasn't helping to calm the growing anxiety in the pit of his stomach. The nightmare just kept getting worse.

"Then how are we going to get him up here?" he demanded hotly.

When his companion did not immediately rush in with the rebuttal he had hoped for, McGarry felt the dread climb even higher. Defying both executive authority and his friend's wrath had been one thing, a danger he could face with equanimity. But the idea that, after all that had happened, they might still fail at the final, literally insurmountable obstacle, left him cold with fear.

"We'll manage." Emphasizing the plural, Butterfield's voice was low, fearful of disturbing the dozing subject of their council. Acknowledging McGarry's concerns as much as he dared, he continued, "There are still blankets in the lockers by our seats. We can construct some kind of rope to help him up."

Gripping the bar in his hand tighter, his voice hardened. "I just know that I intend to get him out of here. I'm not leaving without him."

McGarry regarded him intently, startled and considerably touched by the passionate tone of that pledge. The security chief's expression was a study in unyielding determination. The Chief of Staff felt the tension in his stomach un-knot a little and he closed his hand briefly on the other's forearm in a gesture of appreciation and unspoken agreement.

Butterfield grunted noncommittally, turning his attention back to the hatchway and thrusting the lever into the newly created gap. Metal groaned in protest. He did it again and the hatch shifted slightly. Drawing in a deep breath, he ignored the pain in his abused side and threw his full weight behind the lever. With a suddenness that catapulted him into McGarry's outstretched arm and nearly sending them both crashing down the precipitous slope, the hatch tore away and dropped from sight.

Steadying themselves, the two men instinctively swung back to avoid the rain sheeting in through the exposed hatchway. The sounds of the storm were now magnified, mingling with the distant roar of fighter planes still circling their position to direct the expected rescue teams.

Sharing a grin of pure triumph with McGarry, Butterfield grimaced and heaved himself up slightly over the exposed rim to peer through the hatchway at their surroundings.

Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the rain sheeting in through the hatchway, McGarry heard the sound of a barely stifled curse that bordered on the obscene drifting back down. It reminded him that there was still very little about their plight to encourage complacency.

"How's our situation?" he inquired, dread and hope at the possible answer warring for the dominant position in his emotions.

"Not good." Butterfield eased himself back inside the cabin, features once again returned to their seemingly standard level of austerity. "The drop is there, just as we surmised, and it's a beauty." Eyes darting around the remains of the cabin, making note of whatever was available, he calculated their options swiftly. "The rain has softened the ground and we're on a steep slope. I could see patches of soil and trees sliding gradually even during that brief glance. One such slide hits us and over we go."

Coming to a decision, he scrambled down and across the surviving seats and began to root in the lockers. "Those rescue teams have to be only minutes away but I'm not waiting for them."

Emptying the lockers of their remaining blankets and producing a small pocket-knife he looked up at McGarry. "We're going to secure a make-shift rope and use it to help the President reach the exit."

Apprehension, now a familiar though unwelcome acquaintance, raised its head again.  McGarry swallowed, then once again carefully made his way down to his dozing friend.  Reaching his destination, he gently shook one executive shoulder.  "Mr. President?"

"Umph!"

Forewarned by the memory of his earlier efforts at waking this man, McGarry was able to duck a wildly brandishing arm.  He reflected that he would have to see if it were possible to award Charlie danger money for certain unforeseen hazards that his job as body man to Josiah Bartlet seemed to attract.

"Wakey, wakey sir.  Time to go."

Shivering slightly, Bartlet focused groggily on his right hand man. "Go? You got the hatchway open?"

"Yes, sir.  And Ron is of the opinion that the sooner we evacuate you the better. I tend to agree with him on that point. Our present position is insecure, to put it kindly."

"Evacuate me?" Bartlet grimaced as he stiffly attempted to sit upright. One hand clutching at his injured leg, he said dryly, "Leo, I hate to rain on your parade but how are you planning on getting me from here to there? Bear in mind that I saw your own progress, and mine will be even less agile."

"Not to worry."  McGarry called on his considerable political prowess to project an air of confident unconcern. "Ron's got it under control." He hoped Butterfield had it under control. Never one to feel comfortable in situations out of his power, he was putting his faith in the secret service agent's level-headed determination.

"I'm not blind, Leo," Bartlet's voice was calm, his gaze steady on his friend's troubled features. "Ron's hurt. He's not going to be dragging me around by the scruff of my neck this time. And you…"

"What about me?"

"Done a lot of bench presses lately?"

"No more than you. God, we're a pair." A sad smile pulled at the corner of his lips and despite the situation there was a trace of laughter in McGarry's voice, mingled with the ever-present worry and fear. "Trust Ron, sir. He's got it covered."

He turned his head at a soft thud, to see a bulky, crude rope stretching down from the hatchway across the steeply inclining cabin floor to within a few feet of their position.  Turning back, he met the President's incredulously raised eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.  "Well, sir, if you have any better ideas, we're more than happy to take them into committee."

From somewhere up above, a snort and a growled, single worded expletive voiced one man's exasperated opinion of the whole democratic process.

"Nah." Bartlet sighed, managing a tight-lipped smile. "I don't have time for you to argue my proposal and tear it apart before submitting the remains to a vote." He struggled into a sitting position. "How are we going to do this?"

Carefully negotiating the debris, Butterfield slithered down beside them. Breathing heavily past the stitch in his side and apology darkening his eyes, he said, "Mr. President, I'm afraid that there's no way we can navigate the slope ourselves and still take your weight. Hence the rope."

His explanation was clear and succinct, if delivered a bit dryly. He knew it was out of character for him, but somehow being confined with these two men had removed a few of the professional barriers he'd taken great pains to erect. "I'm going to give you a leg up until you can reach the end, then I'm afraid that you're going to have to pull yourself up along the floor hand over hand."

The President looked at McGarry reproachfully. "That's your plan?"

McGarry shrugged helplessly and pointed an accusing finger at Butterfield. "His plan. I'm just a passenger here."

Watching the play of emotions flash across Butterfield's face, Bartlet realized he had very little choice in the matter. It was the best they could come up with. Still, he managed a cranky growl, "I'm too old for this."

McGarry's brows rose dubiously. "You're too old?"

Not even bothering to dignify that with an answer, Bartlet sighed and shook his head, then extended his hands to both men to help him upright. "Well, let's get it over with."

"Mr. President." Butterfield carefully leaned his charge forward until he was lying against the steep angle of the floor.  He gestured to McGarry, who hastily scrambled up to reach the end of the rope, and watched as he braced himself there in readiness.

Sparing one last look of concern for his charge, he asked, "Now, sir?"

At Bartlet's affirmative nod, he gritted his teeth and stooped, linking his fingers under the man's undamaged leg. As torn muscles protested violently, Butterfield stifled a cry of pain and boosted him up across the steep angle of the floor towards the waiting Chief of Staff.

Bartlet let out an agonized grunt as his chest protested being dragged over the rough surface, and his injured leg dangled limply behind him. Straining upwards, he reached for McGarry's outstretched hand.

Holding the makeshift rope, McGarry stretched down with his free hand and succeeded in closing his fingers on his friend's wrist.  Hauling back with all his strength, he managed to drag the President up the few feet necessary to allow him to seize the rope in both hands.  Panting slightly, he checked his friend's grip was secure before releasing him.

"Alright sir?"

Bartlet's hands were white on the rope, and his head rested on his outstretched arms.  He raised it slightly to give his Chief of Staff a tight smile. "Yeah, Leo. Let's get out of here."

The President took a deep breath and grasped the rope tightly as Butterfield clambered up and across the debris on his other side. The agent's presence alongside, with McGarry above, was all the incentive he needed. Slowly and painfully, he commenced hauling himself upward hand over hand, his right leg trailing uselessly. The not so idle thought occurred to him that if he'd got out from behind a desk a bit more often this whole thing might not seem so impossible.

The two men on either side of him could offer little more than moral support. Any attempt to allow him to rest by taking his full weight risked sending them tumbling back down the slope.  Breathing heavily, the exertion bringing an unnatural flush to his pale face and causing his head wound to pound in time with his heart, Bartlet struggled upwards in unrelenting silence.

"Just a few more feet, sir."  McGarry spoke encouragingly, shooting a nervous glance at Butterfield.

The President gave no sign of having heard him, eyes unfocused and face strained as he concentrated all his energy on the task of placing one hand over the other.  Suddenly, the tension on his limbs was relieved as strong arms encircled his shoulders and pulled him up the last couple of feet to the sill of the hatchway.

He felt the rain and wind on his face and dimly, through the blood pounding in his ears he heard Butterfield murmur reassuringly "I've got you, sir.  Well done."

Feeling driving rainwater mingling with the perspiration on his cheeks, Bartlet sagged back weakly against the chest of his security chief, who was holding him firmly on the lip of the sill. He opened his eyes to meet McGarry's anxious gaze and saw the other man's expression lighten in relief. Summoning up his energy, he gave him a weak nod.

Bartlet was surprised to see the man's eyes widen and the color drain from his face, until he realized his friend's gaze was directed over his shoulder.

"Uh, Ron …" Unable to clearly verbalize his emotions, McGarry waved a frantic hand.

Wincing at the sudden movement, the secret service agent twisted to look over his shoulder at the hillside behind him. What he saw caused him to utter a heartfelt, "Shit!" Turning swiftly back to the man in his arms and grunting as he hauled him to his feet, he said briskly, "Mr. President, we're going to have to get out right now."

"What?"  Bartlet found himself already being manhandled into position on the edge of the sill. Looking down at the drop of over ten feet to the hillside below the hatchway he balked. He still hadn't looked over his shoulder, although from the looks on McGarry and Butterfield's faces the following question just begged to be asked, "Why?"

Without preamble, McGarry grabbed Bartlet's other arm. "The hillside above us is sliding," he snapped.  "Once it hits the wreck, we're going to be pushed over that!"

Bartlet followed the pointing finger forward past the wrecked nose of the helicopter and gulped. "Fair point."  He looked to the two men positioned on either side of him in the hatchway and asked --though he had a fairly nasty suspicion what the answer would be--, "What's the plan?"

Butterfield looked over his charge's head at the Chief of Staff.  "Jump?"

The Chief of Staff was just as terse. "Jump!"

Ignoring the startled gasp of the man between them, they launched themselves forward into space, dropping heavily onto the soft earth below.

McGarry landed with a thud, the breath whooshing out of him.  Rolling over clumsily, he saw that Butterfield had already gained his feet and was struggling to lift Bartlet.  Stumbling upright, he slipped a hand under the dazed man's other arm and helped Butterfield drag him, tripping and floundering across the loose soil, trying desperately to get clear of the disaster bearing down on them.

"There!"  Butterfield indicated a raised rock outcrop that seemed to offer the possibility of a sanctuary.

Both men redoubled their efforts, the earth beneath them slowly starting to move now, tugging hungrily at their feet. The distant roar of the jet fighters still circling high above lent an oddly mocking note to the scene. Help was so near, yet still useless.

Reaching the base of the low outcrop, both men began to mount it rapidly, hastily dragging the body between them, forcing themselves to ignore the President's pained exclamation as his leg banged excruciatingly against the rough surface.  Driven on by the increasingly loud rumbling, they finally gained the top and threw themselves flat, Butterfield stretching his long form over the body of the President.

Pressed flat against the rock by his security chief's weight, Bartlet managed to twist his head around to regard the scene before him with horrified awe.  He felt the stone beneath him tremble as the tons of mud, earth and vegetation swept past, catching the remains of the downed helicopter with its ill-fated passengers and carrying it along effortlessly, until it disappeared over the lip of the cliff and vanished from sight.

Turning his head slightly, he caught a glimpse of his Chief of Staff's shocked face, wincing as it was suddenly illuminated by a sheet of flame that roared up momentarily above the cliff edge, before abruptly dying back down.  He could hear the distant crackle of fire as the aviation fuel finally ignited the wreck, and closed his eyes in silent prayer for the souls of the men whose bodies lay immolated within.

Finally, the rumbling died away and Butterfield lifted his body carefully off the President.  "Everybody alright?"

Rainwater running down his face and soaking into his suit, McGarry could only offer a stunned nod, his eyes still fixed on that point where the remains of Marine One had disappeared.  He was roused from his trance by an agonized hiss and looked down to see Bartlet clutching his injured leg in both hands as he attempted to gain a sitting position.

Pain aside, the President appeared to have recovered his equanimity. "Well, that was bracing! Think those guys…" he indicated the jet fighters with an upward jerk of his thumb, "…realize we got out?  If not, they must be having kittens about now."

"That reminds me …" Butterfield reached into his pocket and stupefied his companions by producing a flare gun. "Grabbed it from a locker when I was getting the blankets," he explained calmly, releasing the flare up into the sky and bathing them all in a red light.

"You okay, Leo?"  Bartlet studied his friend.  It was difficult to be sure in the fast fading glow of the flare, but he thought that McGarry seemed to be regaining his color and balance.  He felt immeasurably relieved by the man's firm nod and promptly attempted to lighten the moment. "See? I told you everything would be fine.  In fact I think we cheated ourselves of a really good last-minute escape story."

McGarry regarded his old friend with disbelief.  "What?" he asked weakly.

"Yeah. We allowed the drama to dissipate by giving ourselves such a wide escape margin," Bartlet continued blithely. "I estimate we had, oh, a good minute and a half before the slide hit.  We lost the tension."

Grinning he enjoyed McGarry's expression, which seemed to indicate that right now his friend's emotions were, perhaps fortunately, too deep for words.  His teasing mood was cut short however by an abrupt yelp of anguish as Butterfield pulled the belt around his wounded thigh even tighter.  "Christ!  Ron!"

"Sorry, Mr. President." Butterfield's face was creased with concern as he tried to adjust the blanket compress, which was now sodden with both rainwater and fresh blood from the rough handling of the last few minutes. Looking up into Bartlet's ashen face and seeing the convulsive bobbing of his throat as he fought down a sudden wave of nausea, the agent's attention was abruptly tugged away.

"Ron?"  Worriedly, McGarry glanced from the President's drawn features to the security chief's face. His dismay mounted when Butterfield momentarily closed his eyes, then receded again when they reopened to reveal unveiled relief. Glancing upwards, he suddenly detected what Butterfield had already heard and almost collapsed as the weight of responsibility finally lifted. The noise of rotor blades was all too familiar.

The medivac choppers had found them at last.

"Mr. President?"  He touched the shoulder of the man whose forehead was now resting on one drawn up knee.  "Help's finally arrived."

"You're kidding me," came Bartlet's weary response.  Lifting his head, he opened his eyes and winced as they were seared by the searchlight of the helicopter that suddenly dropped over the top of the ridge to hover overhead.  "No, I guess you're not.  Any chance we can get them to dim that light a bit?"

McGarry laughed, giddy with relief.  "It hardly seems polite under the circumstances.  After all, they're here to rescue us."

"Speak for yourself," the President grumbled.  "As far as I can see, nine-tenths of any rescuing in this mission has already been taken care of.  Remind me to compliment them on their sense of timing, by the way."

"Oh, no!"  McGarry spoke firmly, looking up and squinting against the offending glare as a rescue cradle with men on the towline began a swaying descent towards their position.  "I've had a long, hard day and I'm not letting you give them any excuse to toss us overboard before we get back to civilization."

Bartlet gave a weak snort, and then impulsively reached out to seize Butterfield and McGarry's hands in his chilled grasp. "Fellas, I want to say thank you.  Thank you both … for everything."  He gazed at them intensely, trying to convey his wordless gratitude for the risks they had taken on his behalf, and much more besides.

Seeing that understanding in McGarry's answering smile and an almost smile from Butterfield --which was more than he had expected--, he gripped their hands tightly before sinking back and allowing the exhaustion he'd been fighting for so long finally have its way.

Closing his eyes, he muttered tiredly, "Leo?"

Just as worn-out and exhausted, McGarry allowed himself a moments peace before answering, "Yeah?"

"Can I sleep now?"

McGarry's face broke into a sudden, relieved smile. It was over. Settling back, fully prepared to let the arriving rescue team to take them all in charge, he shared a long, sympathetic look with Butterfield and answered tiredly, "Knock yourself out, Mr. President."

Shaking his head at the sight, Ron Butterfield sighed heavily and started to get up to lend a hand to the descending rescuers. Staggering, he slipped back to his knees and bit back a curse at the near forgotten pain that coursed through his side. The adrenaline was wearing off. Gritting his teeth, he started to get back up, and then paused. Hand pressed to his side, he looked down at the two filthy and exhausted men and weighed his options. He was missing something here.

He thought about it for a moment, and then muttered, "Aw, hell."

Joining the President and his Chief of Staff he lay back down and waited. He figured he'd earned this moment. Let someone else do the work for once.

To be continued…