Falls the Shadow
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 9/14
"So..." Leo's morning schedule in hand, Margaret let the rather loaded beginning to her question trail off and perched herself on the edge of Donna's desk. "Is the pizza embargo still on?"
Donna looked up from her work, wrinkling her nose with profound disgust. "You mean the command from on high that I never bring the substance into any part of the White House ever again?" When Margaret nodded, she picked up her phone and waved it like a club. "Josh is still on the warpath. He even worked up enough technical skill to wipe out all my speed dial sets."
Slamming the phone back into its cradle, Donna pouted just a little. "Is that fair? I mean, how am I supposed to survive this... zoo without pizza?"
"Well, he's probably afraid..."
"I know what he's afraid of." Donna glared at Margaret; not at all happy she was still paying for her mistakes. She should have known better. Josh was like a dog with a juicy bone over her culinary indiscretion with the President. "It was an executive order!"
"You keep saying that."
"It's true!"
"C.J. ordered pizza," Margaret offered helpfully. "He hasn't banned it entirely."
"Like Josh would even think about telling her what she can or can't do."
"That's true," Margaret agreed sagely. "He does have some survival instincts. Leo's enjoying the show, though."
She didn't bother to point out that her boss showed no inclination towards stopping the ongoing battle of wills either. He was having too much fun. Donna didn't need to hear that, though. Telling her about the full extent of executive amusement being found at her expense would only make matters worse.
Donna scowled. "He would." She hadn't got any support from that quarter. Luckily, the First Lady seemed to have taken the whole incident with totally unexpected good humor. It was about the only thing she felt safe on.
Josh on the other hand was becoming a royal pain in the nether regions. "I'm going to have to do something about this," she declared ominously.
"It's about time."
Smiling sweetly up at her, Donna asked, "You wanna help?"
Blinking her eyes innocently and smiling just as sweetly in return, Margaret replied, "May I?"
"I wouldn't think of leaving you out..."
She never got any further. The echoing noise, loud, sharp and totally out of place, snapped through the bullpen like a gunshot. Minds and bodies reacted like it was a gunshot. Margaret jumped off the edge of the desk and Donna was already out of her seat. Both women had a moment to exchanged frightened looks before a voice boomed out.
"Everyone, stay where you are!"
The Secret Service Agents, always so unobtrusive and invisible, swarmed through the bullpen, weapons out and ready. A few stationed themselves at all the exits, glaring forbiddingly at the people milling uncertainly within.
Security crashes they were used to; the staff knew how to handle them. They didn't need to be told that this was horribly different.
Donna watched with growing fear as a larger group of agents stampeded - it was the only way her shocked mind could describe it - through the room, dodging around the desks and out the other side. Headed towards where?
Her breath caught in her throat. "The Oval," she gasped.
Clutching her file folder like a shield, all Margaret could do was nod dumbly.
~ooOoo~
Everybody jumped violently at the sudden explosion, and then swung about in alarm, as almost simultaneously there came an abrupt, shocked cry from the President, echoed by a gasp from Young.
Heart in his throat, McGarry hurled himself around the edge of the desk, Fitzwallace on his heels. He reached for the President. "Sir? Are you all right?"
Bartlet had flung himself back into his chair with his hands to his face. To McGarry's horror he saw that the collar and front of the man's shirt was stained with blood, and more trickled slowly from between the fingers covering his face. He couldn't tell whether the blood on the President's left hand had come from the wounds on his face, or the damage it had taken from the initial explosion.
Muffled gasps of horror from the staffers were drowned out by the sound of all four doors into the Oval Office crashing open, causing its already unnerved occupants to startle anew, as about half a dozen Secret Service agents poured into the room, weapons at the ready.
McGarry and Fitzwallace, both combat veterans, managed to ignore the influx and the babble of shouted instructions and reports, bending their attention to their Chief Executive, who was breathing heavily with his hands still raised before him.
McGarry gently reached for his wrists, only to have the man pull abruptly away from him with a small grunt of pain. "Please sir, I need to see." Bartlet seemed to relax a bit at the sound of his voice, and he asked, "How badly are you injured?"
"God, Leo. It hurts." The President's voice was tight with strain and his breathing was ragged. He slowly lowered his hands, blinking and squinting as tiny rivulets of blood ran down his cheeks and into his eyes from numerous small cuts and gashes on his forehead and face.
McGarry pulled out a handkerchief and gently began to run it over Bartlet's face, only to stop abruptly at a sharp, indrawn hiss of pain from his friend. He nearly jumped when Fitzwallace's hand came down on his wrist.
"Hold it, Leo. Those are shrapnel wounds. There could still be fragments embedded in some of the cuts. Wait for a medic."
Galvanized, the Chief of Staff swung around. "Charlie! Get an ambulance…" He broke off abruptly. "Oh, hell! Charlie, you all right?"
"Charlie?" The President's voice pitched high with alarm. He squinted around for his aide, obviously half-blind from the blood still running over his brow and into his eyes. "Are you hurt?" He attempted to rise, but was easily thwarted by Fitzwallace's firm hand pressing him back into his chair.
"I'm fine, Mr. President." The young man's voice was shaky and he held a handkerchief to his face. "Something just caught me on the cheek is all. It's nothing."
"Leo?"
Obeying the unspoken appeal and knowing if he didn't give Bartlet a satisfactory report they were going to have a very uncooperative Chief Executive on their hands, McGarry stepped forward and critically examined the cut on Young's cheek. "He's telling you the truth, sir. A shallow cut on his cheek. Probably stings a bit, but I don't think it'll even need stitches."
Satisfied, McGarry nodded to a pale and trembling C.J., who gently took Young by the arm and steered him to a place beside her on the sofa.
"Good." The word sighed out gently on a long breath of relief as the President sagged back into his chair, cautiously cradling his bloodied left hand against his chest. Two agents had moved in behind his chair, weapons still drawn but no longer raised; the remainder took up station by the wide open doors.
Ziegler shouldered his way past the agents at the desk. "Leo? The ambulance…"
One of the agents looked up from where he had been communing with his palm mike. "An ambulance has been requested, Mr. Ziegler. The call is going out from the main switchboard now."
"Good!" McGarry swung back to his friend and crouched down beside him. Bartlet was pale and trembling slightly, but his eyes seemed mercifully undamaged, although his face and even one of his eyelids were peppered with abrasions. But his hand...
McGarry took one look and winced. Bartlet's left hand, the one that had been holding the bishop, was coated in blood, the flesh torn and splinters of the ivory still projecting from some of the wounds. "What happened?" The question was knee-jerk. He'd seen it all, heard the explosion and could see the results.
He just wanted to hear his friend's voice.
"I'm not sure." The President's voice was still rough, and he couldn't seem to stop blinking. He took a deep, calming breath. "The chess piece. I think it exploded. I guess I was lucky; it might have still been in my hand, but I'd just begun to drop it." Twisting his head slightly, he regarded Fitzwallace, blinking against the stinging blood running into his eyes. "You knew?"
The Admiral shook his head grimly, still keeping one hand on his Commander in Chief's shoulder. "No, sir. I didn't. But in view of recent events, when something unexplained is found in the Oval Office, I'm going to err on the side of paranoia." He regarded the bloody visage of the man before him with regret. "It's a pity my paranoia didn't kick in a little sooner."
Bartlet drew in another shaky breath and accepted the handkerchief that Fitzwallace held out to him with his good hand, mopping gingerly at his eyes. Not a good idea. Wincing at the stinging pain, he looked up at the ring of somewhat blurry faces circling him, both staffers and agents.
"You managed fine. Thank you, Fitz."
"Sir." Fitzwallace shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with the praise and the thanks, however heartfelt. Turning to the Chief of Staff, he tried to get the man's attention. "Leo."
McGarry didn't seem to have heard him. Still at the President's side, his entire concentration was focused on the injured man.
"Leo!" Louder this time, earning a blinking, dazed response. "I have to tell the NSA, now, before she implodes."
McGarry's only response was a distracted nod.
At a bit of a loss, Fitzwallace silently entreated the President for permission to leave.
"Go," Bartlet told him shakily. "The last thing we need is Nancy going off. And gather the Joint Chiefs, Mr. Chairman. We don't need them going off as well."
Fitzwallace had no problem agreeing with that assessment. Without another word, he strode purposefully towards the nearest exit. Not exactly keen on being trampled in his wake, the agent on guard quietly stepped out of his way.
The agent who had reassured Ziegler about the ambulance came around to stand by Bartlet's side. "Sir, we need to get you out of here and secured back in the Residence until we can confirm what happened here, and how."
On the President's other side, McGarry protested vigorously. "We're not moving the President until he's been checked out by a doctor. His eyes may need washing out. Those cuts have to be tended to. And that hand is going to need stitches, at the very least." Looking down at his clearly shaken friend, and aware of the man's air of dazed disorientation, he ordered, "Direct them to send a doctor to the Oval Office. We'll meet the ambulance at the Residence, if he says the President can safely go that far."
"Cancel that!"
McGarry swung around as the order was grated out in a panting but firm voice. Judging by his breathless state, Ron Butterfield had sprinted the entire distance from the security central command room. He'd made good time too. Or perhaps he hadn't had so far to come. In recent weeks, the Security Chief was rarely to be found far from his main responsibility. Judging by the emotions currently tightening his features into grim lines, the Chief of Staff had a feeling that the President would be chafing under an even shorter leash in future.
"No ambulance," Butterfield snapped the order at his subordinate who, after pausing to blink briefly, hastily turned away to address his palm mike again.
"No ambulance?" Lyman's protest was almost a squeak of disbelief. "What the hell..."
Butterfield nailed him with a glare. "There is a perfectly adequate operating theater in the basement, fully stocked and ready for emergencies. If it's needed, we go there." Sweeping the room with his eyes and letting all present see the rage smoldering in their depths, he reiterated, "No ambulance."
"But... the President!" Seaborn stepped forward impulsively. "He needs a doctor."
Barely sparing the young man a glance, the Security Chief brushed past McGarry to drop into a crouch beside the President's chair. "And he'll get one," he shot over his shoulder. Turning back, he softened his tones and addressed his charge gently. "Sir? I'm sorry to ask this of you, but do you feel up to moving? We need to get you to the Residence. You can't stay here."
Bartlet regarded his bodyguard as best he could through eyelashes encrusted with blood. The reminder of the medical facilities in the basement had done little to calm his already shredded nerves. Only to be used in emergencies. He supposed this counted. Still, he had to ask, "Not the hospital, Ron?"
"No, sir. Not unless the doctor deems it absolutely necessary. Admiral Hackett is on his way to the Residence now. He'll be waiting for us." Butterfield regarded his protectee anxiously, trying to gauge the man's physical condition, and his ability to absorb what was being told to him. "I can't allow you to leave the White House in these circumstances, sir. We're in total lockdown. Nothing's going in or out. You'll be safer and better protected in the Residence."
"Afraid they'll try again?" Bartlet half-joked, shifting awkwardly in his chair.
"Yes, sir."
The President looked up sharply at that flat declaration. He studied the agent's grim visage for a moment before dropping his gaze. His shoulders slumped and he unleashed a low sigh. "Okay."
Butterfield glanced around swiftly to check if anyone else was going to waste his precious time with fruitless protests. It looked like he didn't have to worry. Lyman and Seaborn were standing together wearing stunned expressions. On the sofa, C.J. Cregg was gently patting at the no longer bleeding cut on Young's face, but her shoulders were tense and her face drawn into strained lines. He let his gaze rest on her for a brief moment.
C.J. looked up, catching Butterfield's searching glance, the unasked question he wouldn't dare voice. She was on the verge of giving him an answer, and then bit back the words. All she gave him was a quick nod, then returned her attention back to Charlie.
Butterfield's jaw tightened at the brief, haunted expression in her eyes. Too much violence following too soon after Donovan, and again someone she cared for was the target. But she could handle it. Of that he was certain.
McGarry and Ziegler were standing next to the desk, perfect studies in grimness. Butterfield allowed himself to relax just a bit, if not completely. If anyone fully grasped the implications both of this incident and of his exchange with the President, he would have expected it to be these two men. McGarry still looked like he wanted to protest, but he was holding himself in check and the normally cool Communications Director appeared shaken to the core. They could consider the consequences of this later. Right now, he had more immediate concerns.
Carefully touching his President's upper arm, painfully conscious of the subtle tremors vibrating through the limb beneath his hand, he asked quietly, "Sir? Can you stand?"
"I think so." Bartlet mopped again at his eyes with Fitzwallace's now ruined handkerchief. He made a mental note to replace it. At least only the deeper facial cuts were still bleeding, but it was amazing how irritatingly uncomfortable drying blood could feel. He awkwardly hitched himself forward in his chair in a struggle to rise, only to drop back with a hiss of pain. "Damn! My hand..."
"Sit still a minute, sir." Butterfield gently took the injured limb and laid it back against the President's chest. Holding it there, he fumbled one-handed to loosen his own tie. "Can anyone..."
Ziegler stepped up quickly beside him, his own tie dangling from his outstretched hand.
The Security Chief took it with a quick nod of thanks, and swiftly wrapped it over the President's left arm and shoulder, across his back and up under his right arm, lightly pinning his damaged hand in place against his chest. Stepping back, he slid a hand under the man's undamaged arm and carefully eased the President out of his chair.
Leaning heavily on his tall bodyguard's arm, Bartlet stood swaying slightly, waiting desperately for the room to swing back into focus and willing his legs not to fold under him. Following Butterfield's gentle pressure, he turned towards the door onto the portico, only to wobble violently for a moment. He steadied himself and smiled reassuringly at McGarry and Ziegler, who had both lunged forward to catch him. "It's okay, fellas."
Ziegler looked skeptical, but stepped back in acknowledgement of the President's unspoken wishes. McGarry wasn't so easily pacified however, and carefully grasped Bartlet's free arm, mindful of the injured hand. Security lock-down and Butterfield's fears be damned, it was on his tongue to demand that the President be removed to a hospital.
Butterfield sensed this, and catching the Chief of Staff's eye over Bartlet's shoulder, he said softly, "Leo, he cannot leave the White House."
McGarry's only response was to glare accusingly at the agent.
Bartlet stiffened at that ominous declaration. He hadn't missed the hidden meaning, even if his overwhelmed Chief of Staff had. Leaning a little more on to his friend's arm, he said, "Listen to him, Leo."
McGarry didn't want to, but had to admit that he was outnumbered. Taking a firmer hold on the President's arm, he shook his head with frustration, duty fighting a losing battle with his concern.
His old friend sighed in exasperation at the added support, but wasn't really in a position to protest. And he was forced to grudgingly admit, if only to himself, that he needed the support. Smiling at his Chief of Staff, the President asked, "Shall we go? I'm sure Hackett's at the Residence by now, which means Abbey knows what's happened. And if we dawdle in the circumstances..."
Even Butterfield winced at the mental images this conjured up. Carefully, he and McGarry began to move the President towards the door, the other agents closing in around on all sides.
With evident reluctance, C.J. stood up from the sofa and stepped forward. "Leo..."
"Not now, C.J.," McGarry snapped, tension and worry simmering dangerously close to the surface.
"Yes, now." The Press Secretary's tone was apologetic, but unyielding. "Please, Leo. It's important."
The Chief of Staff locked gazes with her for an instance, his angry and anxious, hers concerned but remaining implacable. Finally he sighed and pressed his friend's arm gently. "Sir, I'm sorry. I'll catch you up in just a moment. Toby, would you…?"
The Communications Director stepped forward swiftly and slid his own hand under the President's arm, and was rewarded with a slightly twisted, ironic smile from the man. The group passed slowly out through the portico doors and along the walk towards the Residence. A phalanx of agents converged on the slow moving trio, blocking them from view and harm.
McGarry watched them go with a strained expression before turning back to the remaining staffers. "Charlie, go after them. You need someone to have a look at that cut. Now," he snapped at C.J. as the young man hastened out. "Make it fast."
C.J. exchanged worried glances with Seaborn and Lyman. "The press, Leo. What are we going to do? You stressed last night how important it was to keep this whole mess in-house, but after today... we can't keep this quiet. There was an explosion in the Oval Office for heaven's sake!"
"To say nothing of the fact that anyone who so much as catches a glimpse of the President over the next few days is going to have more questions than we can handle," Seaborn pointed out. "No matter how good a repair job Hackett does, he can't conceal those cuts, and that hand looks to be an awful mess. We can't brush this away, Leo. His riding his bike into a tree was a front page story!"
"And then there's the whole security alert," Lyman chimed in. "We're in lockdown, and agents are on high alert all over the White House. To say nothing of the fact that someone must have heard the explosion. And a call for an ambulance went out from the Oval office. Any reporter with a police scanner could have picked that up once it passed the switchboard."
"Oh, God!" C.J. sank back onto the sofa with a groan. "The Press Room is probably filling up right now. Leo, I'm good but there's no way that I can spin this! We've got to come up with something, and fast!"
McGarry ran a hand over the back of his head distractedly. "I know, I know. Look C.J., let's just find out what the damage is and then we'll see. In the meantime, the three of you get together and come up with some options for me."
"Leo!" For the first time some of the emotion she'd been holding in check broke through C.J.'s control.
"Later!" McGarry's patience was close to snapping; his entire anxious attention focused on the man currently being shepherded towards the Residence. "We'll discuss it as soon as Toby and I get back from the Residence. Be in my office in one hour. And C.J.? Hold the press off until then. I don't care how."
The three youngest members of the senior staff watched in dismay as the Chief of Staff abandoned them and departed through the portico door at a pace just short of a run. Glancing back and forth, each waited for the other to say something first.
The Press Secretary to the White House sighed heavily, turning a grim look on the two spin-doctors she had left. Josh had his crushed puppy look going full force and Sam was standing at near-perfect military parade rest. The sight was depressing.
"Come on boys, you heard him. Time to earn our government paychecks. We've got to come up with something in the next five minutes that the press won't immediately laugh back in our faces." She watched them shift uneasily and couldn't resist adding, perhaps just a bit maliciously, "And not to put any pressure on you or anything, but if you don't produce something good for me to take out there, I quit. For real this time. You can take on the White House press corps all by yourselves."
To be continued…