Thanks to Linda M. for her keen eye and ear and for Evelyn, whose fantastic
beta job made this much better than it originally was.
POV: Donna Spoilers: "Two Cathedrals" (very minor); "Take This Sabbath Day" Rating: PG Disclaimer: The main characters are not mine, but several of the minor ones are.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Seven A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The calm before the storm.
In the quiet of the evening, as she lay pressed against her husband's broad back, her body floating in that misty state of post-coital endorphin release, Donna Moss Bartlet wondered if that phrase didn't apply to the stalled front they found themselves behind. It had been almost two weeks since the world had last fallen apart. Two weeks since a plane crash that almost certainly owed its cause to terrorists. Two weeks since they had packed her parents back to Wisconsin, Secret Service agents in tow – and she still couldn't quite believe that they had been targets. Two weeks since the last received photographic threat against their family. Two weeks since North Korea had put an impossible proposal on the table in return for standing down on nuclear development. Two weeks since Gino had been banished from the White House, also accompanied by security, despite the ignominious dismissal by his brother-in-law.
Two weeks since the President of the United States had really slept well. She raised her head to look at Jed. At least tonight she had helped him along, loved him into enough of an exhausted state to force his body to shut down for a few hours. It would allow him only four or five, never more. Even unconscious, his jaw remained tense, his brow furrowed. She wished she could take away some of the burden, but she was well aware that she herself had contributed to the weight that pushed down his shoulders. Shoulders that were broad both physically and metaphorically, but shoulders that, in private moments, had begun to slump under the relentless strain.
What did this unnerving quiet mean? She was not so naïve that she thought their troubles had disappeared. Maybe several years ago, before she had joined Bartlet for America. But not now. The years had opened her eyes to the unpleasantness that could be D.C., but also to the grandeur and all that was good about their chosen form of government.
And one of the grandest, best things was Josiah Bartlet himself. Propping on one elbow, she leaned over his right shoulder, studying him, still a little in awe despite the intimacy they now shared. Her gaze floated over his features. She wasn't sure what she liked best. The expressive mouth. The strong nose. The prominent vein that ran up the side of his neck. The tousled, thick hair. The tanned skin. Each attractive in its own right, but they all fit together to form an even more impressive whole.
Unable to resist, she reached around and ran her fingers through the curls of hair on his chest, sliding lower to rub over his abdomen. He stirred at her touch, breath breaking from the regular pattern, unconsciously shifting to his back so that she had better access to him. She smirked. Ever since the doctor's green flag, they had taken almost every opportunity to make up for the lost seven weeks after J.T.'s birth. Except for a few thwarted moments – the most infamous one the fault of her hapless brother – they had made significant progress. Still, it took quite a bit of self-control to withdraw her caresses before she had gone too far. He needed the sleep, and she didn't want the guilt of keeping him from it, even if he wouldn't have minded the sacrifice himself. Reluctantly, she snuggled back down beside him, contenting herself with just lying against his chest. As she hoped, his breathing grew even again and he slept on.
The squalls started three days later.
"C.J.!"
The unflappable press secretary regarded her audience with the same casual confidence as always. Leaning back on the Residence couch, Donna admired her ability to deflect the hard questions, to dodge the tricky inquiries without seeming too evasive or close-mouthed. But this time, she wondered how the voice of the Bartlet Administration would handle the question that was sure to come. They had been given a heads up just that morning, an anonymous call, strange in itself because C.J.'s reporters usually met her head on, even behind the scenes.
"Steve?"
Steve had it? Well, hell. That made it legitimate. The Star, they could blow off. Reuters? Not so easy.
"C.J., there are rumors out there that the President and Mrs. Bartlet – well, that the First Couple – used the Oval Office for, for more than government business."
Interesting way to put it. C.J. cocked an eyebrow, expertly balancing that line between flippancy and confidence. Every eye – and there was no doubt no one was daydreaming out the window at that moment – pinned the press secretary to her podium. Still, the cool façade did not even crack.
"Okay. Well, I'll remind you that we don't comment on the personal – encounters – of the First Couple. They don't affect the efficiency of the country."
Someone off camera muttered, "I'll bet they affect the efficiency of the President."
C.J. ignored the crude, but accurate, remark. "Nevertheless, as many of you already know, President and Mrs. Bartlet are a loving, physical couple, who are at liberty to express that love, as do all husbands and wives."
Just as she rehearsed.
The same voice noted, "They seem to have a lot of liberty."
Steve raised his hand again. "Follow up, C.J.?"
"Yeah."
"Bob Ritchie said that he felt such an act was inappropriate and besmirched the dignity of the Oval Office."
"Bob Ritchie used the word 'besmirched'?"
Steve grinned a little. "It was on line."
"Bob Ritchie was in a chat room?"
"A Republican bulletin board."
"Right. Much as I'd like to pounce on that one, I'll just remind you that I haven't said anything about this rumor being true."
"You haven't said it's not," he returned evenly.
C.J. remained undaunted. "Since the President and Mrs. Bartlet's private times are just that – private – I am unable to verify or dispel any speculation."
"Can you tell me if there are pictures?"
Donna held her breath. If they were asking, someone must have seen some, but why weren't they out, yet? Why wasn't she, at that very moment, staring, humiliated, at a grainy news photo of her straddling Jed's lap on his chair in the highest office in the land?
C.J. cocked her head a little. "You've seen pictures, Steve?" she asked carefully.
"I'm asking you."
"I am not aware of any published pictures." Again, very careful. Published pictures.
Another voice joined them from two rows behind Steve. "There's talk, C.J., of a photograph that shows the President and Mrs. Bartlet definitely engaged in – well, having sex in the Oval Office."
How much more embarrassing could this be? Of course, if the picture actually ran all over the world, that would probably trump this unconfirmed speculation for total and complete humiliation.
Another pause by the press secretary, but not long enough to arouse suspicion. "I don't know, Claire. I can only repeat that I have not seen any published photograph."
Ten more hands shot up, but C.J. waved them off, choosing to make her own statement before they continued their dogged pursuit. "Again, I certainly am not apprised of the private interactions between the First Couple. And private is the key word here. I can, however, verify that their relationship is close and demonstrative, but I don't think that's news to anyone in this room, or even in this country."
Several nods met her observation. The President's affection for his wife – and hers for him – was no secret. Cameras had captured their quick kisses as he exited Marine One, their clasped hands on the way to church, his hand at the small of her back, her unconscious smoothing of his lapel. These familiar touches were only surface indications of a much deeper relationship. But the reporters, being close enough to their leader to have the chance at even more intimate moments than the American public, had also witnessed the smoldering looks that passed between them, the tender rub of a shoulder, the strategic pat of a hip. A few lucky ones could even claim being present for a more heated and thorough kiss between the two after they had stepped inside the White House from the helicopter pad and away from the world's eyes. No, it should be no great revelation to anyone that the President of the United States and his wife were very much in love.
"Let me just say," C.J. continued, "that the President has the utmost respect for the office that he occupies as the commander-in-chief, and he would never do anything to denigrate that office. I haven't asked him, nor do I plan to ask him, about any private moments that he and his wife share in any part of the White House. And even if they chose to, well, even if there are photographs intruding on their privacy, instead of judging the perfectly normal actions of a loving, married couple, we should be enraged that someone breached the grounds of the White House to place them in possible jeopardy."
Donna couldn't tell if anyone agreed or not. After a moment, another hand went up, apparently unfazed by the press secretary's plea for them to back off. She braced herself for the rebuttal, for the condemnation, for the expected slashing of their moral values.
"Danny?" C.J. recognized.
Great. Danny. The most dangerous one of them all.
She could already see the headlines: "She Serves at the Pleasure of the President – "Did he have the picture? If he had somehow gotten hold of other pictures it would be devastating. One in particular, she winced at, when Jed had deposited her on the desk and her legs had crossed around his waist –
"I have a source that says North Korea might be willing to negotiate on the nuclear weapons, but the President is refusing. Is he playing 'international chicken' here? Who blinks first?"
North Korea?
Did he just ask about North Korea?
Just North Korea?
Thank God. Thank Danny. She should have known he would see the trivia of an Oval Office tryst when compared with threatening war.
C.J. didn't smile, since the subject matter certainly didn't warrant it, but she wanted to, Donna could tell. This was more up her alley. "The President isn't playing chicken with nuclear war. He takes North Korea's threats very seriously. But America can't bow to every – "
As C.J. diplomatically gave Danny a non-answer on his question, Donna allowed her breath to come a little easier. They didn't care, not really. The legitimate press truly found more significance in an international crisis than in the sexual exploits of the First Couple of the United States. At least for the time being.
Maybe the hurricane she had feared would be no more than a tropical depression. If this was the worst of it, she could handle the implication that she and Jed had an active sex life. It was, after all, the truth.
But something told her the brewing storm had not whipped up its last gale.
Three weeks after his exile, the vanquished tried again, not for the first time and, she knew, not for the last.
"No, Gino, I don't think now – "
She sighed and tucked the phone receiver against her shoulder as her brother interrupted, pleaded again for another chance to redeem himself. After the initial shock of seeing his sister and brother-in-law engaged – deeply engaged – he had found himself briskly escorted from the room, and, eventually, the building. Not that Donna didn't feel for him. She did, really. It had always been Gino's luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Murphy's Law seemed to have been created specifically for him. And she felt that eventually Jed would come around. After all, he had been more than understanding after his brand new brother-in-law had slugged him at Thanksgiving. But he had taken that punch with much more aplomb than the unforgivable crime of interrupting them in the throes of passion.
"I'll explain it to him," Gino assured her for at least the twentieth time. "He'll understand."
"I'm really thinking not."
"It's not that he's the President – "
"Or that he could have your Reserve unit sent to the North Pole. Or maybe the middle of the Sahara Desert?"
"It has nothing to do with that!" he declared.
And she believed him. He was truly sorry he had barged in on them. But that was just Gino. Nothing could guarantee it wouldn't happen again. In fact, she'd put even money on it being a given.
"Look, Gino," she soothed wearily, tired of his persistence. "It's not gonna happen any time soon. There's just – just too much."
"Yeah." She heard the resignation in his voice and softened.
"How are you doing?"
"Okay." No conviction there.
"Really?"
"Except for these damned gorillas that follow me around twenty-four, seven," he complained.
"It's for – "
"My protection. Right."
"Gino – "
"It's okay, Donna. I understand. I don't guess I blame him." The silence floated between them for a moment. Finally, he said, "When do you think he'll – "
But it was the same answer. "I don't know." She didn't want to be mad with him, but couldn't quite keep the exasperation from her tone. "I don't know, Gino, but not today, okay? Not today."
His broken voice shuddered on the other end of the line and she almost gave in, almost promised to talk with Jed about it. Then a quick memory crossed her thoughts: the look on her husband's face as he sat, naked, on his own bed, the focus of an entirely unwelcome audience of in-laws and Secret Service. Anger, embarrassment, and frustration heated his expression. She blushed as she remembered reading significant discomfort, as well. When Gino had burst in on them, Jed was only moments away from – Well, it wasn't easy for him to stop. She winced at the vision of pain on her husband's face and shook her head again, even though her brother couldn't see the action.
"No, not today," she repeated. Not today.
The New Year had given them a break. No photo had surfaced, yet, and the public, instead of condemning them for their indiscretion, actually embraced the evidence of their playfulness, apparently rather proud of their First Couple for being attractive and sexy. Who would have thought? And as far as she knew, no new threats had appeared, either, no horrible pictures ripping their images to pieces, no violent accounts of what their fates would be.
She wondered if this was the eye of the storm or just the rain bands. Were they in the middle? On their way out? Or had the maelstrom not even started yet?
Dismissing those worries as irrelevant, Donna nursed J.T., enjoying the bond the action created. She knew that as long as she lived she would be able to remember the feeling. His tiny fists clenched in pleasure as his belly filled with the warm life-giving liquid that fortified his immune system. His eyes looked up at her, his brain impressing the features of her face as one who loved him, as one who would be at the center of his life for a long time. Her heart ached with the intensity of that love. She had never known such a feeling. Even with Jed, even with the depth of her love for him, somehow, what she felt for this child was different, and she knew it was the same between father and son.
Father and son. She smiled at the memory of the previous night when Jed had managed to break away a little early and make it in before J.T. settled down, at least for his first four-hour stretch of sleep. What would the rest of the world leaders have thought of the cooing and ridiculous baby talk that had come from the President of the United States as he jiggled his child playfully? Probably that Jed Bartlet was an amazing man and a marvelous father.
Her thoughts darkened again when she was reminded of his own painful childhood, coping the best way a boy could with a father who didn't like him, who envied him his intelligence instead of bursting with pride over such a remarkable offspring. How could any parent treat their child like John Bartlet had treated his?
Since she had confronted him about his father, Jed had quit waking in the middle of the night thrashing and calling out for help. But she knew he would never be able to let go of those memories, never be able to look back on the security a normal childhood provided. But now he had a second chance with J.T. As the father, he could have the father-son relationship he never had as the son.
"John Thomas," she whispered to the baby as his eyes fluttered closed in satisfied slumber, "your father loves you. I love you. I love you so much."
In the next room, J.T.'s father was meeting with Leo and Admiral Fitzwallace. And she listened with a twinge of guilt at eavesdropping. Still, they knew where she was and they had left the door between them ajar. Therefore, there must not be too much concern about her presence.
Okay, she justified, then she could listen all she wanted.
"They consider sanctions a declaration of war," Leo was saying.
"War! They consider – My God, what are they doing when they sell plutonium to the first terrorist who drops by?" The anger in her husband's voice carried easily into the hallway.
"Mister President," said Admiral Fitzwallace. "According to our estimates, North Korea pulls in between $150 and $300 million a year selling ballistic missiles. Pakistan's Ghauri missile is a direct copy of the technology of their Nodong missile."
"The Ghauri. Islamabad to India in one nuclear leap."
"Yes, sir."
She wondered if Jed had ever imagined that he would know so much about nuclear weapons, wondered if he wished he hadn't had to learn certain things as President.
"Anyone who would do that wouldn't think twice about selling plutonium to al-Qaeda."
"No, sir."
"Have they?" It was a question they all wanted to know.
Fitzwallace, as usual, didn't flinch. His strong, even features gave his President confidence, regardless of the facts. "We don't know, Mister President."
"Odds?"
"I'd say there's a seventy-five percent chance they've already exchanged plutonium for cash or maybe bomb technology."
"Seventy-five percent?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have they got an active reactor, yet?"
"We don't know that, sir."
"What's their potential capacity?"
Fitz sighed. The President wasn't going to like this answer. "The CIA estimates that when all three suspected reactors are operational, they could produce 281 kilograms a year. That's more than enough for home use – with plenty left over for the local lemonade stand."
It sometimes struck Donna as surreal that there were people in her living room discussing nuclear bombs as if they were DVDs. She scooted the rocker back so she could see them. Jed stood at the hearth, elbow propped on the mantle, thumb and finger pinching the bridge of his nose. A sure sign of frustration and exhaustion. The other men watched silently as he mulled this over in his head. Finally, he let his arm drop to his side and pushed away from the fireplace.
"You know the official name of North Korea?" he asked abruptly, but didn't wait for an answer. "Democratic Peoples' Republic of Korea. How about that? Anybody over there actually looked up the definition of 'democratic'?"
A humorous observation at any other moment. At this point, only ironic.
"You think they are almost there?" Jed asked.
The Admiral lifted his chin. "I think so, Mister President. They just need to get rid of a few obstacles first."
He cocked his head in sudden interest. "What obstacles?"
Fitz leveled a pointed look at his commander-in-chief. "You."
Jed nodded. "You mean 'we.' The United States."
But the imposing admiral shook his head. "No, sir. I mean you. Josiah Bartlet."
The group assembled stood silent for a moment as the chairman's words sank in. She could almost hear the connections clicking into place and realized that the approaching storm had just grown more intense.
"I want to go."
"Absolutely not."
"Jed – "
Pacing was a natural movement for him. It gave him room away from the problem, even a few steps, it allowed his muscles to be occupied and not interfere with his brain as it worked its brilliance. The carpet already showed signs of wear in front of their fireplace. "We've already been over this, Donna. It is nothing that concerns you – "
"How can you say that? Nuclear responsibility doesn't concern me? It concerns every single human being on this planet!"
"You know what I mean – "
She stood, gaining the height advantage, but still falling short in stubbornness. "No, I don't. Look, Jed, it will be the first speech I have attended since J.T. was born. What better moment to choose than one that challenges the world to safeguard this planet for our children? What better way to show our commitment as parents than for us to go together, for me to be there to show how important this issue is?"
A hand waved away her logic. "I think everyone realizes its importance anyway. You don't have to – "
"What are you not telling me, Jed?"
The steps slowed, but he didn't look back. "What?"
"What is it you aren't telling me? Another threat?"
Now he stopped pacing and stared at her. "No. I told you – I promised I would share everything about that with you. Don't you believe – "She flinched at the pain on his face.
Instantly regretting that she had questioned him, she said, "No. I'm sorry. I do believe you. It's just that I feel very strongly about being there tomorrow, with you."
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing his previous combing. "Donna, I don't – "
"Check with Ron, at least?"
Eyes coming up to meet hers, he finally smiled, that closed-mouthed, surrender of a smile, and nodded. "Okay." But the eyes didn't twinkle like she hoped.
Okay. Good. She had won that battle. But why didn't she feel victorious?
The bullpen bustled with activity, as usual. It gave her a little pang of memories, a brief moment of regret, quickly squelched, that she wasn't in the middle of this chaos any more. Of course, her chaos was much bigger, now. Wasn't it? Somehow, she figured she might actually be closer to the action here, even, than where she was. Jed tried to shield her, tried to keep the worst of the mess away from her. She wished he wouldn't. She wished he would bring her in, just for the excitement, just for the feeling of doing something, of being involved. Oh, she stayed busy enough, trying to carry through with Abbey Bartlet's heath care reforms. But this latest crisis was so personal to her family, to her child, to her husband, that she felt the urgency to act.
Josh had sped past her before his brain caught up with his body. The about- face was typical. "Donna! Uh – Mrs. Bartlet, hey!"
"Oh good God, Josh. Give it a break. It's just me."
He dimpled. She had missed those dimples. "Well, you know your 'just me' has a whole new connotation, now, right? I mean 'just me' First Lady of the United States compared with 'just me' assistant to the deputy chief of staff – "
He had a point. Still, she had tried to keep their relationship casual. "What's up?"
"Ah, you know – trying to keep a lid on Toby's rampant joviality. Advising C.J on handling the press. Pinching Will – at his own request, mind you – so he'll know he really is writing speeches for the President of the United States."
Good old Josh. She could count on him for a nice dose of ego. "Where would they be without you?" she wondered.
"Lobbying for animal rights in Grover's Mill City Hall."
"They don't know how lucky they are."
"Listen," he said, his tone obviously changing the subject. "We met this morning. C.J. says you're going tomorrow."
The speech. Uh oh. "Yeah."
He shifted, one arm pressed against the doorframe, the other running through his stubborn hair. "Do you think – I mean with everything that – "
"Not you, too, Josh?"
"Me, too?"
"Jed's not too happy about my going, either." Understatement.
"Well, you can't really blame him, can you?"
"Josh, we can't just shut down because – " She lowered her voice and looked around to make sure no one heard them. "Because some idiot makes threats. Besides, this is an important speech. I want to show my support."
"You can still show support without actually being there. These aren't idle threats, Donna," he reminded her, waving his arm. "Whoever this is has access to you. This person is sick. How else can you explain him taking pictures of you and the President while you – "He broke off at her flinch.
The world was discussing her sex life, she knew, but somehow hearing that Josh actually paid attention was much worse. She felt her entire body flush hot at the realization and wondered with a sudden flash of panic if he had seen the photo.
With an awkward clearing of his throat, he tried to back out. "It was – C.J. had it – I didn't mean to – Leo felt she needed to know – and I just happened to be there, but I, well, I didn't realize what I was looking at until – "Stumbling to a halt, he blew out a heavy breath. "I'm sorry, Donna. I didn't mean to see it. It was just – there – and I –"
Stop him before it gets worse. "It's okay, Josh," she assured him. Hell, what did she have to lose now? "It was the morning the doctor released me to – well, I guess it's what I get for letting my body think instead of my brain."
He colored even more, but his voice held total conviction. "No. It's nothing you did wrong – or the President. We've got to find this person before he does something else. Before he – "
He broke off at the entrance of his new assistant. Donna remembered her from Thanksgiving, when she had been the one to pull Jed away from the meal, the one where Gino had slugged him upon his return. She was attractive, and Donna tried not to be jealous. An exotic look, dark hair with a touch of almond-shape to the eyes, and very petite. Some far eastern blood in her.
She stopped as she saw them talking. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Bartlet. I was just bringing Josh these briefs on the tobacco settlements."
Tobacco settlements. Had it really been a year since she had helped Josh with that? How her life had changed. How they all had changed. Again, pushing down the totally undeserved feelings of envy, she reassured the younger woman. "It's fine. I was just visiting."
"Yes, ma'am," she answered politely, deposited the bulky manila envelopes on Josh's desk, and quickly left.
"She seems competent," Donna noted, blatantly inviting Josh to compare.
"Yeah," he agreed, but with a sigh. "But she hasn't quite gotten the hang of ridiculing me while at the same time completely undermining any dignity I ever had." His tone softened the sarcasm.
Well, she could play along. "Yes, Josh, you just can't take away such dignity from someone who wears yellow waders and an undershirt to work."
"It wasn't to work," he protested, remembering exactly what she was talking out. "And you were just so helpful."
"Hey, I got your suit cleaned, didn't I?"
He grinned then, at the shared memory. "Well, somebody's gotta keep me straight."
"Does she?" She hoped so, she truly did.
Shrugging, he said, "Yeah. Not bad. You should see her dossier."
Another twinge of irritation. This girl was more qualified than she was? Probably. She was being ridiculous. "Really?"
"She went to Annapolis."
That was a surprise. What was a graduate of the Naval Academy doing working as a secretary, even if it was for the deputy chief of staff to the President?
"Didn't graduate," he explained before she could ask. "Had to drop out to support her family after her father died, but she was really tearing it up there. Lots of honors. She had planned to go into special forces."
"Really?" It was hard to picture the slight, unassuming person who had just barely made a presence a few minutes before as a gung-ho, highly trained U.S. operative. Still, wouldn't that be the best person for it? The enemy would be just as hard pressed as she was to believe it.
"Anyway, she said after her brother and sister got old enough, she joined the Marines. Served for eight years."
Eight years? She'd have to be almost thirty, then. Didn't look it. Another touch of jealousy, even though her brain reminded her she had no cause. It wasn't romantic, she knew that. Any feelings she might have had for Josh were long transformed into friendship. Only Jed occupied her heart now. Was it, then, that someone had filled her shoes so easily, that someone might be able to take care of Josh as well as, or – even worse – better than she had?
"I'm glad," she told him, and she meant it, even if she had to admit to an illogical desire to see her predecessor fall short at least a little bit.
"Listen, you be careful tomorrow," he said, giving her a quick hug. "And tell the President that Toby's got the syntax police alerted in case he tries any on-site editing."
"No promises to Toby," she grinned. Jed's propensity to ad lib was almost as famous as his propensity for trivia. It was a sure thing, maybe even a challenge to see how irritated he could make his communications director. From past experience, it was a skill he honed proudly.
But Josh's caution was not without merit. Tomorrow was important, a key stand from the President on North Korea's drawn out stall of talks regarding their nuclear development. Tomorrow Jed would draw the line. Tomorrow they could be through the storm and sailing in clear waters. Or they could find themselves – and the world – in the midst of a hurricane, the proportions of which had never been seen before.
Donna knew the speech was good. Even if she hadn't already heard it twice in the car, she always had faith in Will and Toby's ability. And Jed himself had added the quotes from one of his predecessors. But she had heard it twice, so as he captured his audience with the magic of his words and the power of his voice, she scanned the crowd, searching for anything unusual, anything dangerous. Dear God. They were on the Mall, the stage set up just in front of the Capitol, not too far from the Administrative Offices of the Smithsonian, and even though the Service had combed the area, all of them knew there were no guarantees. Never were. But the weather had certainly cooperated. Even for January in D.C., the day was mild, the sun bright, the temperature crisp, but not frigid. Jed, of course, seeing no sign of blizzard, chose to doff the overcoat. He met the elements in only his usual business suit. At least this time, he wasn't the only one.
Apparently, except for the agents on duty, she was the only one not paying complete attention to the speech. As she let her eyes fall over the faces of his listeners, she saw the trust, the adoration, even the awe. And she understood it. Before she was his wife, she had been his fan. Damn, he was good, his rich voice lending style and power to the words.
"Theodore Roosevelt christened the U.S. the 'world's police.' And maybe we are," he declared, whipping a hand in the air in a credible echo of that progressive President's characteristic gesticulation. "Maybe as a result of being strong and stable and fair that is our duty. But we can't dictate the actions of countries who are unerringly determined to ignore common rules of humanity. After Roosevelt, we still fought World War One and World War Two and Korea and Vietnam and the Gulf War. We are not going to conquer evil. It will forever be with us. But we can determine how evil is going to fight. And it's not going to be with such weapons as we have, ourselves, refrained from using. Even at the height of the Cold War, even in October of 1962, we used our own humanity to say, 'No,' to stop Armageddon. America and Russia both chose to guide our ships of state away from disaster, toward peace."
He was forced to pause as the swell of applause confirmed his audience's support. "Now we find ourselves facing a similar situation, but we are not at the helm. Another leader holds the fate of millions of humans in his hands. Does that mean we just wait? We stand by helplessly?"
He paused again to let each mind provide the answer to the rhetorical question. Then, shifting his body to lean forward, to draw his listeners in as if they sat alone in a private room, he went on. "Roosevelt also said, 'If we are to be a really great people, we must strive in good faith to play a great part in the world. We cannot avoid meeting great issues. All that we can determine for ourselves is whether we shall meet them well or ill.' We will meet this issue well!"
More cheers, more applause. He had them now.
"We will not allow Pyongyang to destroy the nuclear peace of almost sixty years!"
The claps grew louder, didn't stop for him to continue. He raised his voice to be heard over the enthusiastic affirmation of his proclamations.
"We will not allow the destruction of that carefully kept armistice! We will not allow – "
Then, suddenly, the calm was over, and the stalled front erupted into a mighty force whose thunder echoed the terrifying rumble of "Rosslyn."
No matter how many times she watched the replay, Donna Moss Bartlet couldn't let go of the thin strand of hope that it would change somehow, end differently with a rousing cheer and his trademark grin flashing the crowd. But it never did. CNN had the best angle, so most of the stations picked up their feed, used their tape. She hadn't been at Rosslyn, had relied on television for her visual memories of those unthinkable moments, but this time – this time she was front row, center. Literally. And her brain replayed it over and over. The crack of the rifle. The shout of the Secret Service agents. The screams of the crowd. All seemed to happen simultaneously, and Donna had only a second, maybe two, to swing her gaze back to her husband. Two seconds to fill her brain with the horrifying sight of Jed's head snapping to the right, his body jerking backwards with a violent twist as Ron Butterfield threw an arm around his charge and dived to the floor of the dais with him, sprawling on top of the fallen President of the United States.
The world collapsed into blackness.
When her eyes opened again, she found her face pressed against the rough pieces of the stage, a heavy body plastered over her, unyielding. Her ears pounded with every frantic beat of her heart. She had only one thought.
Jed! Did she say that aloud? No one heard, or listened, if she did. Try again.
"Jed!"
"Stay down, ma'am." Jonah. Almost calm, but not quite. He couldn't mask the strident quality that the surge of adrenaline had pushed into his voice.
"The President?" she asked, afraid to use his name again, afraid it would make the news too personal, too painful.
But she received no answer. Unable to move her head, she searched with her eyes, straining to see beyond the surface right in front of her. Dark material of pants legs, the soul of a shoe. What had Jed been wearing? A navy suit? Gray? She had playfully helped him dress that morning, had buttoned the shirt herself, had smoothed the lapels. And now she suddenly couldn't remember.
Sirens screamed, mixing with the terrified chaos of the scattering audience. Muffled grunts echoed off the wood below them. Please be Jed, she prayed. Please let him be alive to grunt.
"Report! Report!" someone yelled.
"I've got Dove," Jonah barked, his lungs pushing hard against her.
"Where's Eagle? Who's got Eagle?"
Answer! Damn it! Answer him!
It could have been seconds or minutes or hours. Donna yearned to drag herself out from under the only thing that shielded her from danger. But she didn't care about the danger. Not to her. She only cared about one thing.
"Here! I've got him!"
Thank God! And –
"We need to fall back. Is he conscious?"
A pause. Too long.
"Negative. Get the medics in here and set up a perimeter."
Negative? Medics? Oh, God!
"Let me up!" She used the swell of panic, of anger, to thrust up hard enough to dislodge Jonah so that she could see better. It garnered her only a small improvement.
Then she gasped as her body was suddenly wrenched up. Could someone lie vertically? Jonah seemed to be, his frame blanketing her own.
"Can we secure the area?"
Could they? An open park, a transportable platform. No, she didn't think they could, not really.
"Can we move him?"
There might be others down, but no one questioned who they meant. Him.
"Is he hit?"
No pause this time. "He's hit." There was certainty in the response. No question.
The significance of that simple statement fell hard, and there was a brief moment of stunned silence before instincts kicked in and chaos reclaimed the day.
Ron's voice cut through the melee, driving them all to one point, one focus. "I need an ambulance here."
Nothing stopped her this time as she tore away from her bodyguard and stumbled toward the tangle of legs that was now separating as Butterfield and two other agents disengaged themselves. The figure below them was unmistakable. It was a navy suit, she noted absently. He lay face down, legs sprawled, one arm pinned under him, the other flung up by his head. Then it was as if someone twisted a knife into her stomach. She saw the dark moisture spreading under his head, seeping from the thick hair, staining the wood red.
Someone screamed and she realized after a minute it came from her, the agonized cry ripping through her throat. Strong arms caught her again before she could fall on her husband, before she could take his face in her hands and make him open his eyes, make him smile at her, scold her for being so worried.
"Mrs. Bartlet!"
"Let me go to him!" For a moment she wrenched free and managed to fall to her knees beside him. Jonah knelt with her, still putting himself between her and the rest of the threatening world. Tentatively, she touched his shoulder, sliding her hand up toward his neck. His face was almost totally obscured by blood. It coated his jaw and cheek, matted his hair, splattered his shirt and coat. She felt another pull at her shoulder but struggled against it.
"We've got to get him out of here!" Ron yelled over the cacophony, and she turned to answer, but realized her was speaking to a paramedic who had skidded through the path of agents and was running his hands briskly over their notable victim.
"Is he dead?" she heard someone ask. Please don't answer. Don't answer.
"Give me a minute!" yelled the EMT.
"We don't have a minute!"
Or did they? If he was already dead –
But no one was willing to take a chance on making the injury worse by moving him if he was still alive. Emergency workers are trained to remain calm, to keep their heads in frantic situations, but even the most stoic couldn't help but react when the patient was the leader of the free world. He fumbled with the pressure pack before securing it with a make-shift wrap around the head.
"Let's go!" he declared. She watched as blood soaked the folded gauze.
Blood. He was still bleeding. Thank God.
Six men fell into place automatically around the President, as if it had been rehearsed. Grimly, Donna realized if probably had. As a team, they lifted their leader, attempting efficiency and gentleness at once. Ron, himself, cradled the head, unconcerned with the dark stain that spread across his shirt and coat. Then she lost them, hustled away by four more agents whose beefy shoulders blocked her attempt to follow the path of Jed's team.
The aroma of leather was the first thing that anchored her to the comprehension that she was in the limo and they were already moving. In this perception of safety, she gathered what few wits she could draw together and tried to organize the pieces of information in her reeling brain.
"Where's my husband?" she demanded, pushing back the hair that fell over her face.
Jonah sat across from her, breath coming as hard as hers, even with his conditioning. "He's in the ambulance, Mrs. Bartlet. They're headed to GW."
"I want to go – " They couldn't keep her away.
"We are, ma'am." No one would try.
Then a sudden, horrible thought occurred to her and swept her with guilt that she hadn't considered it before. "J.T.! Do you have – "
"He's secured at the Residence, ma'am."
Thank God. At least that was something. Some small comfort in the midst of unbelievable disaster.
"The girls?"
And Jonah knew whom she meant. "Their protection has been contacted. They're pulling them in now."
"All right." She fell back against the seat, breath coming in gasps. Okay. Okay. Now for the hard question. The one she really didn't want to hear the answer to. "Did you see – How bad is – Is he going to – "
But Jonah saved her the agony of saying it aloud. Quietly, he swallowed, unable to look her in the eye. She heard the frustration in his voice. "I don't know, ma'am. I don't know."
The storm had hit. And what a hell of a storm it was.
POV: Donna Spoilers: "Two Cathedrals" (very minor); "Take This Sabbath Day" Rating: PG Disclaimer: The main characters are not mine, but several of the minor ones are.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Seven A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The calm before the storm.
In the quiet of the evening, as she lay pressed against her husband's broad back, her body floating in that misty state of post-coital endorphin release, Donna Moss Bartlet wondered if that phrase didn't apply to the stalled front they found themselves behind. It had been almost two weeks since the world had last fallen apart. Two weeks since a plane crash that almost certainly owed its cause to terrorists. Two weeks since they had packed her parents back to Wisconsin, Secret Service agents in tow – and she still couldn't quite believe that they had been targets. Two weeks since the last received photographic threat against their family. Two weeks since North Korea had put an impossible proposal on the table in return for standing down on nuclear development. Two weeks since Gino had been banished from the White House, also accompanied by security, despite the ignominious dismissal by his brother-in-law.
Two weeks since the President of the United States had really slept well. She raised her head to look at Jed. At least tonight she had helped him along, loved him into enough of an exhausted state to force his body to shut down for a few hours. It would allow him only four or five, never more. Even unconscious, his jaw remained tense, his brow furrowed. She wished she could take away some of the burden, but she was well aware that she herself had contributed to the weight that pushed down his shoulders. Shoulders that were broad both physically and metaphorically, but shoulders that, in private moments, had begun to slump under the relentless strain.
What did this unnerving quiet mean? She was not so naïve that she thought their troubles had disappeared. Maybe several years ago, before she had joined Bartlet for America. But not now. The years had opened her eyes to the unpleasantness that could be D.C., but also to the grandeur and all that was good about their chosen form of government.
And one of the grandest, best things was Josiah Bartlet himself. Propping on one elbow, she leaned over his right shoulder, studying him, still a little in awe despite the intimacy they now shared. Her gaze floated over his features. She wasn't sure what she liked best. The expressive mouth. The strong nose. The prominent vein that ran up the side of his neck. The tousled, thick hair. The tanned skin. Each attractive in its own right, but they all fit together to form an even more impressive whole.
Unable to resist, she reached around and ran her fingers through the curls of hair on his chest, sliding lower to rub over his abdomen. He stirred at her touch, breath breaking from the regular pattern, unconsciously shifting to his back so that she had better access to him. She smirked. Ever since the doctor's green flag, they had taken almost every opportunity to make up for the lost seven weeks after J.T.'s birth. Except for a few thwarted moments – the most infamous one the fault of her hapless brother – they had made significant progress. Still, it took quite a bit of self-control to withdraw her caresses before she had gone too far. He needed the sleep, and she didn't want the guilt of keeping him from it, even if he wouldn't have minded the sacrifice himself. Reluctantly, she snuggled back down beside him, contenting herself with just lying against his chest. As she hoped, his breathing grew even again and he slept on.
The squalls started three days later.
"C.J.!"
The unflappable press secretary regarded her audience with the same casual confidence as always. Leaning back on the Residence couch, Donna admired her ability to deflect the hard questions, to dodge the tricky inquiries without seeming too evasive or close-mouthed. But this time, she wondered how the voice of the Bartlet Administration would handle the question that was sure to come. They had been given a heads up just that morning, an anonymous call, strange in itself because C.J.'s reporters usually met her head on, even behind the scenes.
"Steve?"
Steve had it? Well, hell. That made it legitimate. The Star, they could blow off. Reuters? Not so easy.
"C.J., there are rumors out there that the President and Mrs. Bartlet – well, that the First Couple – used the Oval Office for, for more than government business."
Interesting way to put it. C.J. cocked an eyebrow, expertly balancing that line between flippancy and confidence. Every eye – and there was no doubt no one was daydreaming out the window at that moment – pinned the press secretary to her podium. Still, the cool façade did not even crack.
"Okay. Well, I'll remind you that we don't comment on the personal – encounters – of the First Couple. They don't affect the efficiency of the country."
Someone off camera muttered, "I'll bet they affect the efficiency of the President."
C.J. ignored the crude, but accurate, remark. "Nevertheless, as many of you already know, President and Mrs. Bartlet are a loving, physical couple, who are at liberty to express that love, as do all husbands and wives."
Just as she rehearsed.
The same voice noted, "They seem to have a lot of liberty."
Steve raised his hand again. "Follow up, C.J.?"
"Yeah."
"Bob Ritchie said that he felt such an act was inappropriate and besmirched the dignity of the Oval Office."
"Bob Ritchie used the word 'besmirched'?"
Steve grinned a little. "It was on line."
"Bob Ritchie was in a chat room?"
"A Republican bulletin board."
"Right. Much as I'd like to pounce on that one, I'll just remind you that I haven't said anything about this rumor being true."
"You haven't said it's not," he returned evenly.
C.J. remained undaunted. "Since the President and Mrs. Bartlet's private times are just that – private – I am unable to verify or dispel any speculation."
"Can you tell me if there are pictures?"
Donna held her breath. If they were asking, someone must have seen some, but why weren't they out, yet? Why wasn't she, at that very moment, staring, humiliated, at a grainy news photo of her straddling Jed's lap on his chair in the highest office in the land?
C.J. cocked her head a little. "You've seen pictures, Steve?" she asked carefully.
"I'm asking you."
"I am not aware of any published pictures." Again, very careful. Published pictures.
Another voice joined them from two rows behind Steve. "There's talk, C.J., of a photograph that shows the President and Mrs. Bartlet definitely engaged in – well, having sex in the Oval Office."
How much more embarrassing could this be? Of course, if the picture actually ran all over the world, that would probably trump this unconfirmed speculation for total and complete humiliation.
Another pause by the press secretary, but not long enough to arouse suspicion. "I don't know, Claire. I can only repeat that I have not seen any published photograph."
Ten more hands shot up, but C.J. waved them off, choosing to make her own statement before they continued their dogged pursuit. "Again, I certainly am not apprised of the private interactions between the First Couple. And private is the key word here. I can, however, verify that their relationship is close and demonstrative, but I don't think that's news to anyone in this room, or even in this country."
Several nods met her observation. The President's affection for his wife – and hers for him – was no secret. Cameras had captured their quick kisses as he exited Marine One, their clasped hands on the way to church, his hand at the small of her back, her unconscious smoothing of his lapel. These familiar touches were only surface indications of a much deeper relationship. But the reporters, being close enough to their leader to have the chance at even more intimate moments than the American public, had also witnessed the smoldering looks that passed between them, the tender rub of a shoulder, the strategic pat of a hip. A few lucky ones could even claim being present for a more heated and thorough kiss between the two after they had stepped inside the White House from the helicopter pad and away from the world's eyes. No, it should be no great revelation to anyone that the President of the United States and his wife were very much in love.
"Let me just say," C.J. continued, "that the President has the utmost respect for the office that he occupies as the commander-in-chief, and he would never do anything to denigrate that office. I haven't asked him, nor do I plan to ask him, about any private moments that he and his wife share in any part of the White House. And even if they chose to, well, even if there are photographs intruding on their privacy, instead of judging the perfectly normal actions of a loving, married couple, we should be enraged that someone breached the grounds of the White House to place them in possible jeopardy."
Donna couldn't tell if anyone agreed or not. After a moment, another hand went up, apparently unfazed by the press secretary's plea for them to back off. She braced herself for the rebuttal, for the condemnation, for the expected slashing of their moral values.
"Danny?" C.J. recognized.
Great. Danny. The most dangerous one of them all.
She could already see the headlines: "She Serves at the Pleasure of the President – "Did he have the picture? If he had somehow gotten hold of other pictures it would be devastating. One in particular, she winced at, when Jed had deposited her on the desk and her legs had crossed around his waist –
"I have a source that says North Korea might be willing to negotiate on the nuclear weapons, but the President is refusing. Is he playing 'international chicken' here? Who blinks first?"
North Korea?
Did he just ask about North Korea?
Just North Korea?
Thank God. Thank Danny. She should have known he would see the trivia of an Oval Office tryst when compared with threatening war.
C.J. didn't smile, since the subject matter certainly didn't warrant it, but she wanted to, Donna could tell. This was more up her alley. "The President isn't playing chicken with nuclear war. He takes North Korea's threats very seriously. But America can't bow to every – "
As C.J. diplomatically gave Danny a non-answer on his question, Donna allowed her breath to come a little easier. They didn't care, not really. The legitimate press truly found more significance in an international crisis than in the sexual exploits of the First Couple of the United States. At least for the time being.
Maybe the hurricane she had feared would be no more than a tropical depression. If this was the worst of it, she could handle the implication that she and Jed had an active sex life. It was, after all, the truth.
But something told her the brewing storm had not whipped up its last gale.
Three weeks after his exile, the vanquished tried again, not for the first time and, she knew, not for the last.
"No, Gino, I don't think now – "
She sighed and tucked the phone receiver against her shoulder as her brother interrupted, pleaded again for another chance to redeem himself. After the initial shock of seeing his sister and brother-in-law engaged – deeply engaged – he had found himself briskly escorted from the room, and, eventually, the building. Not that Donna didn't feel for him. She did, really. It had always been Gino's luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Murphy's Law seemed to have been created specifically for him. And she felt that eventually Jed would come around. After all, he had been more than understanding after his brand new brother-in-law had slugged him at Thanksgiving. But he had taken that punch with much more aplomb than the unforgivable crime of interrupting them in the throes of passion.
"I'll explain it to him," Gino assured her for at least the twentieth time. "He'll understand."
"I'm really thinking not."
"It's not that he's the President – "
"Or that he could have your Reserve unit sent to the North Pole. Or maybe the middle of the Sahara Desert?"
"It has nothing to do with that!" he declared.
And she believed him. He was truly sorry he had barged in on them. But that was just Gino. Nothing could guarantee it wouldn't happen again. In fact, she'd put even money on it being a given.
"Look, Gino," she soothed wearily, tired of his persistence. "It's not gonna happen any time soon. There's just – just too much."
"Yeah." She heard the resignation in his voice and softened.
"How are you doing?"
"Okay." No conviction there.
"Really?"
"Except for these damned gorillas that follow me around twenty-four, seven," he complained.
"It's for – "
"My protection. Right."
"Gino – "
"It's okay, Donna. I understand. I don't guess I blame him." The silence floated between them for a moment. Finally, he said, "When do you think he'll – "
But it was the same answer. "I don't know." She didn't want to be mad with him, but couldn't quite keep the exasperation from her tone. "I don't know, Gino, but not today, okay? Not today."
His broken voice shuddered on the other end of the line and she almost gave in, almost promised to talk with Jed about it. Then a quick memory crossed her thoughts: the look on her husband's face as he sat, naked, on his own bed, the focus of an entirely unwelcome audience of in-laws and Secret Service. Anger, embarrassment, and frustration heated his expression. She blushed as she remembered reading significant discomfort, as well. When Gino had burst in on them, Jed was only moments away from – Well, it wasn't easy for him to stop. She winced at the vision of pain on her husband's face and shook her head again, even though her brother couldn't see the action.
"No, not today," she repeated. Not today.
The New Year had given them a break. No photo had surfaced, yet, and the public, instead of condemning them for their indiscretion, actually embraced the evidence of their playfulness, apparently rather proud of their First Couple for being attractive and sexy. Who would have thought? And as far as she knew, no new threats had appeared, either, no horrible pictures ripping their images to pieces, no violent accounts of what their fates would be.
She wondered if this was the eye of the storm or just the rain bands. Were they in the middle? On their way out? Or had the maelstrom not even started yet?
Dismissing those worries as irrelevant, Donna nursed J.T., enjoying the bond the action created. She knew that as long as she lived she would be able to remember the feeling. His tiny fists clenched in pleasure as his belly filled with the warm life-giving liquid that fortified his immune system. His eyes looked up at her, his brain impressing the features of her face as one who loved him, as one who would be at the center of his life for a long time. Her heart ached with the intensity of that love. She had never known such a feeling. Even with Jed, even with the depth of her love for him, somehow, what she felt for this child was different, and she knew it was the same between father and son.
Father and son. She smiled at the memory of the previous night when Jed had managed to break away a little early and make it in before J.T. settled down, at least for his first four-hour stretch of sleep. What would the rest of the world leaders have thought of the cooing and ridiculous baby talk that had come from the President of the United States as he jiggled his child playfully? Probably that Jed Bartlet was an amazing man and a marvelous father.
Her thoughts darkened again when she was reminded of his own painful childhood, coping the best way a boy could with a father who didn't like him, who envied him his intelligence instead of bursting with pride over such a remarkable offspring. How could any parent treat their child like John Bartlet had treated his?
Since she had confronted him about his father, Jed had quit waking in the middle of the night thrashing and calling out for help. But she knew he would never be able to let go of those memories, never be able to look back on the security a normal childhood provided. But now he had a second chance with J.T. As the father, he could have the father-son relationship he never had as the son.
"John Thomas," she whispered to the baby as his eyes fluttered closed in satisfied slumber, "your father loves you. I love you. I love you so much."
In the next room, J.T.'s father was meeting with Leo and Admiral Fitzwallace. And she listened with a twinge of guilt at eavesdropping. Still, they knew where she was and they had left the door between them ajar. Therefore, there must not be too much concern about her presence.
Okay, she justified, then she could listen all she wanted.
"They consider sanctions a declaration of war," Leo was saying.
"War! They consider – My God, what are they doing when they sell plutonium to the first terrorist who drops by?" The anger in her husband's voice carried easily into the hallway.
"Mister President," said Admiral Fitzwallace. "According to our estimates, North Korea pulls in between $150 and $300 million a year selling ballistic missiles. Pakistan's Ghauri missile is a direct copy of the technology of their Nodong missile."
"The Ghauri. Islamabad to India in one nuclear leap."
"Yes, sir."
She wondered if Jed had ever imagined that he would know so much about nuclear weapons, wondered if he wished he hadn't had to learn certain things as President.
"Anyone who would do that wouldn't think twice about selling plutonium to al-Qaeda."
"No, sir."
"Have they?" It was a question they all wanted to know.
Fitzwallace, as usual, didn't flinch. His strong, even features gave his President confidence, regardless of the facts. "We don't know, Mister President."
"Odds?"
"I'd say there's a seventy-five percent chance they've already exchanged plutonium for cash or maybe bomb technology."
"Seventy-five percent?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have they got an active reactor, yet?"
"We don't know that, sir."
"What's their potential capacity?"
Fitz sighed. The President wasn't going to like this answer. "The CIA estimates that when all three suspected reactors are operational, they could produce 281 kilograms a year. That's more than enough for home use – with plenty left over for the local lemonade stand."
It sometimes struck Donna as surreal that there were people in her living room discussing nuclear bombs as if they were DVDs. She scooted the rocker back so she could see them. Jed stood at the hearth, elbow propped on the mantle, thumb and finger pinching the bridge of his nose. A sure sign of frustration and exhaustion. The other men watched silently as he mulled this over in his head. Finally, he let his arm drop to his side and pushed away from the fireplace.
"You know the official name of North Korea?" he asked abruptly, but didn't wait for an answer. "Democratic Peoples' Republic of Korea. How about that? Anybody over there actually looked up the definition of 'democratic'?"
A humorous observation at any other moment. At this point, only ironic.
"You think they are almost there?" Jed asked.
The Admiral lifted his chin. "I think so, Mister President. They just need to get rid of a few obstacles first."
He cocked his head in sudden interest. "What obstacles?"
Fitz leveled a pointed look at his commander-in-chief. "You."
Jed nodded. "You mean 'we.' The United States."
But the imposing admiral shook his head. "No, sir. I mean you. Josiah Bartlet."
The group assembled stood silent for a moment as the chairman's words sank in. She could almost hear the connections clicking into place and realized that the approaching storm had just grown more intense.
"I want to go."
"Absolutely not."
"Jed – "
Pacing was a natural movement for him. It gave him room away from the problem, even a few steps, it allowed his muscles to be occupied and not interfere with his brain as it worked its brilliance. The carpet already showed signs of wear in front of their fireplace. "We've already been over this, Donna. It is nothing that concerns you – "
"How can you say that? Nuclear responsibility doesn't concern me? It concerns every single human being on this planet!"
"You know what I mean – "
She stood, gaining the height advantage, but still falling short in stubbornness. "No, I don't. Look, Jed, it will be the first speech I have attended since J.T. was born. What better moment to choose than one that challenges the world to safeguard this planet for our children? What better way to show our commitment as parents than for us to go together, for me to be there to show how important this issue is?"
A hand waved away her logic. "I think everyone realizes its importance anyway. You don't have to – "
"What are you not telling me, Jed?"
The steps slowed, but he didn't look back. "What?"
"What is it you aren't telling me? Another threat?"
Now he stopped pacing and stared at her. "No. I told you – I promised I would share everything about that with you. Don't you believe – "She flinched at the pain on his face.
Instantly regretting that she had questioned him, she said, "No. I'm sorry. I do believe you. It's just that I feel very strongly about being there tomorrow, with you."
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing his previous combing. "Donna, I don't – "
"Check with Ron, at least?"
Eyes coming up to meet hers, he finally smiled, that closed-mouthed, surrender of a smile, and nodded. "Okay." But the eyes didn't twinkle like she hoped.
Okay. Good. She had won that battle. But why didn't she feel victorious?
The bullpen bustled with activity, as usual. It gave her a little pang of memories, a brief moment of regret, quickly squelched, that she wasn't in the middle of this chaos any more. Of course, her chaos was much bigger, now. Wasn't it? Somehow, she figured she might actually be closer to the action here, even, than where she was. Jed tried to shield her, tried to keep the worst of the mess away from her. She wished he wouldn't. She wished he would bring her in, just for the excitement, just for the feeling of doing something, of being involved. Oh, she stayed busy enough, trying to carry through with Abbey Bartlet's heath care reforms. But this latest crisis was so personal to her family, to her child, to her husband, that she felt the urgency to act.
Josh had sped past her before his brain caught up with his body. The about- face was typical. "Donna! Uh – Mrs. Bartlet, hey!"
"Oh good God, Josh. Give it a break. It's just me."
He dimpled. She had missed those dimples. "Well, you know your 'just me' has a whole new connotation, now, right? I mean 'just me' First Lady of the United States compared with 'just me' assistant to the deputy chief of staff – "
He had a point. Still, she had tried to keep their relationship casual. "What's up?"
"Ah, you know – trying to keep a lid on Toby's rampant joviality. Advising C.J on handling the press. Pinching Will – at his own request, mind you – so he'll know he really is writing speeches for the President of the United States."
Good old Josh. She could count on him for a nice dose of ego. "Where would they be without you?" she wondered.
"Lobbying for animal rights in Grover's Mill City Hall."
"They don't know how lucky they are."
"Listen," he said, his tone obviously changing the subject. "We met this morning. C.J. says you're going tomorrow."
The speech. Uh oh. "Yeah."
He shifted, one arm pressed against the doorframe, the other running through his stubborn hair. "Do you think – I mean with everything that – "
"Not you, too, Josh?"
"Me, too?"
"Jed's not too happy about my going, either." Understatement.
"Well, you can't really blame him, can you?"
"Josh, we can't just shut down because – " She lowered her voice and looked around to make sure no one heard them. "Because some idiot makes threats. Besides, this is an important speech. I want to show my support."
"You can still show support without actually being there. These aren't idle threats, Donna," he reminded her, waving his arm. "Whoever this is has access to you. This person is sick. How else can you explain him taking pictures of you and the President while you – "He broke off at her flinch.
The world was discussing her sex life, she knew, but somehow hearing that Josh actually paid attention was much worse. She felt her entire body flush hot at the realization and wondered with a sudden flash of panic if he had seen the photo.
With an awkward clearing of his throat, he tried to back out. "It was – C.J. had it – I didn't mean to – Leo felt she needed to know – and I just happened to be there, but I, well, I didn't realize what I was looking at until – "Stumbling to a halt, he blew out a heavy breath. "I'm sorry, Donna. I didn't mean to see it. It was just – there – and I –"
Stop him before it gets worse. "It's okay, Josh," she assured him. Hell, what did she have to lose now? "It was the morning the doctor released me to – well, I guess it's what I get for letting my body think instead of my brain."
He colored even more, but his voice held total conviction. "No. It's nothing you did wrong – or the President. We've got to find this person before he does something else. Before he – "
He broke off at the entrance of his new assistant. Donna remembered her from Thanksgiving, when she had been the one to pull Jed away from the meal, the one where Gino had slugged him upon his return. She was attractive, and Donna tried not to be jealous. An exotic look, dark hair with a touch of almond-shape to the eyes, and very petite. Some far eastern blood in her.
She stopped as she saw them talking. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Bartlet. I was just bringing Josh these briefs on the tobacco settlements."
Tobacco settlements. Had it really been a year since she had helped Josh with that? How her life had changed. How they all had changed. Again, pushing down the totally undeserved feelings of envy, she reassured the younger woman. "It's fine. I was just visiting."
"Yes, ma'am," she answered politely, deposited the bulky manila envelopes on Josh's desk, and quickly left.
"She seems competent," Donna noted, blatantly inviting Josh to compare.
"Yeah," he agreed, but with a sigh. "But she hasn't quite gotten the hang of ridiculing me while at the same time completely undermining any dignity I ever had." His tone softened the sarcasm.
Well, she could play along. "Yes, Josh, you just can't take away such dignity from someone who wears yellow waders and an undershirt to work."
"It wasn't to work," he protested, remembering exactly what she was talking out. "And you were just so helpful."
"Hey, I got your suit cleaned, didn't I?"
He grinned then, at the shared memory. "Well, somebody's gotta keep me straight."
"Does she?" She hoped so, she truly did.
Shrugging, he said, "Yeah. Not bad. You should see her dossier."
Another twinge of irritation. This girl was more qualified than she was? Probably. She was being ridiculous. "Really?"
"She went to Annapolis."
That was a surprise. What was a graduate of the Naval Academy doing working as a secretary, even if it was for the deputy chief of staff to the President?
"Didn't graduate," he explained before she could ask. "Had to drop out to support her family after her father died, but she was really tearing it up there. Lots of honors. She had planned to go into special forces."
"Really?" It was hard to picture the slight, unassuming person who had just barely made a presence a few minutes before as a gung-ho, highly trained U.S. operative. Still, wouldn't that be the best person for it? The enemy would be just as hard pressed as she was to believe it.
"Anyway, she said after her brother and sister got old enough, she joined the Marines. Served for eight years."
Eight years? She'd have to be almost thirty, then. Didn't look it. Another touch of jealousy, even though her brain reminded her she had no cause. It wasn't romantic, she knew that. Any feelings she might have had for Josh were long transformed into friendship. Only Jed occupied her heart now. Was it, then, that someone had filled her shoes so easily, that someone might be able to take care of Josh as well as, or – even worse – better than she had?
"I'm glad," she told him, and she meant it, even if she had to admit to an illogical desire to see her predecessor fall short at least a little bit.
"Listen, you be careful tomorrow," he said, giving her a quick hug. "And tell the President that Toby's got the syntax police alerted in case he tries any on-site editing."
"No promises to Toby," she grinned. Jed's propensity to ad lib was almost as famous as his propensity for trivia. It was a sure thing, maybe even a challenge to see how irritated he could make his communications director. From past experience, it was a skill he honed proudly.
But Josh's caution was not without merit. Tomorrow was important, a key stand from the President on North Korea's drawn out stall of talks regarding their nuclear development. Tomorrow Jed would draw the line. Tomorrow they could be through the storm and sailing in clear waters. Or they could find themselves – and the world – in the midst of a hurricane, the proportions of which had never been seen before.
Donna knew the speech was good. Even if she hadn't already heard it twice in the car, she always had faith in Will and Toby's ability. And Jed himself had added the quotes from one of his predecessors. But she had heard it twice, so as he captured his audience with the magic of his words and the power of his voice, she scanned the crowd, searching for anything unusual, anything dangerous. Dear God. They were on the Mall, the stage set up just in front of the Capitol, not too far from the Administrative Offices of the Smithsonian, and even though the Service had combed the area, all of them knew there were no guarantees. Never were. But the weather had certainly cooperated. Even for January in D.C., the day was mild, the sun bright, the temperature crisp, but not frigid. Jed, of course, seeing no sign of blizzard, chose to doff the overcoat. He met the elements in only his usual business suit. At least this time, he wasn't the only one.
Apparently, except for the agents on duty, she was the only one not paying complete attention to the speech. As she let her eyes fall over the faces of his listeners, she saw the trust, the adoration, even the awe. And she understood it. Before she was his wife, she had been his fan. Damn, he was good, his rich voice lending style and power to the words.
"Theodore Roosevelt christened the U.S. the 'world's police.' And maybe we are," he declared, whipping a hand in the air in a credible echo of that progressive President's characteristic gesticulation. "Maybe as a result of being strong and stable and fair that is our duty. But we can't dictate the actions of countries who are unerringly determined to ignore common rules of humanity. After Roosevelt, we still fought World War One and World War Two and Korea and Vietnam and the Gulf War. We are not going to conquer evil. It will forever be with us. But we can determine how evil is going to fight. And it's not going to be with such weapons as we have, ourselves, refrained from using. Even at the height of the Cold War, even in October of 1962, we used our own humanity to say, 'No,' to stop Armageddon. America and Russia both chose to guide our ships of state away from disaster, toward peace."
He was forced to pause as the swell of applause confirmed his audience's support. "Now we find ourselves facing a similar situation, but we are not at the helm. Another leader holds the fate of millions of humans in his hands. Does that mean we just wait? We stand by helplessly?"
He paused again to let each mind provide the answer to the rhetorical question. Then, shifting his body to lean forward, to draw his listeners in as if they sat alone in a private room, he went on. "Roosevelt also said, 'If we are to be a really great people, we must strive in good faith to play a great part in the world. We cannot avoid meeting great issues. All that we can determine for ourselves is whether we shall meet them well or ill.' We will meet this issue well!"
More cheers, more applause. He had them now.
"We will not allow Pyongyang to destroy the nuclear peace of almost sixty years!"
The claps grew louder, didn't stop for him to continue. He raised his voice to be heard over the enthusiastic affirmation of his proclamations.
"We will not allow the destruction of that carefully kept armistice! We will not allow – "
Then, suddenly, the calm was over, and the stalled front erupted into a mighty force whose thunder echoed the terrifying rumble of "Rosslyn."
No matter how many times she watched the replay, Donna Moss Bartlet couldn't let go of the thin strand of hope that it would change somehow, end differently with a rousing cheer and his trademark grin flashing the crowd. But it never did. CNN had the best angle, so most of the stations picked up their feed, used their tape. She hadn't been at Rosslyn, had relied on television for her visual memories of those unthinkable moments, but this time – this time she was front row, center. Literally. And her brain replayed it over and over. The crack of the rifle. The shout of the Secret Service agents. The screams of the crowd. All seemed to happen simultaneously, and Donna had only a second, maybe two, to swing her gaze back to her husband. Two seconds to fill her brain with the horrifying sight of Jed's head snapping to the right, his body jerking backwards with a violent twist as Ron Butterfield threw an arm around his charge and dived to the floor of the dais with him, sprawling on top of the fallen President of the United States.
The world collapsed into blackness.
When her eyes opened again, she found her face pressed against the rough pieces of the stage, a heavy body plastered over her, unyielding. Her ears pounded with every frantic beat of her heart. She had only one thought.
Jed! Did she say that aloud? No one heard, or listened, if she did. Try again.
"Jed!"
"Stay down, ma'am." Jonah. Almost calm, but not quite. He couldn't mask the strident quality that the surge of adrenaline had pushed into his voice.
"The President?" she asked, afraid to use his name again, afraid it would make the news too personal, too painful.
But she received no answer. Unable to move her head, she searched with her eyes, straining to see beyond the surface right in front of her. Dark material of pants legs, the soul of a shoe. What had Jed been wearing? A navy suit? Gray? She had playfully helped him dress that morning, had buttoned the shirt herself, had smoothed the lapels. And now she suddenly couldn't remember.
Sirens screamed, mixing with the terrified chaos of the scattering audience. Muffled grunts echoed off the wood below them. Please be Jed, she prayed. Please let him be alive to grunt.
"Report! Report!" someone yelled.
"I've got Dove," Jonah barked, his lungs pushing hard against her.
"Where's Eagle? Who's got Eagle?"
Answer! Damn it! Answer him!
It could have been seconds or minutes or hours. Donna yearned to drag herself out from under the only thing that shielded her from danger. But she didn't care about the danger. Not to her. She only cared about one thing.
"Here! I've got him!"
Thank God! And –
"We need to fall back. Is he conscious?"
A pause. Too long.
"Negative. Get the medics in here and set up a perimeter."
Negative? Medics? Oh, God!
"Let me up!" She used the swell of panic, of anger, to thrust up hard enough to dislodge Jonah so that she could see better. It garnered her only a small improvement.
Then she gasped as her body was suddenly wrenched up. Could someone lie vertically? Jonah seemed to be, his frame blanketing her own.
"Can we secure the area?"
Could they? An open park, a transportable platform. No, she didn't think they could, not really.
"Can we move him?"
There might be others down, but no one questioned who they meant. Him.
"Is he hit?"
No pause this time. "He's hit." There was certainty in the response. No question.
The significance of that simple statement fell hard, and there was a brief moment of stunned silence before instincts kicked in and chaos reclaimed the day.
Ron's voice cut through the melee, driving them all to one point, one focus. "I need an ambulance here."
Nothing stopped her this time as she tore away from her bodyguard and stumbled toward the tangle of legs that was now separating as Butterfield and two other agents disengaged themselves. The figure below them was unmistakable. It was a navy suit, she noted absently. He lay face down, legs sprawled, one arm pinned under him, the other flung up by his head. Then it was as if someone twisted a knife into her stomach. She saw the dark moisture spreading under his head, seeping from the thick hair, staining the wood red.
Someone screamed and she realized after a minute it came from her, the agonized cry ripping through her throat. Strong arms caught her again before she could fall on her husband, before she could take his face in her hands and make him open his eyes, make him smile at her, scold her for being so worried.
"Mrs. Bartlet!"
"Let me go to him!" For a moment she wrenched free and managed to fall to her knees beside him. Jonah knelt with her, still putting himself between her and the rest of the threatening world. Tentatively, she touched his shoulder, sliding her hand up toward his neck. His face was almost totally obscured by blood. It coated his jaw and cheek, matted his hair, splattered his shirt and coat. She felt another pull at her shoulder but struggled against it.
"We've got to get him out of here!" Ron yelled over the cacophony, and she turned to answer, but realized her was speaking to a paramedic who had skidded through the path of agents and was running his hands briskly over their notable victim.
"Is he dead?" she heard someone ask. Please don't answer. Don't answer.
"Give me a minute!" yelled the EMT.
"We don't have a minute!"
Or did they? If he was already dead –
But no one was willing to take a chance on making the injury worse by moving him if he was still alive. Emergency workers are trained to remain calm, to keep their heads in frantic situations, but even the most stoic couldn't help but react when the patient was the leader of the free world. He fumbled with the pressure pack before securing it with a make-shift wrap around the head.
"Let's go!" he declared. She watched as blood soaked the folded gauze.
Blood. He was still bleeding. Thank God.
Six men fell into place automatically around the President, as if it had been rehearsed. Grimly, Donna realized if probably had. As a team, they lifted their leader, attempting efficiency and gentleness at once. Ron, himself, cradled the head, unconcerned with the dark stain that spread across his shirt and coat. Then she lost them, hustled away by four more agents whose beefy shoulders blocked her attempt to follow the path of Jed's team.
The aroma of leather was the first thing that anchored her to the comprehension that she was in the limo and they were already moving. In this perception of safety, she gathered what few wits she could draw together and tried to organize the pieces of information in her reeling brain.
"Where's my husband?" she demanded, pushing back the hair that fell over her face.
Jonah sat across from her, breath coming as hard as hers, even with his conditioning. "He's in the ambulance, Mrs. Bartlet. They're headed to GW."
"I want to go – " They couldn't keep her away.
"We are, ma'am." No one would try.
Then a sudden, horrible thought occurred to her and swept her with guilt that she hadn't considered it before. "J.T.! Do you have – "
"He's secured at the Residence, ma'am."
Thank God. At least that was something. Some small comfort in the midst of unbelievable disaster.
"The girls?"
And Jonah knew whom she meant. "Their protection has been contacted. They're pulling them in now."
"All right." She fell back against the seat, breath coming in gasps. Okay. Okay. Now for the hard question. The one she really didn't want to hear the answer to. "Did you see – How bad is – Is he going to – "
But Jonah saved her the agony of saying it aloud. Quietly, he swallowed, unable to look her in the eye. She heard the frustration in his voice. "I don't know, ma'am. I don't know."
The storm had hit. And what a hell of a storm it was.