The West Wing

FIRST STRIKE

(by W.H.A.C.L.O.B.)

CHAPTER 5

Arms braced, head hanging, for a long moment Jed Bartlet didn't move. At least, that was how he appeared to the vast majority of witnesses. Only someone very close could see his shoulders shake with the effort just to breathe.

Ron threw himself towards his protectee, disregarding his own battle wound, reaching out, determined to cross that dividing distance no matter what –

The ground geysered almost in front of his nose, stopping him short after a territorial gain of about eight inches. It was no use; any move on his part to save the President would kill him instead.

The President's only reaction to that shot was a fresh shiver down his spine. Framed on all fours, at least he didn't sink any further.

"Sir!"

Slowly Bartlet raised his head, and met Ron's fiercely anguished gaze from a scant three yards away. All at once, the world seemed to contract until it contained nothing but that short stretch of turf and those two men, the only sound that of dual ragged respiration – and Ron's was only slightly the more controlled of the two.

"Are you all right!" Somehow the urgency in the senior agent's voice did not make it sound like a question.

Almost mechanically, his principal charge moved to find out. He lifted his right hand – an action that elicited another grunt of protest. The left-hand ribs had to be ablaze; plus, he'd taken an additional jolt when both hands landed so hard. He ignored the exacerbation of pain, pushed down with his left palm, pressing his fingertips into the earth to counter his body's slight swaying, and reached back towards his right leg.

The field was lit to almost daylight brightness; the dark trousers couldn't hide the darker stain below the knee.

The sight of blood on the man he would give his life to protect – the man he'd seen bleed once before – almost catapulted Ron off the ground. But the sniper was having none of it. Both men jerked back reflexively as the limited space separating them erupted again in a shower of mangled grass and earth. Bartlet turned his face aside and closed his eyes against the flying soil fragments, nearly losing his precarious balance in the process. The blood-painted fingers of his right hand curled into a fist.

The barrage faded, and the ominous near-quiet returned. Ron ran a sleeve across his sweat-streaked, dirt-flecked forehead. The message that he and his colleagues had already deduced – and that the President had clearly intuited as well – was coming through louder and more maliciously than ever. His proximity to the primary target, alive, only served to underline the gunmen's calculated cruelty, The Man's isolation, and the agents' helplessness. They were being toyed with.

Also, if Ron tried too hard, the killer could easily decide to eliminate him for good – and in that process he might hit the wrong man.

At length Bartlet reopened his eyes. "God. I used to wonder what it must be like, to come under enemy fire." His voice was hoarse, his features taut, his vision haunted. "The things I've asked of others…"

"Sir." Ron gently prodded his Commander-in-Chief out of this extraordinarily poignant introspection. "How bad is it?"

With a slight shudder, Bartlet came back to himself. They were close enough to hear each other over the swirling background surf… close enough to finally know how the other had fared in this calamity… close enough to banish the terror of loneliness, and to reduce the loneliness of terror.

"I'm fine." That had long been his standard reply to any queries about his health; he must have figured that it would not suffice this time. He double-checked his right hand: the scarlet coating wasn't extensive. "Really. He just clipped me."

The Man was no medic, and usually the casualty is the last person to draw an accurate diagnosis. Still, the wound was not bleeding heavily, and located far enough down his leg to have missed the really big blood vessels. He wouldn't bleed to death in the next handful of minutes.

The killers would probably love it if he did. He was their mouse to torture, as slowly and showily as possible. Imagine his inexorably growing weakness while protection and treatment hovered just out of reach? And the nation would suffer with him every step of the way.

The demands for information in Ron's ear became shrill. "Eagle's okay," he radioed out. Well, not okay – but not as bad as he could be, and as they had feared. "Bullet-nick to the right calf. And some cracked ribs at least." No bullet-proof vest could absorb the entire impact of a high-powered slug; his protectee's favoring of his left side only confirmed it. Still, he hadn't manifested any difficulty breathing, and no blood spotted his lips this time. All in all, a positive diagnosis. This information needed to reach a number of people fast: the First Lady and the White House Chief of Staff in particular.

Voices over the wire expressed their relief. Bartlet, though, did not. Concern graphically etched his features – the kind of concern he never felt for himself. "What about you, Ron?"

Four years ago to the month, the senior agent had refused to let his protectee even think about the injury to a member of his detail; the Secret Service's overriding need was to see their Chief Executive safe. Why would tonight be any different? Both of them were far less safe now than during that harrowing limo ride from Rosslyn.

Because both were under the gun together, both wounded… both unable to flee.

Ron shifted his leg carefully, with a slow wariness that was only partly from the pain. "Not too bad. It missed the bone."

"Thank the Lord for that mercy, at least." The President blinked some more in an attempt to rid his eyes of irritating particles. "One guy over there needs a doctor, too. And the others…" The wavering sigh that followed was heartfelt. This man committed himself to never growing inured to the death of his own.

Blearily, he peered towards the edge of the field. There lay the only shelter to be had. "Never thought a few yards could seem so far."

Two familiar faces peered back at him from the tunnel mouth, forbidden to climb the last few steps – which meant their faces hovered on almost the exact same level as his. The effect would have been comical, save for the periodic raking gunfire. They were just as helpless as he was, and just as anxiety-ridden. And what about all the others watching from an even greater distance, on TV, miles away?

"The yards between us are what worry me." Ron juggled variables in his mind. They didn't look promising, but there was a chance. "Sir, I don't want to add to your risk myself, but we're running out of options. On my signal, I need you to lunge towards me as fast as you can. Stay as low as you can. I'll meet you halfway."

The bleariness vanished; those cool blue eyes appraised him with a disconcerting keenness. After an even more disconcerting pause, Bartlet spoke – his expression unreadable. "So that you can take the next bullet, right?"

"And any others out there." Ron did not shrink one iota from his intent. It was the only choice that had a hope in hell of working.

With a hole through one leg, he couldn't rise or run fast enough to do this alone – but if his protectee helped cut down the distance, he might be able to throw himself over the President before the next shot rang out.

After that…

After that, the other agents would have a lot more time to find the sniper. A human body is a very solid barrier. The Man would be comparatively safe from any further hits – even if the man covering him was dead.

Bartlet displayed no real surprise. He also exhibited no doubt as to the cost. "One problem with your plan, Ron. I'm not signing your death warrant. And that plan would be tantamount to doing so."

His reply didn't come as a big surprise, either. "Thank you, Mr. President, but you don't get to make that call. We've discussed this in our briefings before. You know the drill."

"Well, here's another minor detail for that drill to consider: this is my fight." A pronounced, uncharacteristic rage flashed white-hot; suddenly the leader of the free world looked downright ferocious. "And I'm going to finish it!"

Steadying himself on his right knee, he braced his left leg – in clear-cut readiness.

Not to lunge forward, but to stand up. To carry on.

Ron could not have been taken more by surprise. "Sir, get back down!"

"Sorry, Ron. Miles to go before I s—" Bartlet recoiled as a solitary bullet smacked between them in menacing punctuation. The sniper had also spotted his preparation for renewed resistance. It took him another moment to catch his breath. "Or maybe not."

"Mr. President –" His security chief's normally phlegmatic tone fairly trembled with suppressed frustration. Although he knew that any move closer would result in them both being cut down, he still had to dig his fingers into the turf in a physical effort to curb the tremendous urge to try, to shield his protectee now.

"I know what you're going to say. Love to, but can't." Yet Bartlet held still for the moment, seeming reluctant after all to leave his companion and enter the maelstrom once again. Stirring somewhere deep beneath the surface of conscious thought had to be the fear that this conversation might be the last human contact he would ever have.

The longer he lingered, the greater the chance that he could be persuaded. "Sir –"

One side of the President's mouth twisted up in a parody of a grin. "If I lie down now, I'm afraid I won't be able to make myself get up again."

The bald honesty, the human vulnerability in those words…

The Secret Service mandate still reigned. "Sir, I'm ordering you –"

One presidential brow quirked in genuine amusement. "I hate to say this in these circumstances, Ron, but just who do you think is the boss of me?" Bartlet muttered softly at a fresh current of pain, and wrapped his left arm around his chest like a splint. Traumatized ribs did not welcome spirited conversation. A sudden thought struck and the grin became a shade lighter, even more wry. "Actually, don't answer that. It's a depressingly long list, and I've just realized I'm not even in the top three."

Ron resisted the impulse to clutch at his hair. The Secret Service had as keen an appreciation for black humor as anyone, but right now he just wished The Man would focus.

"Mr. President, I understand what you have in mind, but attempting to force the situation to a conclusion will serve no purpose except to guarantee your death. If we do as they seem to want, at least for a while –"

"Ron," his President interrupted with a weary note. "We can't do what they want. Not in any fashion; not for any length of time. It doesn't matter who these people are or what they want; we can't give in to them. The United States does not…"

"Negotiate with terrorists, yeah," the senior agent muttered through gritted teeth. That was an axiom for political strategy, not a guideline for protecting lives.

"Not even for the life of the President," Bartlet reminded him. "Although you have to admire their flair." He shrugged tolerantly at his bodyguard's clear unwillingness to evince admiration of any kind. "They've got the perfect setup here. No matter the official line, this little dilemma is certainly high-profile enough to give the government pause. All policies aside, it's shockingly bad PR to allow your country's leader to be executed live on national TV."

Ron's job didn't grant him the luxury of intellectual speculation right now. "In that case, what's wrong with waiting?"

"Waiting?" The sheer bleakness in that echo made the air quiver. "For what?"

He knew. So much for Ron's debut as a diplomat. His protectee understood exactly what the single possible outcome had to be.

Bartlet regarded him somberly. "And for how long? This is an impossible scenario; it's simply unsustainable for any length of time. We know it and," he nodded towards the chaos in the surrounding stands, and the two assassins lurking in their midst, "they have to know it, too. We aren't in a hostage situation, Ron – we're part of a publicity stunt. No way can they hold out long enough for their demands to actually be met. They planned all along for tonight to be one big splash. They get the attention of the whole country, they line up their target in front of the world, and they issue their statement. And then," he concluded with blunt resignation, "they shoot."

"Sir..." Ron's voice was soft, robbed of all reassurance.

Bartlet's head sank for a moment, as if voicing that horrid truth had temporarily robbed him of all strength. Then he straightened anew, and the clouds behind those blue eyes cleared. He even smiled: a humorless, melancholy smile.

"I will not let the Presidency be exploited like that." His tone was unyielding. "Whether I act or wait, this whole thing is going to end very soon. Better I end it now than let anyone gain leverage against the nation. I can't do anything to improve my situation, but maybe I can preserve the sanctity of the office. At the very least, I can spare the government any unreasonable blame for not handling this right. And I'll sharply limit these fanatics' media exposure."

"They'll get a fair amount of exposure when they kill you!" Ron ground out savagely. He was shaken to the core by this matter-of-fact analysis of a deliberate pending attempt at executive suicide.

Bartlet took no offence at such an atypical outburst. "Yes, but they won't control it anymore. They'll have no hostage. The Presidency will be safe."

"The President will be dead!"

"No." He shook his head firmly. "Jed Bartlet will be dead." Amazingly, his voice did not quaver. "The President will be alive. And the nation will endure."

Both men jumped as another fusillade of shots rang out; it took a moment for them to realize that these bullets weren't headed their way. Both men turned towards the Grand Entrance, at right angles to their tête-à-tête. Sure enough, a fresh attempt to reach them both had just been thwarted.

"And there's the other reason, Ron." Bartlet grimaced, unveiling a cold trepidation that transcended his own survival. "Every minute I remain out here, more people will die. Not just your people, trying to help me – but my people, caught in the middle. Americans. Fellow human beings. And that, I will not permit."

Summoning the strength of body and mind, he lurched to his feet, stumbling forward before managing to regain his balance. He hunched over slightly, his wounded leg braced rigidly… but he stood.

Shouts of disbelief rippled from the stands, yet no gunfire accompanied them. For the moment.

"Don't…" However Ron might sympathize, or even agree, he still had to prevent this, either by physical intervention or through reason. It was his duty.

Bartlet gingerly let his weight settle onto his weak leg to see if it could handle the work. Satisfied, he brushed the grass from his trouser knees and his palms, then made an attempt to tame his hair – a motion so ordinary in this chaotic scene that it might well have drawn a few automatic grins from his observers. Then he set his jaw… and confronted his duty.

He delayed one more moment to look down at his prostrate, bleeding companion. His voice strengthened, the unspoken plea for understanding clearly discernible. "Ron, I want to live. I want to go home to my wife, my daughters. But I can't just wait passively for death to come to me."

He paused, then added, under his breath, "It's coming in the next few minutes anyway."

Ron winced. At last one of them had come right out and verbally shredded the curtain of avoidance.

"I can't allow more people to give their lives for me – not when I can prevent it."

The man paid to step in front of the bullet couldn't summon much of a rebuttal to that.

"And I'm damned if I'll allow myself to be used."

His epitaph.

The President squared his shoulders with an air of purpose that only his strained features and convulsively working throat betrayed. Limping visibly, yet resolute in the face of overwhelming odds, he stepped forward alone.

The searing whiteness of the artificial lights seemed to bleach him of color, seemed to prematurely wash away his vitality.

The agent extended one hand – just a small movement of bloody fingers reaching across the grass. As though to follow him, or to stop him… or to block the fatal shot that was sure to ring out in one more heartbeat.

Hopeless. Flat on the ground, Ron could only watch him go.

TBC…