The West Wing

FIRST STRIKE

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

CHAPTER 6

"He's alive." Harry gasped for air. "It's amazing, but he's still alive. I don't think… It doesn't look too bad…"

"He appears to be talking to the agent closest to him." June kept her sentences staccato-brief; anything longer and her barely-checked emotions would escape her control entirely. "They're still some eight or ten feet apart, though. That last bullet went right between them."

"I wish the Secret Service would tell us how badly he's hurt!"

"You and me both, brother."

Leo had already secured his own hold on one of the agents holding him. "Will you find out how he is!"

Charlie inched closer, not turning from the field, yet positioned well enough to hear that information the moment it came through.

Toby paced once around his small office in short, choppy strides. "Is there nothing we can do to help him?"

C.J. placed a hand on his shoulder, soberly bringing him to a halt. "Not from here. Just… pray. Hard."

Debbie nervously fingered her hair. "Maybe it hit the vest again."

Margaret chewed on her hair. "How many hits can that vest take?"

Carol spoke for the entire bullpen, "He's still partly up… he's still conscious… he's still…"

Will spoke aloud; it made him feel less alone. "He's not out of the fight yet."

Josh articulated his thoughts for the very same reason. "He's not out of the woods."

Abbey ached with the keenest distress imaginable. Her place was with him; always had been, always would be. But she simply couldn't be with him this time. Nor could she possibly get to him in time. At least here she knew what happened as it happened – a pitiful substitute, but better than hearing about events even seconds after the fact. Thus she stayed, deceptively quiet, tensed to the last nerve, reduced to the role of helpless observer, watching her injured husband struggle alone.

This exquisite torture gnawed at all of Jed Bartlet's closest friends and colleagues as well – even those only twenty yards away from him.

"Have the mikes stopped working or something?" June scanned the media boarding their booth. "We can't hear a thing they're saying!"

"Greg, what's the problem?" Harry muffled his mike for this technical exchange. "They're right by home plate – that's our prime reception zone!"

"Hey, these babies have their limits," the producer snapped back, sounding harried in his own attempt to fine-tune things. "We're usually after shouted arguments, not whispers! Somebody want to tell those two to speak up?"

Harry let out a snort. "If you think I'm gonna step into that firing range, even for the privilege of speaking to the President of the United States…"

The Secret Service pressed their seek-and-destroy mission hard, combing and re-combing the endless reaches of stadium seating. One gunman was dead – the one capable of wholesale slaughter, the one technically more lethal – but the killer still at large was the harder of the two to trace. He rarely fired more than single shots, which were almost impossible to locate by sound and made it easier for him to duck back into the crowds. And he hit exactly what he wanted to hit.

Then again, the sniper didn't have to be downed to be stopped; he just had to be surrounded. If the agents could corner him – preferably away from civilians – he'd be too busy defending himself to keep shooting at the President… a situation that the President's bodyguards could eagerly exploit no matter what it might mean for their safety.

The removal of the fully-automatic weapon meant that they now had a much better hope of living through this crisis. It spelled further good news for the tens of thousands in the captive audience on all sides.

In fact, the only person it did not hold any real hope for was the President himself: the man still centered in the sniper's crosshairs.

No one could have predicted it, but this whisper of reassurance and determination felt by the authorities had also started to trickle its way through the witnesses in the stands. Almost none knew that the weapons arrayed against them had been reduced by one. Most kept shoving towards the exits, caring for nothing but escape, and scattered at every additional hint of gunplay, no matter how distant it seemed. Some, however, realized the difference between the former automatic fire and the current semi-automatic fire… and started to get the idea that, unlike the other gunman, this shooter wasn't aiming at them. Slowly, selectively, it began to sink into a few brains that they were no longer prey, that the hunter had tunnel-visioned on another. They were safe…

For the moment…

A percentage of those discerning individuals were graced with cooler heads, or with their own military training. A segment of those individuals had been deeply inspired by their President's heroic walk. And a still-smaller cross-section of those noticed when the sniper came and went among them.

What distilled out of all this was a tiny nucleus of citizens who had enough knowledge to feel confident, and enough confidence to feel brave. The Secret Service simply didn't have the numbers to scour all of these bleachers or to dash for the sniper's general location fast enough; he always vanished into the crush after each shot. But he would not likely expect an uprising from the crush. Plus, while he had to be aware of his surroundings at all times in order to dodge his pursuers, he directed most of his attention towards the people on the field below: the people he was shooting at. Ever so cautiously, dreadfully aware that they themselves were unarmed, five or six human shadows began to track.

The overall screaming in the stands had changed. It was no longer the prolonged roar of undiluted pandemonium, but muted and more intermittent. A fair bit of that noise came from those who scrambled over the seats and ran wailing up and down the steps or plowed heedlessly through the press without regard for others, utterly consumed by panic. By contrast, some stayed where they were, hiding under the seats, too far from the exits or just not strong enough to stand a chance against the masses trying to squeeze themselves through narrow doorways like an overloaded spaghetti maker. Some, too, having apparently given themselves up for dead, sat down and fatalistically turned their attention to center stage. And some had adopted a unique human self-delusion, shared by those tourists who persist in visiting notoriously dangerous locations: that, because this deadly situation didn't directly concern them, they wouldn't be touched by it.

Most, however, worried only about their own safety, not about events around them or who else might be involved. Even the threat of being shot if they tried to leave couldn't stop them putting as much distance between themselves and that threat as humanly possible.

Not so different from what Jed Bartlet was doing, come to think of it. Get away from the gunfire, one way or another. At least then it would soon be over.

Of course the Secret Service on the inside and the Baltimore police on the outside wanted as many people evacuated as possible; besides reducing casualties overall, it would also restrict the area in which the enemy could hide. This act of defiance played some fairly decent odds: two gunmen couldn't hope to block off every single point of egress. And now there was only one – trying to concentrate on the army after him, the Grand Entrance and the President at the same time.

"At least the standing section has almost completely emptied by now. But there must be over thirty thousand people still trapped in here." June shook her head. "I hate to think what it's like around the exits."

"That's also more than enough people to cause a lot of noise. We're not going to hear anything going on below us at this –"

Harry cut himself off short as a faint yet unmistakable voice filtered into their booth…

"… who do you think is the boss of me?"

"That's him!"

"Shh!"

The barely-audible transmission faded out again. Most of the people in the stands never heard it above their own racket, but the broadcast signals had far less interference with which to cope. The two commentators waited, holding their breaths, staring down at the two men conferring on the diamond, hoping eagerly for more.

"… don't answer…"

They almost groaned in frustration as the signal fluctuated. The whole nation strained with them –

"…long list, and… I'm not even in the top three."

From the monitors in the tunnel to the TVs around the world, countless listeners heard that spontaneous display of Bartlet wit. They also heard June's involuntary giggle.

One might wonder how many others chuckled as well.

Leo's shoulder slumped. "That man can joke at the worst times…"

Charlie was on the exact same wavelength. "But it's always a good sign."

C.J. closed her eyes. "Great. Next week there'll be editorials in the Wall Street Journal about a President who's too easily swayed and controlled."

Toby didn't disagree with her. "Pundits have no sense of humor."

Debbie shared this morose prediction. "Want to bet tomorrow's leading articles will say, 'What does this tell us about the caliber of the man who currently holds the most powerful office in the country?'"

Margaret had a ready reply: "It says that he can keep his cool in the worst circumstances!"

Carol had to smile. "That's courage: he can fight, and joke while fighting!"

Will fell in with the President's sardonic mood. "Realistically, he has to answer to the Secret Service, the Joint Chiefs, the Cabinet, Congress as a whole, and the people in the ultimate end equation. Sounds like democracy to me."

Josh took the certain promise of public criticism as a personal affront. Some politicos would spin anything anyway they could. "He's human! Can't people understand that?"

Abbey's mouth curved just a bit, for just a moment… for she knew that she occupied the number one position on that list.

Harry did groan this time. "It's gone again! Greg, get it back!"

"Trying…"

"Are they going to just stay there and chat?" June wondered aloud. She didn't want to come across as offended at being left out of the private discussion going on below… but curiosity has always been an inbred characteristic of the human race. Given that this wasn't exactly tea on the South Lawn, why didn't Bartlet continue to try to get out of there?

"So long as he does stay put, no one'll shoot at him."

"True, that. Speaking of which, who do you suppose is behind this?"

"Foreign terrorism, surely." In this pause, the pair of commentators had slipped back almost unawares into their original roles: commenting on each aspect of the events around them. The current interlude in the action suited them every bit as well as a time-out during play.

"I'm not so sure, Harry. That broadcast of theirs… it was too – what's the word? Colloquial. And I didn't notice an accent, either."

"Come on; the Middle East is the problem du jour!"

"Hey, the President could be doing everything perfectly both at home and abroad and there'd still be someone around here who's mad at him. This could be completely unrelated to his policies. It could be an attack against the office, not the man holding it."

Secret Service agents raced through the complex, up and down stairs, through milling fans, past empty lounges…

"Nah, this has to be personal!" Harry insisted, switching hats from sports commentator to political pundit in an instant. "Think about it: he's already announced that he wants to pursue a peace initiative, despite the recent American deaths. Never mind the blow to this country; his death now will derail everything around the world!"

June nodded reluctantly. "You may have something. Any kind of American-sponsored effort can't go through if the host is killed!"

The next grouping of shots made both announcers duck, even though they had no reason at all to believe they were targeted.

"That gunfire was directed at the Grand Entrance," June swiftly informed everyone. "You can hear the ricochet off stone. At least that implies that it didn't hit anyone …"

One agent happened to pass close enough to a TV monitor of the current broadcast, and this immediate area happened to be vacant enough for him to overhear a few lines from the audio coverage…

Harry was still going strong with his theories. "Remember what they said: 'your President' – like he wasn't theirs as well. They have to be foreigners."

"Not necessarily. What about domestic freedom fighters? They don't recognize the President's authority at all. In that way of thinking, he isn't theirs either."

"Possible – but I doubt it. The timing is way too coincidental. Why else would anyone attack tonight? It's not as if the Secret Service made it easy!"

"Well, how about this? A lot of people are downright upset that the President hasn't already retaliated for the American loss of life and launched a strike against Palestine." June hesitated, then forced herself to complete her next thought. "Someone might think that a new President would be more sympathetic to military options."

"You mean Russell? But that only reinforces my point: this is all about –"

The door to their booth slammed open, just like before. The same black-clad man stood on the threshold, holding the same huge assault weapon.

This time, he hadn't come to ask their help.

"Can the speculation. Both of you."

Before, his voice had been calm. This time it was cold.

Both reporters solidified, eyes wide. What?

The agent apparently decided that a bit more explanation would make sure he was obeyed. "You're doing more harm than they are."

Harry gulped. June's hand flew to her lips.

The agent left and the door swung closed. It had no bars on its window, but the comparison to a jail cell still took shape.

No one could debate that the Secret Service was capable of both a legal and a physical threat… but these two sportscasters didn't even think about risk to themselves.

"My God." June was fighting tears. "What have we done?"

"I'll tell you what we've done," Harry's tone was bitter with shame. "The President doesn't need foreign enemies – not when he's got you and me"

"We were just trying to put the pieces together… to help out somehow… but we don't have the facts… we could be completely out in left field here…"

"To say nothing of any inflamed feelings we might have caused among the public." Harry directed his next solemn words to their nationwide audience. "Folks, we two offer you all an apology. These thoughts were ours – not the networks', and not the authorities'. I know we're under a bit of tension here, but –"

"He's up!"

The TV view, and the billboard display, had been on the President and his chief bodyguard all this time. Due to her recent distraction, June had only just spotted something that all other viewers already knew.

Jed Bartlet was indeed on his feet: swaying a bit, the right leg braced awkwardly, but his head still high. He had battled the compelling urge to stay down, to capitulate before his enemies, to play the safer card for himself even if it would be worse for the country that way – and he had won.

Most of those viewers rejoiced to see that their President was able to stand in the first place. Some, of course, disliked him too much to celebrate. Some were too indifferent to the man to care about anything but the drama. And a certain number of others feared… because standing took a scythe to the remaining minutes of his life.

Leo let out a genuine growl. He knew his phenomenally-stubborn friend far too well. "For once in your life, don't dig in your heels to prove a point!"

Charlie agreed. "He's already made his point."

C.J. looked ready to fall over from incredulity – and alarm. "He has to know what he's doing. He can't not know!"

Toby didn't appear any steadier; his voice lowered significantly. "He knows. And he knows exactly what it's going to cost him."

Margaret inhaled. "He's got to be scared! How could he not be?"

Debbie exhaled. "Oh, he is. He's just not giving in to it."

Carol simply gaped. "I knew he was strong, but this…"

Will shook his head, unable to find words that would pay sufficient tribute to what he saw.

Josh gesticulated with both arms. "You don't have to prove anything, sir! Not now!"

Abbey was approaching hyperventilation. "Damn you, Jed, don't do this! The country isn't worth it!"

Had he been able to hear his wife, The Man would have argued that point. Besides, it wasn't just for the nation: it was for him as well.

The patchy, cobbled-together directionals hissed, fluttered, and again bore fruit.

"I can't just wait passively for death to come to me…"

June gasped audibly as realization knifed through her.

"… next few minutes anyway."

Harry's jaw dropped in identical understanding. "He really believes he's going to die here."

And thus did the rest of the country and the world achieve the same stunning comprehension.

"I can't allow more people to give their lives… I can prevent it."

June started tearing up again.

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

The mikes didn't fade out that time. The speaker's head was up and his voice, while not raised, was clear. He couldn't know that he was being overheard this time, what with the polarized acoustics in the park and the general noise level in the stands – but his enormous media audience all received that vital message.

And they all got the same view: the resumption of his walk. He demanded the right and the dignity to control his own life, refusing to yield that control to others. The end result would be the same anyway.

Even those viewers and listeners who did not number themselves among Bartlet's fandom could not help but admire him. Yes, he had broken a campaign promise or two; yes, he had hidden his health issues from the public; yes, he had approved an enemy diplomat's assassination. But two qualities that no one could dispute tonight, not even his most rabid detractors, were his personal courage and his compassion for others – citizen and country both. Forget public image; forget party politics. Neither meant a thing when he knew that his next actions would almost certainly be his last.

The camera zoomed in on his face, spotting the clenched teeth, the sweated brow, the frigid glare. He had every natural right to be scared: of the terrifying gunfire on all sides, and of the terrifying knowledge that soon one bullet would strike. Even so, he didn't let that stop him doing the right thing. He was going to fight every last step of the way.

June gave no thought to her own safety now; she hugged the glass. "He's limping pretty badly. That last shot must've hit him in the right leg. But at least it's not so bad that he can't walk on it – and he is! He's going on!"

Harry joined her. "He's got twenty yards to go, max. If only he can just get there!"

"If only they'll let him…!"

Every witness, both in person and in absentia, had to get the idea now that their President was on a very tight clock. No matter what he did, without a doubt his attackers would try to kill him before this was over. Obeying their orders would simply kill him slower.

Pursuing this thought, those witnesses also reasoned that the gunmen didn't have much leisure themselves, no matter how they might pretend to the public. They were fast losing control of the situation. They couldn't hide in the stands forever; eventually the Secret Service would close in. Plus, their hostage was about to stroll off the field, destroying all the notoriety they had worked so hard to achieve.

And the more time elapsed, the more trigger-happy everyone would get.

The tension climbed inexorably on all fronts, twisting nerve endings until a person could hardly stand the strain.

The sniper had had enough of this passive resistance. However, by now he also had to have guessed at his partner's elimination, and that only jacked up his own nervousness. He wanted to avenge his friend – but even more, he wanted to proclaim his cause. For that, he needed to find one of those directional microphones. And in order to have enough time for that, he needed a stationary hostage.

He let loose another echoing shot that bisected the air and sliced up earth about four feet ahead of Bartlet's toes.

Bartlet stopped short, his whole body flinching as bits of dirt and grass dusted him.

"Miss," Harry reported shortly.

June wrung her hands. "How long is this going to go on? How many more will miss?"

The gunman pressed his black rifle lengthwise against his black clothes, its thick stock tucked inside his windbreaker and its narrow barrel disguised against his pant leg, and merged with the crowds fleeing his last location. None of them had the presence of mind to look closely at their fellows; they just wanted away from the sound of that weapon. He easily pretended to be one of them, until he reached another section of the stands and judged it safe to reassess.

Sure enough, his target had moved forward again. Where he found the iron to do so, no one knew.

This next whiplash report matched the WHANG of the bullet against the wall behind the third base line.

Braking again, Bartlet turned to his left, and saw the hideous scar caused by speeding lead mangling itself against steel. Then he rotated the other way, estimating its trajectory. His enemy had to have been in the very first row for that shot, and would have almost certainly hit him if he'd happened to move two strides faster.

What is it they say? The bullet you DON'T hear is the one that kills you.

"That one missed, too," June reported, voice breaking under the strain. "But…"

"But it looks like it cut right across the President's path." Harry swallowed. "The shooter is getting desperate."

The video projection captured The Man's perfectly understandable apprehension, his longer pause than ever before… and then his return to course. He would not give up.

He had crossed almost one-third of the remaining distance to cover…

Leo's face was bloodless.

Charlie's face was old beyond its years.

"For God's sake, sir!" C.J. seemed to think that her boss could hear her if she only shouted loudly enough. "Duck and cover!"

"Don't talk to the TV," Toby advised morosely. "It doesn't do one bit of – watch it!" he yelled, abandoning his own advice as another screaming round drove the faces in the tunnel back again.

"He's still walking!" Margaret cried. "He can't be that badly hurt!"

"A person can be fully conscious and still bleed to death," Debbie pointed out softly.

"He's so slow," Carol said hoarsely. "He's hurt, and he's defenseless!"

Will gripped the edge of his desk. "What if they change ammo?"

Josh gripped the mount of the elevated TV. "What if they go for broke?"

Abbey had no voice at all; she was barely able to breathe.

Heard that one. As long as I can hear them, it's all right. I'm all right.

Ron forced himself to rise to hands and knees. This was horrifically similar to when his protectee first stepped onto the field: moving further and further away from the man most dedicated to defending him. The fact that these seconds were dragging out, as though in slow motion, made it even harder for Ron to bear. The danger was no longer suspected – it had been confirmed.

The senior agent had precious little strength left, after the pain and the blood loss, but he was also off the shooter's radar. A bodyguard creeping across the turf would seem to pose no threat to a hostage-taker with an escaping hostage. It meant dragging the deadweight of his left leg; still, he found that he could crawl almost as fast as Bartlet could walk. The Man's calf-nick had to be more serious than he'd thought… or than he'd let on.

The next shot headed straight for the tunnel mouth – not the stone around it. The agents, the EMTs, Leo and Charlie flattened to the cement floor in unison. Of course, by the time they realized that this round had passed right among them, it was already through and gone, but no one refused the instinct to drop.

Heard it… good… we're still good…

These grim observations had become a kind of executive mantra. The loud report didn't prevent Bartlet from braking, but it did help him overcome the shrieking desire to surrender. Again, he placed one slow, wincing foot in front of the other.

"I think that last shot went right down the Grand Entrance; we didn't hear it strike the wall. Judging from our monitors, there must be at least ten people crowded in the mouth. I wonder," Harry mused to himself and to his listeners, though with a frantic edge to his voice, "if this was supposed to be a warning of a different kind: stop, or else OTHER people will die."

"Maybe. The President's not giving in for his own sake, but he probably would give in for theirs." Then June changed tracks. "Except that those people have shelter."

Thoroughly rattled by this unbelievable tenacity that their worst-case scenarios had never dreamed of, the sniper started to run for another vantage point. Again he kept his long weapon masked by his like-colored attire as he hurried up the concrete steps –

"NOW!"

"GET 'IM!"

Like panthers, three men sprang together. One went for the knees, one for the rifle and one for the throat. The assassin and hunter, now suddenly become prey himself, was smashed to the floor before he knew what had happened, and pinned there by an inescapable weight.

The Secret Service arrived moments later, drawn by this scuffle in the exact area where the sniper should be. What they found surprised even them: their quarry arrested by civilians who had disregarded their own peril. What agent could have anticipated assistance of this caliber, and under these chaotic circumstances? The President didn't possess the only source of courage here tonight.

The second they secured the prisoner and the weapon, the bodyguards hurried to get this news out. At last both gunmen had been accounted for. The threat was over! Their fellows could rush the field and get their leader to –

CRACK!

That could not be mistaken. Another shot –

From another gun –

Which meant another shooter –

Jed Bartlet took this round square in the spine. It kicked him forward, arching his body and whiplashing his head back. He actually became airborne for one second before crashing full-length onto his front. Everyone heard his choked-off cry as the breath was crushed out of his lungs, already-injured ribs were compressed and other bones were savagely hammered.

"He's hit!" screamed June.

"He's down!" screamed Harry.

It took several endless seconds for The Man to stop moving, to settle onto his face, to cease twitching and be still.

Individuals in the stadium and around the world went strangely silent, hearts clenched, watching him lie horribly motionless before them all.

It took another few protracted seconds for him to start moving again, to drag himself back towards life.

The stadium and the world did not move, quite unable to do so.

He should have been unable to as well… and yet the billboard and the TV screens insisted that they saw movements in his arms, his head.

It took several seconds more for all of his observers to slowly digest the fact that he was not down completely after all, not yet dead.

TBC…