The West Wing
FIRST STRIKE
(by W.H.A.C.L.O.B.)
CHAPTER 8
History had just repeated itself, beyond the worst possible dreams of the direst doomsayer. The American people had seen their President killed right in front of them… and this after he'd shown such bravery in trying to keep everyone else safe despite their concern for him. He was a human being, and he was a leader – their leader. Their voices rose together in a gestalt mourning and genuine tribute.
And then they revolted.
Leastwise, the small group of them with the will to act did act. Those few who had risked their own lives to track and surround the killer now threw caution to the winds and charged as one, in a fit of rage such as is only born from incalculable loss.
The gunman discovered several things in the same fleeting instant: that he's scored a one-in-a-million hit; that he'd finished the job his co-conspirators had failed to complete; that he would achieve history as the assassin of the President; that he was ringed by a mob after blood – his blood; that he was about to be torn limb from limb. He raised his rifle in the meager hope of reducing his attackers by at least one –
One of the Secret Service agents already closing in on this section, with thanks to the stadium cameras, drew his pistol and fired first. He hadn't likely planned it, but the slug struck the sniper's weapon and flung its barrel towards the sky. It went off as a result, aimed at nothing. The window to the reporters' booth shattered, bullet and shards barely avoiding the two people inside – two people who had believed all along that they at least were safe.
Without further ado the crowd of avengers pitched in. The gunman disappeared under the press of their numbers, wailing for the mercy he himself had refused to grant.
Nemesis became the name of this animal, this mob. Survival was no longer its goal.
Fear became anger.
Anger became blind rage.
Rage became retribution.
Agents arrived from all directions and waded through the maddened ranks, trying to stop the vigilantes from killing the sniper with their bare hands. The people might feel that they had the right to be revenged upon their President's murderer – a sentiment that the bodyguard cohort might well have shared – and they certainly reveled in taking a direct hand against the chaos that had so dominated their lives tonight. However, they were operating on killer instinct rather than clear thought, too impassioned to work together properly, and the shooter might wiggle out in the chaos. Besides, no one wanted these decent citizens to be turned into murderers themselves, even under stress like this. Then too, ideally the perp should be taken alive for questioning.
Suddenly the gigantic speakers erupted with the boom of a shuttle's afterburners.
"HE'S ALIVE!"
The world froze.
That same voice must've felt that such an unreal bulletin wouldn't be believed, couldn't be believed, until it had been repeated at least once. Which was probably the case. "THE PRESIDENT IS ALIVE!"
The world hesitated.
Could it be?
One timid inch at a time, C.J. lifted her head. She had buried her face against Toby's neck, turning her back on a reality she simply couldn't endure. She'd seen her boss die twice tonight, or so she thought, and once was more than horrendous enough. Did she dare to revolve now, to nurture the tiniest smidgeon of hope, to see if maybe – just maybe, for the second time tonight – it wasn't true? Because what if it was?
Toby didn't glance at her. His face was slack, his mouth open. His eyes never left the TV no matter what it displayed. He was usually the last staffer to accept good news. After the pummeling vortex of this entire event, he refused to believe anything without irrefutable proof. Twelve seconds ago, he had been presented with all the proof he had prayed never to see. What new information could even remotely contest that?
Margaret looked up from her seat in one of the chairs in the Oval Office reception area. She had no memory at all of sitting down, or of being seated; her brain was in total overload. First their leader was dead, then he wasn't, then he was shot again, then he was shot again, and then he was dead for sure… What could possibly be real anymore?
Debbie looked up from her kneeling position beside Margaret's chair, gripping the arm rest, desperate for some stability. She too felt like they were caught in a kind of temporal loop, doomed to forever repeat the same tragedy over and over again. She wanted this unbearable pendulum to end, finally, so that at last they'd know for certain. She wanted her boss to live – but how could he or any of them go on like this, living together and dying together?
Carol stopped her flight short, one thin instant before she would have passed beyond earshot of the TVs. She had whirled and rammed her way through her colleagues, frantic to leave the bullpen, racing for – for where or what, she couldn't have said. Driven only by a sobbing need to flee. Now she spun back, every bit as driven to make sure. How –?
Will leaned on the edge of his desk, doubled over as though he was about to be sick. He couldn't stop himself from shaking. The human body can sometimes be astonishingly resilient to abuse, but constant and unremitting stress will break it down in the end. If he felt like this just watching the TV coverage, how had the President managed to go through it all first-hand? Was he still numbered among the living after all, despite all evidence to the contrary?
Josh slowly moved his hands away from his face, peering out from behind the last bastion of defense between him and insanity. He sat slumped against the waiting room doorframe, elbows on knees, as though crushed into the smallest possible volume by what he had witnessed. The TV hung from the ceiling on the opposite wall several yards away, so distant as to be unimportant and yet strident enough to drag him back from catatonia. Was this what life would have to be for them all from now on – as empty and dead as…? Or had God Himself stepped in at the last instant?
The Secret Service agents in the Residence remained silent, as per their training. While on duty, it was not their place to celebrate the good times or mourn the bad times. They just stood there, with no specified task to do… except for one of their female members. She half-knelt on the rich carpet on front of the TV in the private sitting-room, supporting the upper half of the semi-recumbent First Lady. Abbey hovered on the precipice of a dead faint, as well as on the cusp of an existence without meaning. That last shot had hurled her out of her chair and out of all life as she wanted to live it. Could the woman against whom she leaned penetrate the cloying mists suffocating her soul and convince her that her husband might still be alive after all? Or was it already too late – for both Bartlets?
Throughout the country, viewers and listeners shared in what was probably the most extreme, the most psychedelic kaleidoscope of emotion any of them had ever experienced. They had been fused together, moving as a single entity from celebration to shock to sorrow to disbelief to joy to amazement to admiration to suspense and back to sorrow, so fast and so intensely that they no longer knew which way to turn or what to feel. The ground underfoot had shifted too abruptly too many times. And now that they had finally, miserably resigned themselves to the fact that one of the most incredible personal battles ever fought had ended at last with inevitable defeat… their foundations heaved yet again, pitching them from one far end of the spectrum to the other. From the worst to the greatest – the transition was just too overwhelming.
In Oriole Park, those speakers were so huge, the sound system so cranked up, the commentator so overwhelmed, that those two shouted sentences half-deafened almost everyone in the bleachers. The loudness and the suddenness alone would have been more than enough – but when combined with the meaning behind the message, a formidable impact was assured. From those madly trying to force their way outside, to those too apathetic to care about their fate any longer, to those consumed by fury, that simple and unmistakable message penetrated every mind. Not all of them believed it on the spot, but almost every last one of them turned to see. Even the pile of citizens furiously trying to tear a killer apart couldn't resist that attraction.
For once the display had little to offer: a tight knot of many unidentified people just outside the Grand Entrance, and the leader of the free world nowhere in sight. The Number One camera had to aim almost straight down from its mounting, which one might think would provide an excellent view of these events, yet too many heads hovered too closely together to see anything past them.
Everyone knew, though, who had to be in the heart of that cluster. All viewers, from Baltimore to Honolulu, from Canada to Australia, beheld the ring of armed guards protectively surrounding the President of the United States at last.
Harry and June had switched on every connection they had, blaring their news not just to the world but to the stands as well, and tumbled over each other's sentences, rushing to express their wonder and their elation.
"It's true! It really is!"
"We got it from the Secret Service themselves! One of their agents was standing right here with us! We heard him – he was listening to his radio, and then he said, 'He's alive?' And then he rushed out!"
"We're not making this up! That message couldn't have been about anyone else! Besides, nothing else would make the Secret Service run like that! The President has to be still alive!"
"Now we don't know his condition – we don't have any details at all – but if he can survive that last shot, then he just might pull through!"
"I can't imagine how anyone could survive that! We saw him hit! But they definitely said he's still alive!"
"It's a miracle!"
It was no less a miracle for one other person as well. The agents in the stands seized upon the break in combat between civilians and assassin, now doubly determined to take that assassin alive. This time the avengers did not object. The spell of the rabid pack had been well and truly broken. They drew back, some more slowly than others, but willing now to let the authorities take custody.
The shooter was in pretty rough shape already, his clothes torn and his skin bleeding in a dozen places. But at least he still breathed – as did his would-be victim.
If the President had not survived, quite a few of his constituents here tonight wouldn't have let up until his killer had been dispatched after him. However, now that they knew their leader had pulled through, their opinions and emotions shifted from bloodlust to disgust. This villain still deserved to die, and he eventually might at the hands of the State… but there was no longer a burning need to kill him now, because he had failed! Exchanging nods, without any words spoken, these champions for justice reached a mutual consensus that their prisoner wasn't worth sullying their hands or their legal standing. Let the justice system take over. It was the American way… and the way The Man would want it.
"We've just had visual confirmation that another gunman in the crowds has been arrested. We don't know how many there were total. There were at least two different weapons…"
"But they're probably all accounted for by now, or else no one would be lingering on the field for any reason. And that's certainly great news for all the fans still stuck here with us tonight!"
"It's great news for everyone! But the news I really want is on the President. We can't see a thing through the crowd of people around him down there."
"Most of those folks are wearing black; they have to be Secret Service. Some are in white, which would make them paramedics. That means they're working on him right there. I can't guess what they're doing – but it must be life-critical if they have to do it now rather than wait until they reach the hospital."
"As of two minutes ago, he was still alive. But alive for how long?"
"If only someone would give us details!"
At least the cordite-tainted angle to the domestic crisis of the year could be laid to rest – and what better way to end that immediate terror than to show everyone that it had ended? No matter what people reported on the wires, most times you have to see to believe. Greg the producer was again free to concentrate on the news angle, free to seek out and transmit the best coverage. He aimed every camera in the park on the executive lawn party, and resumed the rotation of all video input through the regular broadcasting frequencies, which meant on the jumbo display board as well. Those spectators who had decided to hold up on their manic push for the exits embraced all images from all directions, each different vantage point providing another brick in the foundation of certainty, making this whole scenario that much more real.
For all its reality, it offered no actual explanation. Did that armed circle provide essential security for a living man, or an honor guard for a dead one?
Then suddenly the vertical perspective again claimed precedence, as that gathering moved towards the tunnel mouth in a swift, compact group. Finally, people weren't bending over like a football huddle, or engaged in emergency first aid on the spot. They'd produced a stretcher and loaded the President's body onto it. The first camera recorded a perfect bird's-eye view of many hands rapidly bearing their Chief Executive away.
Of course they'd rush to get him out of there; the Service wouldn't wait to see if there just might be a fourth shooter in the stadium. In any event, prompt, complex, fully supported medical care was clearly called for.
Medical care meant treatment. Healing. Survival.
Also, for the first time since he had originally stepped into view from the Grand Entrance so many endless minutes ago, thick security forces flanked him on all sides. Regardless of his current condition, no other threat would get near him now.
Security meant protection. Safety. Survival.
Assuming it wasn't already too late. Death can get through any barrier.
This sure wasn't how The Man should have taken his leave after opening the first game of the season for his nation's favorite pastime. It also wasn't how any other injured player would have been helped off the field after twisting his knee or something equally superficial. This was fast, urgent – desperate. Deadly force wrapped around frantically-wielded medical skill. But it possessed an element of triumph nonetheless. This most central of all players on the human stage had fought the good fight, he had suffered greatly for it, and he had emerged victorious.
Now – would he live to celebrate his victory?
Mere seconds later, additional stretchers and stretcher-bearers appeared to claim the other two wounded… and the trio of fatalities.
Both commentators observed a respectful silence. Those with TVs could see; those with radios didn't need a recap of words inadequate to describe this sad obligation, and the supreme sacrifice it showcased.
In a sign of similar deference, the cameras did not zoom in. Denied their presidential target, they withdrew to wider angles of the diamond, which no athletic cleat had marred this night… but which ripping bullets and dark red bloodstains had marred for the first time in the history of the sport.
The outfield, a far greater area, was both empty and pristine, as it had been all night. By that barrenness and that perfection it seemed to epitomize the contrast between the carnage of this evening and what should have been happening: an entirely different field of play, one of battle simulated and victory without bloodshed. Consider how important so many people view such a game to be… and then consider the war that was waged here instead – for the life of a man, and the stability of a nation.
Particularly discerning viewers might also have noticed one extra detail, more captivating than all the others: a tiny brown smudge left behind on the pitcher's mound. The President's abandoned baseball glove.
"That shot must've been only a glancing blow or something. He'd never have survived it otherwise."
"Scalp wounds always bleed a lot; they usually look worse than they are."
"Usually, huh? But how critical is it?"
"It's a gunshot wound – it's a hit to the head! It has to be critical."
"Still, so long as the skull is intact, then he's got a chance. If it isn't… no, I do not want to go there."
"Even a graze can mean serious trouble. Dear Lord, we could be talking about any degree of cerebral injury! The brain is so fragile…"
"Stop right there. We will not start slinging theories around. The President is in the hands of the doctors now. If he can be saved, he will be."
"Agreed. The all-important thing is, at the moment President Bartlet is still alive. But if only we knew he'd stay that way!"
A sense of unreality, a pause, settled over the park as these words echoed from the speakers and their meaning sank in. Also, more and more of them were picking up the grapevine of how common citizens brought down the last killer, how their own ranks had helped save them. They had caught the shooter; they had played a vital role in their President's salvation. They had metamorphosed from fellow victims into staunch defenders – not just cowering and helpless, leaving the work to others, but embracing the duty and the danger, joining together in strength to fight for truth – for life.
They were Americans, upholding their leader and their country… but even more important, they were fellow human beings.
In the end, the mob had lost.
And then there burst fourth the greatest cheering of all. It flooded out of lungs and hearts, overflowing the bleachers, the directionals and the wires. People cut loose with wild celebration, rejoicing in their President's incredible survival. He was still clinging to life – after they had all thought him to be dead several times over.
They rejoiced in their own deliverance as well. It was over; Bartlet's unopposed removal from the field corroborated that. No one would be shooting at the stands anymore. Self-preservation, spurred on by the most raking terror, naturally took precedence over everything else: preservation of their family members, their friends, and first and foremost themselves. Survival of the individual is the most compelling of instincts. Now each individual celebrated because personal survival, group survival and national survival was assured.
Sometimes that self-preserving instinct can give ground to the welfare of the many for the greater good. They had seen this today, seen it in the form of the man they had chosen as their leader. And where he had led, they had followed proudly.
Had the Baltimore Orioles won their home game that they never played on this Opening Day, Camden Yards could not have seen greater mayhem.
Harry and June pitched in with a will.
"Thank Heaven, there appear to be few casualties among the crowds themselves."
"And after that stampede, too! It could have been a real catastrophe."
"Amen. In fact, we're lucky not to have added to the body count ourselves! This is one neat hole through our window."
"And least everyone should be willing to slow down and leave in a more orderly fashion. That'll get them out faster anyway."
"Now if only someone would assure us that the President will be all right…"
"I swear I'm still in shock. To see him go through that horror… and now he still might not make it…"
"He has to make it. We've got to believe that."
C.J. and Toby sat on the sofa in his office, side by side, leaning into each other's shoulders. However, this quiet stillness was an illusion. Just as no words could have encompassed their earlier grief, neither could words adequately capture their current concern. They needed to prepare statements for the press on the entire affair, the President's condition, the fallen agents, the gunmen themselves… but all this could be put off for another few minutes. Now they waited for a phone call from their colleagues on that Baltimore trip. They waited to learn if their boss had in fact survived.
Margaret leaned forward in her seat, buried her face in her hands, and released her quiet sobs. Debbie stood nearby, brushing at her own damp eyes. They were overpoweringly glad for their boss, and for their own existence under his authority, and for the well-being of the country, and for the preservation of a shaky world peace that could yet lead to much more. The only shrieking question left was, whether he would live long to see that future himself.
Carol and her comrades milled about, laughing and crying. Their endless roller coaster ride had finally docked, leaving them with wobbly legs and aching heads, and quivering senses that would not be suppressed. Their boss hadn't been guaranteed a recovery yet by any means, but they as a group seemed to adopt a common conviction: refusing to believe that he wouldn't pull through. Surely a strong enough conviction would bring him home.
Will sat slowly back in his desk chair, releasing a very long sigh. He could not have felt more worn out if he'd just run a marathon; emotional extremes are more wearisome than muscular exertion any day. For a few moments he glanced around his office, pondering what it meant. He still didn't work for the President of the United States – and this time he blessed that fact with all his heart. And he hoped dearly that he wouldn't be working for the President tomorrow.
Josh wandered over to the door between him and the German hospital's operating room. For the first time this evening since that First Pitch, he turned his back on the TV. The President had gone through a horrible ordeal, but he possessed an incredible mental and spiritual strength that only his family and close friends had known before today. Now, at last, he was in the best of medical hands. He'd be all right. Donna still faced her own ordeal, every bit as painful and hard. She too was in competent medical hands – and she was a very strong person herself. She would endure as well.
The Secret Service did not quit the Residence; they'd very shortly be conducting the First Lady to a certain hospital ward. However, those who had entered the private sitting-room earlier now stepped out, granting its occupant some privacy. Abbey knelt on the floor, head upturned, eyes closed, hands folded, and silently poured out her soul in the deepest possible thanks for the One who had saved her love – and in petition that He would continue to preserve that love, that life. The emotional well-being of three daughters, the stability of a country and the prospects of world peace still hung in the balance as well… but no one could blame the wife of the President for just now thinking solely about one man.
June and Harry had subsided somewhat, finding their old rhythm again as sportscasters. There was still so much to share with so many…
"Wow. This has been an Opening Day to beat all others."
"We never even got to the game itself, which is certainly a first."
"I couldn't care less. I just want the President to be all right."
"We said at the start of all this that we wanted him to remember his evening with us… God, I sure didn't have this in mind!"
"None of us did. But so long as he recovers, then we can joke about it."
"Oh, I hope he will!"
"Greg, I know you've got the pitch on reel, but don't replay it now. Certainly not before we know for sure that the President's going to be okay. The First Family doesn't deserve that. Come to think of it, the rest of us don't either."
"As for the shooters, we haven't heard anything else on that angle. At least one was arrested; our cameras caught the whole thing. The other two must've been either caught or killed. I expect the White House will make a statement before long…"
"Well, I know I want to make a statement. Let's give credit where credit is due. Tonight President Bartlet was subjected to the most lethal enemy fire imaginable – and he showed the highest degree of courage and the noblest consideration for others' welfare that I have ever seen."
"That goes double for me, and I've covered war stories before. He passed through the furnace, and he never backed down. He put the nation's safety ahead of his own, every step of the way. This is what it means to be a leader."
"And right now our leader is on his way to the nearest hospital, where he will receive the expert treatment he so thoroughly deserves."
"He's got to live. After all he's been through…"
"I concur. For him to die now would be monumentally unfair."
"I have no doubt that the prayers of all of America go with him."
The executive motorcade careened through the city streets, exactly as predicted. Police cruisers and cycles flanked this privileged procession fore and aft, brushing all other traffic aside. The President was leaving Oriole Park the same way he had arrived: to a concert of flashing strobe lights and blaring sirens – but there the similarity ended. His current rate of speed, for safety reasons never less than "brisk," right now hovered closer to "breakneck." And for once, he didn't travel by armored limousine. Tonight the position of honor in the heavily-guarded center belonged not to a long black car, but to a boxy white ambulance.
Jed Bartlet revived slowly, much like a determined yet fatigued swimmer fighting a tumultuous current. Something inside refused to let him rest. Not yet. There were still things to do, things to know…
Information snippets settled into place, one puzzle piece at a time. His bed rocked, a constant and irregular motion that didn't do any favors for his spinning head or his battered ribs, and loud ringing sounds assaulted his ears. Fiery teeth attacked him from all sides. He tried to impose order on this chaos, to ride the surf of torment, to dredge some meaning from his befuddled memories.
Two people leaned over him. He blinked groggily…
"Hey." His right-hand man offered what was for him a broad smile.
Breathing remained a painful chore, speaking even worse. Bartlet's chin lifted a notch, silently asking a question. It could probably be translated as "What the hell?"
"Hold still, Mr. President," the other man advised before Leo could speak. This stranger wore mostly white, with an embroidered badge on his shirt that displayed a serpent twining around a pole. Any husband of a medical doctor would have seen that symbol often enough before: medical staff. Actually, any Chief Executive would as well; The Man had commented before on how often he was manhandled by physicians.
Hold still – in this bouncing cradle? Then again, both pain and exhaustion made even the thought of movement unendurable. His bullet-scorched spine yearned for relief from his own weight, but they clearly had to keep him face up and belted down. No alternative.
Ambulances are square vans of the broadest possible wheelbase, and absolutely crammed with equipment. The gurney had been inserted feet first, then locked down against the portside wall. Leo had wedged himself into a narrow gap between that gurney and the port rear door. Another man had secured an equally small space by the starboard rear door, his black business suit screaming "Secret Service." A second paramedic was assisting the first, positioned near the forward divider. Five men, one prostrate, plus shelves of medical supplies filled the interior to capacity: none of them had any room to fall over even if they'd wanted to.
It might be worth noting that this was not just any ambulance, and not just any random choice for attendants. The structural integrity of the vehicle went far beyond hospital regulations, and the medical personnel had to be cleared by the Service. This particular team, with its customized transportation, followed the President everywhere – always praying that they would not be needed.
There would have been no question of excluding all bodyguards, no matter how much of a premium was put on space, no matter how much manpower and firepower loomed right outside. This lone escort guarded the principal exit against even the remotest odds of a further assault. Leo would've been a slightly more dubious addition, his own rank and influence notwithstanding. However, the Secret Service knew that the President and his second-in-command were going to need each other – officially and personally. The only people around who could ensure that Bartlet and Leo would behave were Leo and Bartlet.
Leo was even earning his ticket by helping a bit; he held a thick gauze pad to the patient's crown. The agent did not pitch in; he always had to keep his hands free. The EMTs worked with choreographed precision: one on the blood pressure cuff, one applying a thick sterile dressing to the patient's right calf.
Had The Man possessed a better perspective than as the patient, he would have seen the blood matting his hair and the paleness of his face. He would have seen where two layers of right sleeve had been sliced away completely and where his blood-soaked right pant leg had been slit to the knee. He would have seen the halves of his already-ruined sports jacket hanging over the gurney's edge, cut apart since the safety strap impeded the zipper, and the similarly-dissected remains of his blue shirt, which was now open to the waist. He would have seen the Kevlar vest, discarded at last and kicked out of the way, its uppermost panel displaying a small, dark, hideous hole almost all the way through. He would have seen the angry red scrape from his cheekbone to his jawbone, and the savage purple bruise already flaring up not far south of his collarbone.
Sensation provided several clues: the last sections of cloth and the wide restraints that together bound his arms, air on exposed skin and raw skin, the firm wrapping on his leg wound, the all-too-familiar squeezing cuff on his bicep, the sudden cold contact of a stethoscope to his bare chest, the deep-set burning in his upper rib cage, the even deeper ache across his back – not aided by lying on it – the constant effort just to breathe…
His perspective did pay off in other ways: he suddenly noticed the red-brown stain across Leo's shoulder. It could not have been caused by anything else.
Anguish and weariness gave ground to fear, such a fear that no amount of pain could stifle. "Leo –"
His old comrade placed a calming hand on his shoulder, preempting further concern and any additional effort that concern would be sure to generate. "It's okay. I'm fine. You just gave an involuntary blood donation."
These two had been friends for decades. They could almost read each other other's mind at times. They knew when humor would work fastest to diffuse worry or frustration.
The fact that it was his own blood did not bother Bartlet much at all. At least it wasn't anyone else's. He subsided with a long exhalation, his relief so great that it sponsored a small surge of strength. Typically, he couldn't resist a wisecrack. "Gonna charge me… for the cleaning costs… know it…"
"You bet I will. Especially after the scare you gave us." Leo turned an inquiring eye towards the EMTs.
"BP is dropping," one reported. "It was most likely sky-high earlier, but by now the stress is wearing off and the blood loss is taking hold."
"Lungs are clear," his partner added. "But there's some severe rib trauma."
"Coulda… told you that…" the President wheezed. He tried to watch as they started preparing some kind of intravenous drip, probably the initial guard against shock, but straining his peripheral vision wasn't worth the effort.
"Anytime you fellas want to… you know, fill in the blanks… that's fine with me…"
Leo well knew The Man's thirst for information at all times in all things; a vague reassurance would consume more energy than a full explanation. "Contrary to the most pessimistic predictions, you dodged the bullet after all. This –" he nodded at the scarlet-stained pad he held in place "– was caused by a hunk of flying rock. The last round that just barely missed you chipped it right out from the concrete wall. It must've had a jagged edge, and it must've been moving almighty fast, but you should get by with nothing worse than a bunch of stitches."
"Scalp wounds are always messy," one of the attendants contributed. "But better the stone than the bullet any day. There's far less force, and therefore less chance of a concussion – especially with the complications of the MS."
Bartlet's eyes snapped his way, startled. That had never crossed his mind.
"Take it easy, sir. We can't tell yet, but it may not be an actual concern tonight. In either event, you have nothing to worry about. Everything's under control."
"Sure… nothing to worry about at all… You haven't met my wife." He watched unhappily as the IV needle slid into his vein. But whether from weariness or resignation or even denial, he chose not to comment further. What could it matter now?
Leo leaped for a diversion. "You're the only guy I know who could wheedle a fourth strike out of the game." He was rewarded by a short half-chuckle.
Then his friend shifted gears. Recollection was realigning itself. "Ron?"
"Following us in another ambulance. He'll need a transfusion or two, but he's going to be all right. Knowing him, he's more worried about you." Leo hiked a sardonic eyebrow; sometimes cold facts can be quite amusing. "And pissed off at you."
The President grunted. "Business as usual." That was good news. If Ron had not been well enough to get mad at him… Normally the senior agent would have been nowhere else but here, but he needed his own first aid just now. The Service had wisely sent a bodyguard who could actually stand. Besides, this ambulance was reserved for The Man alone. Local paramedics had hustled to the ballpark within the first few minutes; they'd see to everyone else.
"Others?"
"The second agent's chances are at least fifty-fifty. They're taking him to a different hospital so there won't be any delay over his surgery."
Bartlet weakly nodded his agreement with this precaution. His eyes drifted around the cramped cabin, much the same way his brain was wandering through a maze of facts; he couldn't decide where to go next.
Leo caught the distinct flare of grief in those blue eyes and anticipated the next one, very softly. "Three agents dead."
The President exhaled slowly. He'd already known that, of course, but somehow needed to have the ugly truth confirmed, as though only then would he be free to mourn.
"But the last I heard, there were no serious injuries in the crowd. Of course, we won't hear anything definite for awhile…"
"There had better be… no other injuries on my account." As though anyone could possibly blame him. Besides himself, that is.
He glanced about a bit more, looking for comfort… for an explanation of something else that didn't feel right. Then it came to him. "Charlie?"
"In the car right behind us, and safe. We had some trouble convincing him that he couldn't fit in here." Leo flickered another grin.
So did his boss. "I… like it cozy." Another pause, another grindingly slow evaluation of priorities. "National –?"
"Security is uncompromised, as far as we can tell. Three shooters were involved; two have been arrested, one killed. We don't know yet what their affiliation is, but that'll come."
Leo chose not to mention the potential upset brewing over the proposed peace summit, of which his leader still knew nothing. It made for a quandary, though. Would tonight's events help the initiative, or hinder it? Would it bolter others' desire to destroy all forms of terrorism? Would it generate sympathy and cooperation for the man who had passed through such a trial? Or would it convince everyone that the only alternative was to fight violence with violence?
Leo was a professional worrier. His job demanded it anyway. However, he had something even more critical to dwell on just now. There would be time enough later for seeking common ground between enemies, for hammering peace out of war. The President would have to heal almost completely before he could hope to tackle that tiger. Events and nations would wait for him. At least he was still around to play a living role rather than a posthumous one.
The ambulance took a sharp corner at a fast clip, exhibiting the evenness of a highly skilled driver – and the irresistible pull of centrifugal forces. The four men upright all swayed like dominoes, leaning into any object that would steady them.
Bartlet's head rolled a bit from side to side at this vehicular movement, despite the gentle touch against his skull. As though something inside had been rattled loose in consequence, his immensely tired mind made another right turn. "Say… how many eons of the world have passed… since I walked out there?"
Leo fell right in with the mood. "I'm not sure. Somewhere back in the same ice age when we were shouting at each other."
They shared a very private look, these two old friends.
The President breathed out cautiously, unable to prevent a wince. "Remember what you said earlier…?"
"What? And when?" It was hard to believe that they had arrived at Camden Yards so few revolutions of a minute hand ago.
"Gun-shy."
The Chief of Staff looked aside in embarrassment. "Oh, forget I said anything."
"No." Bartlet struggled to get his words around the awful illusion of a compressed thorax. They were important to the healing… and to the truth. "You're right."
He sounded like he believed it. If he hadn't been worried previously about using force, when the weapons and the targets were abstract pieces on an international chess board, no one in the world could fault him for being so now. To unleash a punishment anything like what he had undergone this evening, to extract the same price from other human beings that he had just paid out of his own hide… for any reason…
How could any sane individual even witness the events in Baltimore tonight and not desire peace above all else?
"Hell with that." Leo actually snorted. "You just proved me wrong. Me and the rest of the world."
Truly, sometimes it requires more courage to refuse the fight, to resist the allure of force and vengeance, to see beyond the generalizations. And when you serve at the highest level of government, generalizations are often the only viewpoint you get. Policy, formulae, strategy… each is vital to the running of a nation, and each can prevent even the most compassionate soul from really seeing the individual element.
Until one goes through a personal crisis like this.
The President didn't make a sound for several seconds, while the ambulance sped rapidly along and the paramedics concentrated on their first aid and the lone agent pretended to be invisible. His mobile features still betrayed a lingering concern over that volatile exchange in the tunnel before he had walked away. He and his Chief of Staff had frequently disagreed on politics before, but never so ferociously. It had cut them both to the core.
From all appearances, Leo had clean forgotten how annoyed he had been with this man; he could only think of what he'd come so close to losing: his leader and his friend. And that after they had parted in anger. Some things really are not important in the end – but a friend is never one of them. Even if he was the President of the United States.
He had always been by far the less demonstrative of the two. Now he scrambled for some way to express what he desperately needed to say.
"Remember the last time we saw a movie like this?" That had been in a D.C. ER right after Rosslyn. He waited until the uncertain eye-rolling switched to a perplexed nod. "You told me then that everything was going to be okay."
Even a floaty brain could never forget such a precious moment.
Leo managed to look serious and impish at the same time. "Now I'm telling you the same thing."
It made for a touching apology, from the man who felt that he was more at fault.
Bartlet read all of this in the craggy visage bent over him, and his own abraded face smoothed out into a genuine smile as well.
Thus did The Man yield up the last of his apprehension, no longer prodded by either official duty or private regret. The nation was safe, and his relationship with his right-hand man was right again. He was free to rest.
With that knowledge, his wobbly mind wanted to know only one more thing.
"Did I… make it across the plate?"
W.H.A.C.L.O.B., November 2004.
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