This chapter is mostly exposition. Hope that doesn't bore you, but I had to establish some background information for the situation.

Thanks for the feedback. It prods me into getting the writing done when I should be doing real work!

Bounds of Freedom

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

Chapter Five – If Only

POV: Chen Wenyuan

Spoilers: None

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Only Chen Wenyuan is my own creation (duh).

Air Force One

11:50 p.m., Wednesday

Beijing Time

He still couldn't believe she was gone. Even after witnessing the day-by-day deterioration, even after feeling the brittle bones as he clasped her hand, even after hearing the rasping struggle for breath. Even after all that, he couldn't believe she was gone. He had groped for reason, for purpose. Fruitlessly, but persistently, he had reworked every step he had taken, every move toward treatment.

If only he had done this – if only he had used that –

But the bottom line was always the same. The only "if" that would have made any difference: If only he had lived in America.

He had no doubt his daughter would live still if he resided and practiced in that mystical country. Oh, he had tried for years to bring reform to his country through his profession. He had made a name for himself as one of the top physicians in Beijing – and of course one of the top Party men. What good had it brought him?

A Japanese car. A home with two bathrooms. A dead daughter.

And she was his only child, as decreed by the State. Population control. A national mandate. And being the good Party man, he abided by it. Not that he had much choice. The second child's fate was sealed at conception. If the mother did not abort before delivery, the obstetrician followed strict orders to take care of things before the head emerged from the birth canal. A technicality, but in China, a significant one.

And so he was left with nothing, not even a wife, who could not deal with the pain and took matters into her own hands by opening her wrists with a freshly-sharpened kitchen knife. Tragic, they said. A terrible blow.

But he was a good Party man. He would deal with it.

And so he had, waiting for his chance, tolerating the growing incompetence of the party-run governing board of the hospital, remaining silent about the deaths of abused workers, the disappearance of dissidents, the mutilation of infants whose parents had violated the one-child policy.

But not anymore. At 7:53 a.m., Tuesday, his opportunity had arrived on a magnificent gleaming airplane that proudly proclaimed itself to be the property of "The United States of America."

He knew he would be chosen. There was no one even close who could represent the medical profession in the PRC as well as Doctor Chen Wenyuan. His loyalty, his patience, his silence had finally paid off. When they called from the President's staff, he accepted with appropriate humility and surprise, but in truth he had been planning his actions since the trip was announced – even before, if he counted the broader plan.

Even after the years of preparation, altered with the serendipity of the American president's presence, he almost couldn't believe it was finally time. He hoped they could pull it off peacefully. As a physician he was committed never to harm, and he especially didn't want to see any come to this American woman who had surprised him with her compassion and graciousness, and – he had to admit – intelligence, even if she was female.

No, if he could complete this mission as planned, he would not only bring about the rescue of himself and his colleagues, but hopefully also the 1.2 billion countrymen who slaved under the State regime. The only way to do that was to reveal to the world how twenty percent of its population lived – and if his life was forfeit in the pursuit, so be it.

But he held out hope for reason. The President seemed, after all, to be a fair and intelligent man himself – for a Westerner. Surely he would see the logic. Americans were sentimental and pliable when it came to their abstract freedom. They claimed they wished it for all mankind. Here was their chance to grant it to someone without a coup or invasion. Surely the leader of their free nation could not refuse such an opportunity.

And surely Hu Jintao himself would have to concede the depth of crisis in his own country when confronted so dramatically and so globally.

Chen sucked in a deep breath to steady himself as they ascended the portable steps toward the distinctive aircraft. The required searches had been done – with such subtlety that he had not initially been aware of them at all. But the President's bodyguards were thorough, nevertheless. He had nothing to fear in that regard. The weapons they needed had come on board with the full knowledge of the Americans. Ironic.

It was supposed to be a quick hop from Beijing to Xian, in the Shaanxi Province, for the Doctor First Lady to visit another hospital. Only Chen and his entourage knew they would not make it.

He tried to remain appropriately in the background for the moment. It occurred to him that he might have approached Dr. Bartlet privately before, presented a plea to her sensibilities as a physician in a moment alone. Perhaps they wouldn't have needed to delve any deeper into the plan than that. But the plan was laid already. He would have to take fate's hand as it was dealt to him.

"We can visit in the front suite," Bartlet was saying amicably to Hu Jintao as they entered the sleek nose.

The Chinese President nodded stiffly. No one had dared say so, but Chen suspected the shorter, blander leader chaffed at being so completely overshadowed by the energetic and stylist Westerner. Bartlet's easy charisma had won over the American-curious Chinese people before the first day was finished and they had come out in droves this morning and throughout the day for a glimpse of the gregarious President and his wife. They didn't know quite what to make of Abbey Bartlet, but they found her fascinating.

Once inside the plane, Chen worked to keep the awe from his expression. The sheer size of the thing was enough to take his words, but the custom layout was the most impressive. They used the main entrance, guided immediately to the right as they boarded, separating from the President's party. He knew from his careful research that the Bartlet's personal quarters lay at the nose of the plane to their left. Had he been invited there, he would have found a bedroom, bathroom, and office that made up the Presidential Suite. In the same area, they had outfitted a medical room. Perhaps he could swing a visit there, possibly enabling himself to have close and private access to the First Lady – maybe even the President himself. But there was probably little time for that.

He noted through the small window that one of his accomplices boarded at the service entrance on the lower third level, leading directly into the cargo and equipment hold. It would be easier to establish control from there, they felt, giving them the advantage of surprise. The others entered as expected of the security agents for the Chinese President. Chen made a concentrated effort not too look at them too long in case he should reveal some suspicious expression to the American agents, then laughed at his paranoia. If they suspected anything, he would have been face down on the airport runway by now.

He walked past the galley down the narrow hallway beside the main conference room. The rear seating, he knew, was set aside for the selected members of the Western press. Their presence presented both a problem and an opportunity. They would need to be controlled, but they could also broadcast his mission quickly to the rest of the world.

A warm laugh drew his attention back down the hallway, and he turned to see Abigail Bartlet sharing a moment with her husband. Their hands were clasped loosely as they stood outside the galley. Hu Jintao was not visible, perhaps having gone ahead to the mentioned suite. The First Lady took the familiar liberty of brushing something from the President's lapel as he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. Chen suppressed the sting that knifed through him with the personal memory of such a connection, and for a brief moment he stumbled back from the determination that drove him. But just for a moment. He wondered if that might be the last time they would share a touch. It would be a shame, indeed, to threaten the love between the First Couple – and he didn't really intend for anything to happen to them, in the long run, but such risks were certainly present. If they only cooperated, he told himself, things would be fine.

His disturbing softness toward them had begun that morning as he walked with Dr. Bartlet through the corridors of the Shiingshan Hospital, watched the compassion on her fine features, listened to the warmth in her voice as she spoke with patients. He had not expected that, for some reason. Maybe it was because she was a woman, or a westerner, or both. Maybe it was because he had not wanted to put a human face on something he had only thought of previously as a tool – even as a victim.

But once she curled up in the bed with the young girl whose illness was so much like his own daughter's, he warred with the conflicting emotions.

And he saw another side as she spoke of her husband's glee and fascination with the terra cotta warriors he had visited earlier in the day. The way her eyes lit up when she mentioned his name, the way her dimples danced as she talked about his near-obsession with the trivial points – teasing, but loving at the same time.

His government considered these westerners decadent, but Chen could see no fault in the blatant evidence of so strong a love as this woman had for her husband. It was an uncomfortable realization that didn't balance with his life-formed views of Americans.

Yet, somehow, he had always suspected it was so. How could such a country not only survive, but flourish, with greed and lust as its base? No, there was something more here, something inviting, something – noble, even.

And that was what he must reach, what he must touch, what he must win in order to succeed in his mission. They would respond. They had to respond. His purpose was humanitarian; they had to see that. Noble, even, he kept telling himself. But he wasn't quite as secure about the motives of his comrades. Their roles had begun long before, when the original plan involved only Hu Jintao, and he suspected their true basis involved an unethical subversion of power. Indeed, wasn't that what he wanted from them, though – their power, both man and fire?

But could he rein them in? Could he count on them to give his way a chance? He had gotten them their positions, using his own long-standing loyalty as influence. They owed him at least a little time.

He glanced back at the empty hallway and wondered if it was too late to turn things back. How simple it would be just to go on to Xian, show Dr. Abigail Bartlet the medical facilities there, and enjoy his well-earned place of honor in his home country for the rest of his life.

But then he thought of her. Of the years she would never have, of the laughter he would never hear, of the smiles he would never see. He thought of her and the determination returned in force.

It was too late now, anyway. Probably the agents below had already begun their move toward –

In all of his years as a doctor, Chen had been witness to the results of violence, but never to the act itself as it happened. Because of that, for a moment, he didn't realize that the muffled cracks he heard were gunshots.

But as soon as his brain logged the source, he cursed and lunged toward the nose of the plane. He had to get to Bartlet before his accomplices did.

Yes, it was too late now.