Bounds of Freedom

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

Chapter Six – I Wasn't Supposed to Take Them Both?

POV: Jed

Spoilers: "Five Votes Down;" "HSFTTT"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I did not create The West Wing characters (as if anyone though I did). I just like to have fun with them (some more than others).

Air Force One

11:45 p.m., Wednesday

Beijing Time

"So, Mister President, you are enjoying the treasures of our beautiful country?"

Jed Bartlet stifled a grimace as he turned on the bottom step of Air Force One to glance back at his host. The non sequitur should not have surprised him. Nothing they had discussed so far seemed even remotely connected to anything substantial, and it was frustrating the hell out of him. Nor did the persistent throbbing in his back improve his attitude. But he forced a pleasant, if brief smile for the Chinese leader and for the ubiquitous cameras that recorded their every move, even long after the scheduled departure time.

"Certainly, Mister President," he returned, speaking loudly over the powerful engines. Then he couldn't resist a pointed dig. "Of course, I believe your greatest treasure is your people, sir. A treasure I hope you want to preserve."

If his counterpart took offense to that, he didn't show it in his face. In fact, he hadn't shown much of any emotion one way or the other the past two days. The American President had even resorted to baiting him with comments about free trade, capitalism, elections. Polite but vague, Hu Jintao had merely nodded and refused to follow the lead.

This time was no different. "A nation's people are always its greatest asset. I am sure you consider that for your country, as well," came the diplomatic answer.

Bartlet sighed and nodded. He had already decided that afternoon that he might as well enjoy his visit to China as a tourist because there sure as hell wasn't going to be anything else productive about it. Hu Jintao had been tight-lipped and tight-assed about even broaching the subject of human rights or opening up to capitalism.

Oh, things had progressed pleasantly enough on the surface. Courtesy was paramount, the culture of the ancient country laid out for the visitors in elaborate presentations. But the meat of the trip—the talks – languished in the stubborn refusal of Hu Jintao to address the matters Bartlet felt crucial. Finally, despite his suspicion that this was his last chance to do something truly world-changing, he surrendered to the realization that he had failed to ignite that spark of freedom in the communist land.

The impetus for the trip seemed to be lost. So – they'd see a few more ruins, take in a few cute children dancing or twirling pastel ribbons, and smile graciously before heading back to their decadent West. With a heavy, but resolved heart, he accepted that his dream of bringing democracy to China had apparently been just that – a dream. So much for the Bartlet Legacy. He should regret it, but at the moment, as he climbed the steps into the welcome familiarity of Air Force One, his back hurt too damned much to think about it.

"Is your wife not joining us for the trip to Xian?" he asked. It was probably a bit of a low blow, but his self-chastisement came too late to take back the question. The Chinese First Lady had been so obviously overshadowed by Abbey that she simply faded into the background. No one even seemed to notice that she did not attend the morning functions. The official word was that she had developed a case of the flu.

"She is still ill." The answer was curt. Apparently, he had struck a nerve.

The President struggled not to brace a hand against his tender muscles as they climbed the steep steps. "I'm sorry to hear that. You know, Abbey's always after me to take that natural stuff – e coli or something like that. Says it helps prevent the flu."

Hu nodded solemnly. "I understand why she would be concerned, considering your condition."

It was said simply, with no apparent message, but the words cut a red slash of anger through him. With no small effort, he fought the urge to tell the man exactly what he thought of this whole damned wasted trip to try to save his miserable, misguided country.

He managed, narrowly, trusting only a nod to be his response, as they finally reached the top and ducked inside the fuselage. The ache in his back prodded him to straighten slowly. Too little sleep and too many wasted hours sitting at a negotiation table had stiffened his muscles. One bright thought caressed his mind as he looked back down the steps to the lighted tarmac and saw his wife and the Chinese doctor – Chang? Chin? –who had guided her at the hospital that day begin their ascent. How he could talk her into a back rub later without revealing the true reason for its need?

She had already been onto him about a much worse possibility the night before during the opera, as much as he tried to mask it. She had known him too long, had seen the symptoms too many times. He told himself it was just fatigue, just the expected results of getting too little sleep accompanied by too much stress. But the depressingly familiar wave of dizziness that had swept over him fit right into the identification slots he so desperately wanted to ignore. Blessedly, however, the harbingers of that evening had not brought about a morning crisis, and he counted himself more than lucky that he had only the aggravating back to deal with – if he didn't count the aggravating Chinese President.

Add to that his growing intolerance of the Chinese attitude toward women, and he was just about ready to count the trip as a total bust, terra cotta warriors not withstanding. Strangely enough, Abbey had been almost passive about it, smiling at the constant expectation that she should walk behind him, nodding deferentially at the minor Party men who certainly were ten times less competent that she was. Only the doctor who had escorted her through the hospital seemed to treat her as a colleague. But he knew her well enough to expect the pressure cooker of her ire to blow once they were alone. Not that he couldn't benefit from that. In fact, by playing his cards right and simply listening to her tirade, as he would have anyway, he almost certainly assured himself of being the beneficiary of her need to let off the steam. And damn, if she wasn't sexy in her moments of righteous indignation.

"Good evening, Mister President," Toby greeted just inside the plane, hand behind his back. "And you, Mister President," he added for Hu Jintao.

Ah, a friendly face – or at least as friendly as Toby could get. "Toby, I don't think I've seen you since our visit to the tombs this morning. How'd you like the terra cotta warriors?" Jed asked, eager for the distraction.

"They were very interesting, sir."

"Interesting!" he bellowed in his best indignant tone. "You have no appreciation of value, my man."

"No, sir," Toby agreed amicably, falling in line behind his boss and the silent Chinese leader.

"I mean, we are headed to Xian tonight. Do you know anything about it? Have you done your homework?" Professor Bartlet quizzed.

"I would say, sir," Toby offered, mouth twitching slightly, "that my dog ate it, but here it might be more that someone ate my dog."

Hu Jintao started at that, and Jed almost slapped Toby on the back just for finally getting a reaction out of the guy.

Passing over the possible international incident that his Chief of Communications could have caused, the President waved a hand in the air and launched into a description of the city. "Xian, ancient capital for eleven centuries, gateway to the Silk Road – "

"Can't wait, Mister President," Toby assured him. "I would, of course, be distraught if you didn't choose to regale me with much more useless trivia for the entirety of our flight."

"Ah – there, see – you were doing so well, too. Okay everybody," he announced to those within earshot. "Toby's with me all day tomorrow." Enthusiastic applause greeted the news, most loudly from those victims who had been spared another day by the speechwriter's sacrifice.

The younger man actually flinched.

"Don't worry, Toby," said a familiarly warm voice from the doorway. "It'll be over before you know it. At least you won't need Dramamine for the flight."

Abigail Bartlet accepted her husband's extended hands and stood in the narrow hallway with him, lifting her lips to his for a brief, but affectionate, kiss as she brushed a non-existent piece of lint from his lapel.

For the past two days, his natural tendency to touch his wife had been squelched by the memory of C.J.'s awkward reminder before the trip that the Chinese frowned on public displays of affection. Still, he had slipped on a few occasions, especially as they climbed the ancient steps of the Imperial Palace in the Forbidden City. The splendor and romance of the moment struck him and they had ended up ascending the stairs hand-in-hand for the cameras of the world to witness. Of course, he figured the folks back home barely blinked at this. They had been treated over the past six years to much racier moments, including frequent kisses, some of which displayed enough heat to draw a blush to their observers' faces.

He hung onto her, even as she pulled back, but couldn't quite keep from wincing at the movement. Damn. Immediately, he wiped the discomfort from his face before she could see. He didn't dare let on because he was fairly confident that this flare up was not only caused by hours of sitting at a negotiation table, but also one particular hour sitting – in a manner, anyway – in his office chair on Air Force One with his wife astride him. And even with the pain that encounter had given him, he certainly did not want to forfeit the opportunity to try it again, perhaps on the way back home. No, he couldn't let Abbey see –

"I'll rub it later," she whispered at his ear.

Okay, so much for that. Now he realized by the fire in her eyes that his strategy had been completely wrong. Relieved, he grinned and bounced his eyebrows.

"Your back, Mister Decadence," she chided with a knowing nod toward that part of his body. That had been for his ears only, but he saw the startled glare from Hu Jintao and figured it was just as well they had not been successful in their talks. Abbey's delicious "immorality" might have undone the whole thing.

"Mister President." Leo stepped from the back of the plane, and Toby took advantage of the distraction to make his escape, but he wasn't quite fast enough.

"Homework, Toby!" the President called to the retreating back.

"Dog!" the speechwriter quipped over his shoulder.

With another soft kiss, Abbey said, "I promised Vogue a quote." She squeezed his hands and stepped away. "But I'll be back."

"Don't forget you promised to rub it," he reminded, a little too loudly, judging from the quick head turns their way.

"Mister President!" Leo chided. Abbey's throaty laughter echoed down the hallway.

"My back, Leo – " Ah, hell. He hadn't meant to let that little tidbit out. Sure enough, the mother hen instinct kicked in immediately.

"Do you need – "

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Nothing a couple of Vicoden and some Percoset wouldn't cure."

The frown hit Leo's forehead instantly. "Sir – "

"I'm kidding, Leo, for Pete's sake. People do that sometimes, you know? Besides, Abbey's promised a back rub later. That's better than drugs any day." And maybe she'd deliver more, he hoped, bad back or not.

The eye roll was patented McGarry. "I've got to entertain – someone," he said, glancing warily at the Chinese President. They both knew what he meant. Leo's job for the plane trip to Xian was to keep Hu Jintao's loyal Party advisors away so that the two Presidents might be able to talk one-on-one. It was really their only chance of breaking through the solid shell of communist brainwashing. "Oh, Ron says he's good to go when you're ready."

"Excellent. I'll just – " He paused and saw that Hu had stepped into the Presidential Suite already. Lowering his voice, he continued, "I'll just hang out with Mister Fun Guy over there. Take your time."

A not-smile curved Leo's lips as he left. "Yes, sir."

With one more fond look at his oldest friend, the President stepped into his office and met the unnervingly unwavering gaze of his counterpart. Suddenly alone, the two men stared at each other for a good ten seconds before someone decided to make the first attempt at verbal communication.

"Mister President," Jed began, gesturing at one of the seats. "We'll be taking off in just a minute. If you would secure yourself."

Hu nodded and bent so stiffly it looked as if he were worried about creasing his trousers. Bartlet took the other seat and belted in. As smooth as Air Force One was, it was still an airplane and take-offs were one of the most dangerous times.

A moment or two later, Hu Jintao's two bodyguards entered the cabin, followed by Frank Santos, the man chosen to accompany the U.S. President on this trip. Not that he didn't have dozens of agents covering his every move – an irritation he had grown to accept as part of the burden of the office – but Santos was supposed to stick with him constantly. The stone-faced young man cut his dark eyes about quickly and nodded at his boss.

"Clear for takeoff, sir," he reported. The Chinese guards apparently related the same message to their leader in their native language. All three of the newcomers sat. The President noted that their hands remained completely free and poised to whip out the hidden weapons at any moment. He wasn't sure if that was encouraging or not.

Two more days, he told himself. Two more days either to tolerate or to win. Once again, as his back enjoyed the support from the custom chair, he considered the possibility that he could still salvage the moment. Maybe just a beginning. Maybe just a toe-hold of free trade in the country. Something. Despite his momentary surrender, he knew he could never completely accept the fact that nothing had been gained from all their trouble.

Turning to the Chinese president, he started to broach another proposal for negotiations, but the words never reached his lips.

At one time in his life, Jed Bartlet might have been hard pressed to identify the sound of gunfire within seconds of hearing it, but not anymore. The nightmare of Rosslyn would accompany him forever, as would the memory of those hard, sharp bursts that almost took two lives, one of them his own. No, he would never mistake that sound for anything else.

And now, as the muffled pops hit somewhere below them, his heart slammed against his chest with the horrible kick of awareness. Shots. In the plane somewhere. Not too close, but definitely inside. What the hell was going on? He glanced over at Hu Jintao, hoping for some indication of calm. Maybe it was a demonstration, or a send off. But of course he knew that wasn't it – couldn't be it.

The dark-clad agents, American and Chinese, fell instantly to their protective stand, guns drawn in one hand, the other pressed to the earpieces for any information. Their charges were the most important people on the plane – the most important people on the planet. Bartlet took in a measured breath, forcing his shoulders down, his jaw shut. Let them work. Let them do their jobs.

Santos had just turned to look at the others when one swirled from his position facing the door to fire two instant shots into the American's forehead. The body lurched backwards, crashing against the wall and sliding down along with smeared splatters of blood and brain.

"Oh my God!"

The man was dead, right there at his feet. Dead by the hands of men supposedly there to protect his fellow world leader – and, in a way, him, as well. He couldn't stop the words, couldn't control his heartbeat anymore.

"What are you – what have you done?"

The agent turned calmly and gestured for the two presidents to back away. The other agent reached under his coat and pulled out a short rifle, holding it on them. Jed swallowed, heart aching for the man who had sworn his life – and now given it – for his protection. Hu Jintao stared, eyes wide, mouth hanging.

Suddenly, their door swung open, giving way to the frantic fists of Charlie Young, who burst inside. "Mister President!" he called. "Are you – "

One gun shifted from his boss to rest on the young bodyman, who stumbled to a halt at the sight.

"Shit."

Bartlet thought it a succinct and appropriate response.

Now the agent prompted them all to back against the bulkhead. Jed glanced toward Charlie, jerking his head for the young man to follow them, to do as he was told, but even as he did, he saw the next move in the dark eyes. Damn it!

It was an instinct to protect, to defend his boss – his father. With a low growl, Charlie leaped forward toward the agent, fists clenched, jaw hard.

The reaction on the President's part was, of course, in hindsight, ill-advised, but at the moment, Jed Bartlet acted purely by impulse, his own sense of protection and love for a young man who was like a son taking over. Fortunately or unfortunately, he was successful, throwing his body between the agent and his impulsive protector, but his lunge was a little too slow to catch a trained bodyguard, and the hard butt of the rifle caught him square in the ribs and drove him to the floor.

"No!" Charlie's hoarse scream echoed through the cabin, but the man he was trying to save – who had now saved him – barely heard it.

Pain exploded across his chest and around his side as he crashed under the legs of the office desk, his head taking out the left support, unable even to lift up an arm to deflect the top that crashed down on his shoulder. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel anything but the white hot agony that burned his body and mind.

But he had to breathe, had to think, had to feel. He had to do something before this disaster took them all. Stay awake, he ordered himself. Get up! Get up! He had to stop them.

It wasn't enough, though. Even his own formidable stubbornness couldn't stand up to the physical trauma. The black tunnel rushed in on him from the sides, narrowing his vision to a small point until, even with eyes wide open, he saw nothing but darkness.

Ignoring any artificially bestowed power, his own body had refused to follow the commands of the President of the United States.