Bounds of Freedom
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Seven – The Oath
POV: Abbey
Spoilers: "ITSOTG;" "War Crimes;" "Manchester II;" "25"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: TWW characters are not my creation. Some of the Chinese characters are.
Air Force One
11:55 p.m., Wednesday
Beijing Time
"So what you're saying, Doctor Bartlet, is that the Chinese have a long way to go before they even come close to Western medical technology."
Abigail Bartlet smiled disarmingly, savvy to the reporter's calculated use of her medical title that so many had forgotten or ignored, but still having to force herself not to give into her own slice of satisfaction at hearing her name that way again.
They sat in the workroom just in front of the press section, belted in anticipation of the imminent take off. No use wasting time when she could be finished with this by the time they reached their cruising altitude.
"No, Candace," she replied smoothly, "I'm not saying that at all. I'm saying that this country's medical professionals have made great strides in the past twenty years and I feel certain that they will continue to improve the care and treatment for everyone."
In fact, she had been moderately surprised at the level of technology she had seen. But she knew, of course, that Chen Wenyuan had shown her only the best, the latest, the capstone of their offerings. And why not? Still, she also knew more than a little of the widespread lack of medical care, especially for those who subsisted on the meager fare of the rural areas.
Even her host doctor himself seemed a little hesitant when describing their accomplishments, as if he knew her comparison would bring them up short. He had been cordial, certainly, even solicitous, which she found to be all too rare a reaction from the dominant Chinese males. He had surprised her in the pediatric ward as she read to the young cancer patient, asking about Zoey and expressing both his sympathy about their kidnapping ordeal and his relief in the results. The pain that flickered in his dark eyes intrigued her, and suggested a personal tragedy in his past. But they had been too rushed and too crowded for her to ask anything in depth. Whatever it was had not diminished his skills, at least, she decided, after observing several near-miracles he had performed, despite the technological and political limitations under which he worked.
"Doctor Bartlet, according to unnamed sources – "
The reporter's question brought her back to the moment and a red flush of anger colored her face. Unnamed sources – how she hated that phrase. According to tweaky little ill-informed chicken-ass wannabe –
" – that the Chinese population control has gone beyond just pre-conception techniques. Have you seen evidence of the stories that second children or female infants are aborted late term or even destroyed during birth?
How the hell had she gotten into this? Didn't the reporter comprehend that she worked for Vogue? Abbey had been expecting questions on what dress she would wear at the reception their last night in China, not national politics – and controversial politics at that.
Yes, she had heard the stories. No, of course no one had ushered her through a delivery room where anything like that was taking place. It enraged her to think that fellow physicians, whose oath was never to do harm, would actually cause death. But she also understood the delicateness of their situation, especially now, even though Jed had confided in her his feeling that the trip had been a failure. She still held faith in his ability to create something good from their apparent stalemate. Because of that – and despite her instinct to rip a government that couldn't see the benefits and sheer moral responsibility of putting more into healthcare than guns – she had to choose her words carefully, not always an easy task for the straight-spoken First Lady.
"Obviously, the Chinese people have had to deal with a difficult situation – how to slow an overpopulation that could lead to starvation and poverty with its mass. But there are other ways to do that. The United States doesn't and never will condone – " Should she say 'tolerate?' No, too much 'big stick.' " – the destruction of innocent lives."
The blonde head tilted just a tad. "By other ways, are you talking about contraception?"
Despite her strong Catholic faith, Abbey had always played a little loose with the birth control doctrine – just like she pretty much ignored the Ephesians teaching of submission of wives to husbands. And as much as he enjoyed bantering with her on the subjects, Jed was in full agreement. The contraception issue was more of a practical matter. She figured if they hadn't, as much as she and Jed liked to – well, there would most certainly be dozens of little Bartlets running around.
"Possibly," she answered, and took a breath in anticipation of trying to pull the conversation back to more Vogue-appropriate topics – like her hair style, perhaps.
But any concern over a misspoken quote vanished with the sudden commotion down the hall. The quick pops startled her, then terrified her when her brain identified them.
"Jed!" It was her first thought. Dear God, not again!
She had not been at Rosslyn, had not heard the shots fired in person, had not seen the blood that slowly soaked his crisp blue shirt. But she had heard the pain in his voice at the hospital, had seen the CT scan of the bullet's path, had kissed the scars on his abdomen and back that he would carry for the rest of his life. She knew the results of the act. Please don't let it happen again, she prayed, turning toward the nose of the plane. Please!
She had only gained a couple of strides forward before two of Hu Jintao's agents burst into the workroom, brandishing their weapons and barking out orders in broken English.
"Stand back! Not move!"
The ephemeral relief that caught in her throat melted into hot panic as she saw the weapons leveled not at any would-be assailant, but directly at her.
One guard, slighter than the other, with small pock marks across his cheeks, waved off the bewildered reports who had been making their way to their seats for take off. At the appearance of a cell phone in one unfortunate pressman's hand, the guard yelled out and let loose several shots straight into his chest. Her medical mind instantly assessed the damage. Most likely a direct wound to the heart muscle, almost certain destruction of at least one entire chamber. He was dead before he could blink again. No one else dared the same move. The stockier guard stepped to the American First Lady and jerked her up, rough arm around her waist, the cold barrel of the gun pressed against her temple.
"Back!" he yelled to the horrified passengers who were quickly comprehending that they had just become hostages.
Abbey gritted her teeth against the hard jarring as he dragged her with him into the hall. Where was Jed? What was happening to Jed?
And where the hell was Ron? It occurred to her that the President's principal protector should be right there, but the loyal, reliable bodyguard was no where in sight. Come to think of it, where were any American agents?
That question was answered too clearly as they entered the hallway, forced to step over and around at least four sprawled Secret Service bodies. She wanted to stop to see if they might be alive, but the grip remained solid, unmoving. She stumbled along with her abductor.
As they stumbled down the narrow passage, she looked around, eyes and ears straining for any sign of the person that was most likely their primary target. They were headed to the Presidential Suite. Please let Jed be there safe and sound. Please!
When the door swung open, she first saw Charlie, and his face gave everything away. No safe and sound, she knew then. Hu Jintao hovered by a window, eyes glazed, shoulders slumped. Behind her stood two more Chinese agents, faces wiped clean of any emotion, weapons held ready. Heart pounding, she scanned the room quickly. The only other figure besides the renegade agents rested under a pile of debris that used to be a desk – his desk, only the dark trousered legs visible beneath the wreck.
"Jed!"
Pulling away from the hard grip, she began clawing through the pile of desk ornaments and wood, not really realizing when another set of hands, young and just as determined, joined her. The splatters of crimson propelled her on until they had lifted the most confining slab and freed the body beneath. Automatically, her hand slid to his wrist, fingers pressed instinctively along the inside, searching for that vital sign that he was still with them – with her.
The pulse beat beneath her touch, thank God. Labored, but consistent, the lungs continued to fill and empty, although she heard the ominous low wheeze that couldn't be good. Satisfied that he was hanging on, she let her eyes and hands explore more fully. Blood matted the right side of his head, tracing down his face like dark tears, and his right arm cocked out at an awkward angle from his shoulder. Under the natural tan he usually sported, his skin had gone chalky.
The agents did not try to stop them from ministering to him. In fact, she was beginning to suspect that they had brought her there to tend to her wounded husband. Perhaps they hadn't intended to hurt him at all? Perhaps they needed him for something else.
"Charlie?" she asked, knowing he would understand.
The young man turned guilt-laden eyes on her. "I was going to try – I couldn't stop myself. When I saw the gun on him – I moved to stop them – "
"And he stopped them instead." He would have, too. She knew how deeply he loved Charlie.
The President's bodyman nodded miserably. "The biggest one hit him in the ribs with the butt of the rifle and sent him into the table."
She swallowed. No time to break down now. Jed needed her. "Okay," she breathed. "Okay, can we get him out from under there?" No one except Charlie move to help, but no one stopped them, either.
Together, they grasped both legs and tugged him gently away from the splintered wood. The President groaned at the movement. With as much professional dispassion as she could muster she ran her hands over his torso, but couldn't get a good feel with the bulk of his clothing in the way. "Help me get his jacket off," she ordered.
Then she decided the hell with dispassion. This was not some random victim of violence. This was Jed – her Jed.
As the moan slipped past his lips, she glanced up at Charlie, blinking away tears when she saw the moistness on his cheeks. They both grimaced, but managed to discard the coat by freeing his left arm first, then sliding the remaining sleeve gingerly over the right one. She slipped the tie loose, tossing it carelessly to the side, and tried to unbutton his shirt, but her fingers trembled so much she just ended up ripping it open. Swelling already distended the tissue and muscle over his side and chest, the reddened skin tightening in protest, the swirls of grey hair standing out in stark contrast. It took only a quick touch and an answering moan from him to identify the broken ribs. No immediate danger – unless, of course, he was bleeding internally. They would discover that much too late to help. She moved on to his arm. It didn't take a medical expert to diagnose a dislocated shoulder, but that was certainly the least of his worries. At first glance, the head wound looked frightening, but a quick examination revealed a deep, but non-fatal, laceration just in the hairline over his temple. As long as he didn't have a concussion –
Another commotion at the door revealed the near-panicked face of Chen Wenyuan, eyes frightened, black hair scattered. He stood just inside the room, staring at the scene before him. What a nightmare that must be, Abbey thought. The President of the United States sprawled bleeding and unconscious on the floor, his own leader cowering blank-faced in the corner. Abbey felt a sudden pity for him, even guilt perhaps, an innocent victim in this crime that Jed's mere presence had brought to him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, cleared his throat and asked, "The President?"
"He's alive," she answered, although she wasn't yet sure just how long that statement would hold true. "Are you all right?"
Now another emotion crossed his face – a strange look that, if she didn't know better would have seemed like guilt.
Turning her eyes back to the battered body beneath her hands, she asked, "Can you talk to them? See what they want?"
Jed groaned, eyelids fluttering, legs shifting with the early signs of coming back to consciousness. Come on, Jethro.
When the Chinese doctor didn't answer, she looked back up. The panic had relaxed into sadness. "I already know what they want," he said softly.
The tone of his voice, even more than his words, chilled her. Her brain processed the scene. The bodyguards stood, their weapons now held loosely, not trained on anyone in particular, and certainly not on Chen Wenyuan. They had not even shifted when he entered. Comprehension slammed into her. Surely he wasn't – he couldn't be –
"Doctor?" she gasped. The Oath – never do harm to anyone. To anyone.
His head moved slowly from side to side. "I'm – sorry."
At his nod, the pock-marked guard raised his weapon to his shoulder and leveled the end of the barrel to a point just above her left breast.
"I'm sorry."
THE HIPPOCRATIC OATHI swear by Apollo the physician, by Æsculapius, Hygeia, and Panacea, and I take to witness all the gods, all the goddesses, to keep according to my ability and my judgement, the following Oath.
"To consider dear to me as my parents him who taught me this art; to live in common with him and if necessary to share my goods with him; to look upon his children as my own brothers, to teach them this art if they so desire without fee or written promise; to impart to my sons and the sons of the master who taught me and the disciples who have enrolled themselves and have agreed to the rules of the profession, but to these alone the precepts and the instruction. I will prescribe regimen for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone. To please no one will I prescribe a deadly drug nor give advice which may cause his death. Nor will I give a woman a pessary to procure abortion. But I will preserve the purity of my life and my art. I will not cut for stone, even for patients in whom the disease is manifest; I will leave this operation to be performed by practitioners, specialists in this art. In every house where I come I will enter only for the good of my patients, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction and especially from the pleasures of love with women or with men, be they free or slaves. All that may come to my knowledge in the exercise of my profession or in daily commerce with men, which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and will never reveal. If I keep this oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all men and in all times; but if I swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be my lot."