Bounds of Freedom
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Twelve – Contradiction of Courage
POV: Leo
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
"Courage is almost a contradiction in terms. It means a strong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die."
Keith Chesterton Gilbert
Orthodoxy
1909
Air Force One
2:45 a.m., Thursday
Beijing Time
Leo McGarry forced himself not to turn away as the body of the second Chinese guard they had encountered dropped to the deck, the grotesquely angled neck clear evidence of his cause of death. It wasn't as if violence was foreign to the former fighter pilot. He had seen combat. He had witnessed death before, but that had been many years – and many healings – ago.
Ron turned from his task and regarded him without emotion. He supposed that was necessary to the job. He was glad it wasn't his job.
"You think that's it?" he asked, hoping for an affirmative answer from the Head of POTUS Detail.
"Don't know." Only the additional tightness around Ron's eyes revealed the pain Leo knew he must be in. They had tried to immobilize the wounded shoulder, but it was an amateur job at best. The agent needed real medical help. Neither man had any doubts he would ignore that until he had secured the President. And they both had to assume he would. To think otherwise was – well – unthinkable.
Although their goal lay at the nose of the bird, they both had determined that the tail section gave them the better opportunity to sneak back up onto the second level.
They had met the first guard about halfway through, taking him completely by surprise. Ron had snapped his neck like a twig, the sickening crack just making a vague sound among the ambient noise of the plane. This last one had chosen the wrong time to take a smoke, the light from his cigarette the giveaway. Leo mused, with morbid humor, that he should have heeded the Surgeon General's warning.
The trek through the cargo bay had been agonizingly slow. Despite their desperation to get to the President, they knew they couldn't just plow their way through the plane toward the Suite. Leo himself had counted at least four terrorists, and Ron remembered seeing three before he fell to their bullets. Whether or not they were the same, they didn't know. To be safe, they had to assume at least seven combatants were on board.
Five now, he corrected grimly, glancing back at the body.
With as much daring as stealth would allow, they zig-zagged their way back through the cargo hold, ducking at each pop, flattening against the wall with each creak. It had been too long since the takeover, too many minutes since he had heard the shots, much too close to the place he had last seen Jed Bartlet. Leo's skin crawled with the fear and anxiety of not knowing what was going on above them – with not knowing what was going on with HIM. But he pushed on, absolutely refusing to consider that his closest friend might be beyond their help by now.
As they approached the rear stairs, Ron motioned for him to slow. The agent took a tentative step up, then another, his pistol lifted and ready. Leo edged up behind him, straining to see what they might encounter, hoping this part had been evacuated or rescued. Surely by this time whatever General Alexander and Nancy McNally had planned was underway.
A quick grunt from Ron stopped him, and he held his breath as he saw the shadow that hovered at the top of the stairs. A terrorist, perhaps. If Ron could surprise him like he had the others, maybe they stood a chance of getting up there.
Carefully, the agent slid up the wall, unconcerned that he left smears of blood as he passed. The shadow remained, apparently unaware that it was under threat. With a sudden move, Ron leapt from the final step and shoved the barrel of the gun against the solid body they had known was there.
"Don't move!" he ordered, voice warning against any attempt to fight.
The returning voice was calm, acerbic even. "Not a problem, but I think eventually I might have to move to go change my underwear."
Damn! Relief coursed through the chief of staff. "Toby!"
Ron fell back, dropping the gun from the communication chief's head but still keeping it handy.
"Leo!" Toby croaked, running a hand over his beard. "Thank God. Where's the President? What's happened to the President?"
A dozen journalists gathered behind him, hand-held recorders forgotten in their own personal desire to hear the answer to that particular question.
"I don't know."
The tension of the group crackled in the air. Toby pressed his lips together for a moment before nodding. "We took two of them down – sheer numbers," he explained. "We've tried to move forward, but they have everything past the conference room covered."
Leo glanced around at some of the reporters, their cell phones cocked and ready. "You got lines outside the plane?"
One of them nodded, a familiar face, but Leo didn't have time to place her name. "The story's out – at least from this end."
"Where – "
Toby gestured to the first row of seats, and Leo nodded in grim satisfaction at the sight of two guards lying on their sides, bound and gagged, with a variety of rope, cord, and clothing. They were still alive. He wasn't sure if he was glad or not.
"We're going to need your help," Ron announced bluntly.
Toby straightened. "Of course."
"All your help," the agent told the room.
To a man, each reporter stepped forward, fire in every eye, determination on every face. These men and women whose job it was to question, to probe, to challenge the President of the United States at every turn, now stood united to help him. Leo saw in those eyes more than just a patriotic commitment to a leader. He saw a personal devotion and concern for a man.
The push through the plane proved to be much easier than they had thought. Apparently, the remaining terrorists had gathered near the nose where they could control access to their main hostages. As they moved forward, they picked up three more secret service agents who had managed to isolate the attackers close to the President's quarters. The agents stole along past the press area, the workroom, and up the skinny hallway, Leo, Toby, and several determined reporters following right behind.
Along the way they trampled over the bodies of four more attackers, unconcerned with any desecration of the dead. That should leave only a few enemy combatants to overcome, Leo calculated. Probably barricaded just outside or inside the Suite. He grimaced as they passed the open, unseeing eyes of the Navy captain who had accompanied them to serve as the President's person physician. He couldn't help any of them now.
"Down!" Ron called, and he complied instantly, ducking just in time to hear the zing of a bullet past his ear. The returning fire lasted only a few seconds and after that – silence.
"Go!" the agent called, no longer cautious, but almost sprinting the few yards left to the destination.
The walls dripped with the blood of the last guard who foolishly challenged the President's own guard, already bristling at their earlier failures.
Then, there it was. The door they had sought for so long, the Presidential symbol still bold and strong. Leo prayed the man behind the symbol was, too. Ron gestured with his good arm to the three agents with him, and without hesitation, they flung themselves against it. The door gave way, bursting open with a resounding crack. Instinctively, they stood aside for their boss, knowing he had to be first to the President. It was his responsibility, his charge.
Ron exploded through the opening, Berretta leading the way, ready to take whatever lives were necessary in the protection – or, Leo was so afraid, the recovery – of his charge.
Leo had imagined many scenarios on his way through the plane, many scenes he might encounter as soon as that door opened. The best one had Jed Bartlet, safe and sound, grinning and telling him things were fine. But that was fantasy, even though his brain refused to relinquish the unrealistic hope. A more plausible vision had the President held in front of a crazed terrorist, gun barrel pressed against his temple. But the worst one – the one he couldn't vanquish no matter how he had tried – had his best friend sprawled face-down on the deck, the dear lifeblood spreading uselessly beneath him. It had haunted him for the past three hours, had clenched his gut and twisted with every echoing shot above them.
Now he was there. Now he would see which nightmare they faced.
But as Ron cleared the way, Leo stumbled to a halt, staring open-mouthed at the sight before him. None of his imaginings had conjured this.
Three men wrestled fiercely on the deck, limbs entwined, pushing and straining for leverage, for control. He ducked, trying to identify them. Charlie Young had the top position, his body pressing down on the other two, one arm above his head, hand gripping someone's wrist. On the bottom of the pile, the doctor who had escorted Abbey around the hospital that morning struggled, legs kicking, one arm held by the bodyman, the other clutched around something dark in the middle of all of them. What the hell was going on? What was the doctor doing –
But he forgot about that when his brain clicked again and he realized who was sandwiched between the first two.
"Jed!" No protocol here. This was his friend.
Leo knew Jed Bartlet was not a fighter – at least not a physical fighter. He won his battles by his wits, his words, his intelligence. On one occasion, however, years ago, both men had participated in a youthful scuffle against two brawny Michigan upperclassmen, initiated by Leo's quick Irish temper. Exhausting his efforts to resolve the situation with words, Jed's loyalty to his scrapping friend pulled him reluctantly into the fight, performing – to Leo's surprise – with strength and agility. Looking on them now, though obviously injured in some way, judging by the splatters of blood across his blue shirt, he could see that the older Jed still remembered a few of those moves.
Leo tried to imagine what had happened. This doctor was somehow involved in the situation. Charlie had taken the chance to overpower him and Jed couldn't let the young man he saw as a son risk himself alone. Or maybe Jed had moved first with Charlie following. Damned fools, both of them.
All of this flashed through his brain in nanoseconds even as he and Ron lunged toward them.
"Stop!"
The harsh cry froze them, and they looked up to see a rifle held on them by a hulking Chinese guard, whom he assumed had once been one of Hu Jintao's entourage. Another quick glance revealed the Chinese President himself, staring at the melee, and Abigail Bartlet, one hand to her throat, the other arm extended as if she were trying to figure out a way either to break things up – or to get in on it herself.
Okay. What the hell was happening? He didn't have time to overanalyze, couldn't dissect what action would best help his friend. But he did know one thing. The lone guard had used up any mercy he might have gotten before. His eyes met Ron's. With only a minute nod of his head, the agent relayed the signal to his man behind him. The single shot thumped through the middle of the guard's forehead. The man swayed for a moment, his eyes going glassy, then crashed to the deck.
Done. Thank God it was over –
"A bomb!"
What?
Hu Jintao unfroze and stumbled forward. "Bomb!"
"What?" What the hell did he say?
"The briefcase they fight over. It is a bomb."
Oh God! Leo spun around. "Out! Get everyone out of here." Oh God!
The agents looked to Ron for orders. He nodded and they acted instantly, gathering up the civilians and shoving them back down the hallway toward the press area. No one protested. Leo reached toward the pile, intent on pulling Jed off, but Ron jerked his arm back.
"Don't touch them," he yelled. "If someone's hand is holding the detonation device, jarring it away could set off the bomb."
Well, what the hell were they supposed to do, then? The three men still struggled, inadequate shields of muscles and flesh against the imminent explosion that would rip Air Force One apart.
Suddenly, Leo realized that Abbey still stood, arm reaching out, face bone white. Ignoring protocol, Ron detail grabbed the First Lady's arm and pulled her toward the door.
"Yes!" he agreed. "Get her out." Then he turned to the men still entangled on the deck. Time to get HIM out of there, too. "Mister President," Leo began.
From under the pile, a familiar voice, strained, but still commanding, ordered, "Leo! Get her – out of here. Everyone get – out of here!"
"Not without you, sir!"
"Damn it, Leo," he grunted. "I don't – have time to – I'm ordering you to – get the – hell out! Now!"
Fat lot of good that would do. There was no way in hell he was leaving Jed Bartlet to die on that plane, bomb or no bomb. "I'll get Abbey off," he told him.
At that moment, the doctor kicked hard against the other two, catching the President in the stomach. His agonized gasp tore through Leo's heart, but he managed one more plea. "Abbey – get – out!"
"Go!" Ron commanded to everyone around, which included Toby, Leo, and two lingering agents. "Get off the plane!"
Abbey jerked free of him, her green eyes sharp, hard. "No."
"Mrs. Bartlet, I don't have time to argue – "
"Then don't. I'm not going anywhere without him."
Leo knew they didn't have time. The three still struggled beneath him. He got a better glimpse of the President's condition, and it wasn't reassuring. His shirt was open, the tails splattered with blood, the skin beneath distended and bruised. Blood coated the side of his face, as well, and Leo wondered how on earth he was fighting so fiercely with such injuries.
He had to stop this. He had to get in there and get Jed away from more damage, but how could he get the case without compromising the contents? How could he get the President away from it without triggering Armageddon?
In the midst of his thoughts, he saw a flash of grey push past him and gaped as the cool, level-headed Ron Butterfield had apparently determined that it was now or never, and waded into the fray, lending his fading strength to the efforts of Charlie and the President.
His decision made for him, Leo forgot any plans and dived in, as well. He saw the case, still clutched in the Chinese man's hands, but the President had managed to wrap his own hand around the handle and seemed to be hanging on for dear life. Was the handle the trigger? Did Jed know that? Charlie was able to keep the terrorist's other hand away, maybe in the hopes that no detonation button could be activated, if there were even such a thing on it. It might just be timed to blow them all away in five seconds.
Ron and Leo shoved their bodies between the others and the case. Their additional leverage did the trick. Fighting with his good arm, Ron tore the bomb away from its owner and jerked in up into his own grip, having to take an extra moment to pry the President's hand off. As soon as it was clear, the doctor tried to scramble out from under them and leap to his feet, but before any of the Americans could act, Hu Jintao surprised them all by throwing his body in a flying tackling and driving him back to the ground.
Without a word, Ron turned toward the door, intent on getting that bomb as far away from the President as possible, but they all saw him stagger, the loss of blood and trauma finally catching up with him, and fall against the wall. Leo started to move, to take the case himself. He was expendable now. The President wasn't. If he could just get it off the plane –
But Charlie Young pushed past him, ripped the danger from Ron's hands and dashed into the hallway.
Damn it! No!
He was gone, though, and Leo's heart sank at the courage and sacrifice this young man had chosen. He loved Jed Bartlet, and now he was giving his own life to save him. Leo said a rusty prayer and hoped that Charlie could at least get far enough away that they stood a chance of surviving the blast, that his unselfish action would not be in vain.
Turning back to the scene before him, he caught Abbey by the shoulders and pulled her to him, both of them taking in huge gasps of air. Hu Jintao, with Toby's help, had the Chinese doctor well in hand. That left only Jed –
He knelt beside his friend, his commander-in-chief. Jed Bartlet lay on his side, blood trailing down the handsome face, smearing across his exposed and swollen torso. He was battered – that was the only word for it – and Leo realized with horror that he must have been beaten. But the most terrifying sight was the crimson that now trickled from his mouth.
"Abbey!" Leo called. The First Lady was already there.
" – bomb – " the President tried to ask, somehow still conscious, choking on the blood.
"It's gone. It's all right," Leo assured him, pressing a hand gently against his shoulder, hoping he was telling the truth. "Hang on."
Stubbornly, he tried to move. "Charlie – "
"Lie still, Jed," Abbey was ordering.
"Can't – breathe – " he gasped, lungs fighting in a futile attempt to suck in more air.
"Jed!" she called, her hand cradling her husband's cheek. His breathing grew shallow and quick; his lips took on a bluish tint.
That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.
"Pneumothroax!" she snapped, spreading the open shirt to get at his chest. "Damn it!"
"What – "
"His lung is punctured," she explained, hands running over his abdomen. "I don't know how the hell many ribs are broken now. I don't want to move him. Damned fool should have – " She couldn't stop the sob that jerked her, but she didn't removed her hands. "I need a tube."
"A what?"
"A chest tube. I've got to do a thoracostomy now to get the air from around the outside of his lung – so it can re-expand."
"What can – what can I do?"
"The medical room. It's right – "
"I know where it is," he said quickly.
"It's set up to run like an OR. There's emergency equipment somewhere – "
"What does it look like?"
Damn it, they didn't have time for this. A bomb was about to blow them all to Kingdom Come. But just in case it didn't, he had to save the President's life. He had to save it now. How could he find it soon enough? Jed was suffocating right before their eyes.
"I need to know what it looks – "
"I know."
They stopped at the voice, the voice that had so recently been one of death, the voice that still sounded like their final toll. Leo glared at the doctor, who sat, hands bound behind him, gun at his head.
"Shut up," Toby warned softly, looking as if he was on the verge of shutting him up permanently. "Shut the hell up."
"I know what she needs. I can get it faster than you."
What was he doing? He had just tried to kill them all – could still succeed in that – and he was offering to help?
"Why the hell – " Leo began.
But Abbey had finally turned away from her husband, only for a moment, to look into their enemy's eyes. "Let him," she decided.
"Abbey – "
"Let him. It's Jed's best chance."
It's Jed's only chance was what she didn't say. Leo heard it anyway.
Leo looked at Ron, sagging against a bulkhead. The agent's eyes were cold, but he nodded carefully. The remaining two agents flanked the Chinese doctor, who shuffled past his would-be victim and walked into the corridor.
As he mentally willed the President to keep breathing, his mind tried to count how long it had been since Charlie left. Was it really a bomb? Had the American forces who must have been waiting outside the plane defused it? Had they –
The concussion of the blast threw him against the bulkhead, slammed his head into the wall. He felt the prick of shards from shattering windows, heard the rip of metal, watched helplessly as Abbey lost her grip on her husband and tumbled hard into the ruined desk. Pieces of insulation sliced through the air above them, whirling with the roar of the incoming atmosphere. The hull was breached, that much was certain. How bad, Leo couldn't tell yet. Couldn't really see, yet, past the carnage. He watched in horror as the President's body skidded against an upturned chair, his legs and arms flung around like a Raggedy Ann doll.
Then it was quiet, and one-by-one, they came to the realization that they were all alive. Leo took note of everyone. Ron lay next to him, uncharacteristically moaning. Leo knew he was out. Hu Jintao rose on his hands and knees, shaking his head of the glass pieces. Abbey groaned and pushed up.
But the President didn't move. Not at all.
When he saw that the plane was still in tact, except for a few rips in the fuselage, he realized that Charlie must have gotten far enough away from the plane to save it. What an incredible act of courage and love.
"Dear God!" Leo groaned, crawling to his knees. He had no time to spare in grief for the brave young man who had sacrificed himself for all of them. He would have to grieve later, and hope he wouldn't be grieving two people.
Scrambling over to the President, Abbey ignored her own collection of cuts and cleaned him off as best she could. "The tube!" she spat. "Where the hell is – "
"Here." The doctor returned, his dark hair white with dust and debris, barely able to walk for the agents sandwiching him. He had not been allowed to carry the life-saving chest tube, but at his nod, an agent extended his hands toward the First Lady, scalpel in one and tube in the other.
"Hold him," she directed to anyone around them. Leo and two other agents knelt beside their leader, turning him to his back and bracing his torso and legs.
Leo stared at the First Lady in doctor mode. Many times Jed had teased about how much of a turn on it was for him to call his wife "Doctor Bartlet." Now Leo saw her, focused, efficient, no-nonsense. She was amazing.
And in different circumstances, he could see where it would be a turn on. But now it was just decisive. She was in charge. No questions.
As she took the scalpel in her hand, he had the terrifying comprehension that she was going to open him up right there, no anesthesia, no pain killer, no sterile prep.
The scalpel sliced smoothly through the skin. Jed jerked in his semi-conscious state. Leo swallowed the bile that suddenly threatened his throat. Blood welled from the incision, but it was only a few seconds before Abbey had taken the tube and thrust it into his body.
The President's face was gray under the blood, his breathing almost undetectable. He couldn't be dying. He absolutely could not.
Work! Leo commanded the small device. "Work, damn you," he muttered.
Work.
Please, dear God, work.