Bounds of Freedom
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Thirteen – Born to Rule the Storm
POV: Nancy McNally
Spoilers: "ITSOTG;" "Manchester"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation.
The White House
3:30 p.m., Wednesday
EDT
Nancy McNally had waited in the Sit Room uncounted times in the six-plus years she had served Josiah Bartlet as National Security Advisor. Each of those times involved a critical situation, the results of which relied on decisions made right there – decisions in which she played a major role – decisions finally determined by the President of the United States as he sat, absorbing their facts, their opinions, at the head of the table.
But not that afternoon.
Oh, the situation was critical, the results still relied on decisions she would help to make. But that afternoon something was missing – and that something made all the difference in the world. That afternoon, someone else sat at the head of the table, in that chair – in HIS chair. It was an unspoken agreement. Only one man sat in that chair. Even Hoynes had recognized protocol in those frantic hours after Rosslyn and had taken his place to the side.
But not Bingo Bob, Nancy mused with an ill-concealed glare toward the Vice-President. No, the unabashedly ambitious Russell seemed only too anxious to claim his spot in the absence of their true leader. He had not been able to overcome the blatant scowls directed toward him in the Oval Office, keeping him out from behind the Resolute Desk, but there in the Sit Room, with the chaos of the moment, he had eased into the place of honor – or of responsibility. He didn't deserve the former; he hadn't earned the latter.
She glanced across the table at Berryhill and Hutchinson. As irritatingly superior as the Secretary of Defense could be, she would take him any day over Bingo Beanhead. The expressions on both of their faces told her they had the same thoughts about the second-in-command. No one really spoke. Several in the room passed written information, but most of them simply concentrated on filtering through the conversations coming over their audio feed from halfway around the world.
Special Forces had deployed some ten minutes before, sealing off the area and the plane and blocking any visual transmissions for fear the terrorists might use them to discover that the good guys were finally on the move.
"Anything?" Berryhill asked after another minute, unable to stand having so little information.
General Alexander shook his head. Nancy was glad the Secretary of State had asked before she could.
Amid the underlying radio babble, she could not stop herself from pondering the worst-case scenario. After all, it was her job. The President relied on her to provide him with every possibility, with every option. She wondered if he had ever imagined he might one day be relying on her for his own survival. Suppose he was – dear God, she didn't even want to consider this – but what if he was already dead? What if the First Lady was? Of course, no doubt existed in her mind that if Abbey Bartlet had been killed, the President's body would be lying right there with hers.
And where would they be then?
She had been with him since the beginning of his administration. In those early days, his relative inexperience in foreign affairs had been painfully obvious, no more so than to the President himself, but the Sit Room sessions became learning opportunities for him. He demanded that they teach him, that they not patronize him in any way. Fitz had been the first to recognize the potential for greatness in their new President. Despite being green, despite having impatience with the frequently frustrating mazes of international diplomacy, Jed Bartlet showed that he had what it took. They all realized that quickly. And the result was a man who had become a master at foreign policy, an artist at diplomacy.
Our boy.
She had referred to him in that way on more than one occasion – not to his face, of course, and always with nothing less than glowing admiration and respect. In her many years of public service, she had never met anyone quite like Josiah Bartlet, had never encountered someone with such a richness of intellect, warmth, humor, compassion, idealism, nobility. A phrase from a poem she had read long ago flickered through her thoughts:
"Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though childlike form."
"Beautiful and bright. Born to rule the storm." That seemed appropriate for Jed Bartlet. He was flawed, of course, as all great men were. But his flaws came from his own deep sense of duty, of the need to leave a mark, to do something in the world. And if he sometimes pushed too hard in that direction, it was because he knew his time was limited and he couldn't pass up any opportunities. They all knew that he was their best chance to come along in a long time. She darted a glance toward Russell again. And maybe their only chance for a long time to come.
And she was damned if she would stand by and let terrorists take that away from them. No one messed with their boy.
"Explosions! We have explosions!"
The voice cut across all of the other chatter, slicing into the room with the precision of a keen knife.
McNally's head jerked up, her eyes caught those of Alexander, who turned immediately to his aides for details. Russell stood, eyes wide, mouth open. Berryhill and Hutchinson exchanged anxious glances. Explosions were not good. Definitely not good. A bomb on an airplane, even one sitting on the ground already, would tear the relatively fragile frame to bits – and those within that frame didn't stand a chance.
"Where?" Alexander snapped into the cell phone. "Outside? You're sure?"
Outside? Please God, let it be outside the plane.
"Damage?" He frowned. "How big a breach?"
Damn. A breach of the fuselage, she assumed. Must have been close. Had to have been the terrorists. The special forces carried only rifles, knowing the danger of explosives in such a tight area.
She yearned to ask about casualties, itched to jerk the phone away from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and listen for herself to the report. But she clenched her fists and waited, just like the rest of them. Just like the Vice-President, even.
"From inside?"
What from inside? God, she hated not knowing what was going on.
"Take it."
It didn't really occur to any of them until much later that Alexander's order to take the plane at that moment had not been cleared by the Vice-President. Not that it would have really mattered. Nancy doubted the VP would have contradicted the Chairman's advice. She doubted Bobblehead Bob would have even understood their choices.
So the word was given by General Alexander, witnessed by the Secretaries of State and Defense, the National Security Advisor, and the Vice-President of the United States. She prayed it was the right word.
Minutes passed. Then more. Over the link they heard the sporadic burst of gunfire, the hoarse calls of English and Chinese, the occasional grunt of pain or frustration or just plain effort. No word. No new information. No relief from their fear, from their anxiety. Alexander kept trying, with only feeble success, to get someone on the line, to garner any tidbit of information for the high ranking people who could now only wait for the grunts to do their jobs.
"Well?" It was the Vice-President this time. He had finally gotten out of Jed Bartlet's chair and stood, hands in pockets, next to Alexander. Nancy squelched the urge to stand in his way if he tried to go back.
"Don't you have anything?" Russell prodded. "I've got to give the press something pretty soon or they're gonna think we're not doing anything."
The press? If the son of a bitch was going to make a campaign speech out of this –
The general swung around, not bothering to mask the piercing glare of anger. "If you give me a minute, Mister VICE-President – '
Nancy barely kept herself from cheering at the pointed slap down from the chairman. He might have eyes on the Oval Office, but Russell wasn't there yet. And Nancy figured he had better not count on any votes from anyone in that room.
"Patch it over," Alexander ordered. They held their breaths as the connection was made to the intercom phone.
A breathless, but calm voice broke through the rest of the noises. " – under control. Have secured the area. Three combatants in custody. Eight taken out. I repeat, Angel is secure."
Thank God. Oh, thank God.
But the hard question was to come. Alexander hesitated only a second before asking it.
"Do you have Eagle and Regina?"
"Regina's good. Also have Lion and Batman."
So Abbey was alive. And Leo and Toby Zeigler, but what about –
"Eagle?" the general prompted.
A hesitation. Not encouraging. "Eagle's down. I think he's – I can't tell if he's – his condition is uncertain, sir."
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"Best guess," came the curt order.
"I really don't know, sir." The soldier forgot about codes in the emotion of the moment. "The First Lady is – is working on him."
The First Lady? Well, at least there was something to work on –
"Where's the flight surgeon?"
"Dead, sir."
Dear God. The President was injured – who knew how badly – and the only person who could help him at the moment was his wife? What kind of pressure was that on Abbey? How could she manage even to think in such a situation?
"We've got medics in there now – and – and – "
"What is it, son?"
The voice on the other end cracked, as if he really didn't want to report his next bit of information. "One of the terrorists is helping, too, General."
What? What the hell was he saying?
"Say again!" Alexander demanded.
"One of the terrorists is apparently a doctor, sir. He's helping the First Lady – at her insistence."
The group in the Sit Room stared at each other for a moment, unsure about what to make of this revelation. After a beat or two, Nancy took a breath and nodded to Alexander. If Abbey Bartlet trusted this guy with her husband – well, she just hoped to hell the First Lady knew what she was doing.
The general nodded back. "Okay, son. I copy that."
As he stayed on the line, Nancy spun around to Berryhill. "All right. Obviously that plane can't go anywhere. We need access to the nearest hospital, assuming it actually has an emergency room. No complications. The Chinese have to be with us on this."
The Secretary of State smiled faintly. "I don't think that will be a problem," he assured her. "Their foreign minister is falling all over himself apologizing and trying to explain this has nothing to do with the Chinese government. And since his own president is one of the hostages – "
Hu Jintao. She had forgotten about him. "What about – "
"Alive," Alexander supplied, understanding where she was going. "And apparently unharmed."
It took another twenty minutes to re-establish visual feeds, but when they did, Nancy cringed at the raw damage to the airplane. A ragged hole had blown through the starboard side of the fuselage, blasting up from the ground, ripping the skin and tearing through the cargo hold. Smaller scarring and tears scratched upward to the higher levels, right where – right where the President's office lay. Thank God, at least, it had not detonated inside. This would be a recovery mission instead of a rescue mission.
The amazing scene now played out before them: the few surviving terrorists hooded and hustled from the plane by American and Chinese forces, the crowd of military rescue vehicles massed at the foot of the stairs, the bustling throng of medics in and out of the open door.
The latest word had the President alive, but critical. Reporters liberated from the plane had already contacted their stations and papers with a sensational story about how Bartlet had thrown himself onto a terrorist to try to wrestle away a briefcase that apparently contained the bomb that later damaged the plane. Word had it that this briefcase was subsequently whisked off the plane at the last minute by none other than the President's bodyman, Charlie Young. No information was available on his fate, but the force of the blast made speculation mute. Nancy closed her eyes and breathed a prayer for the young man. What a tragedy. But she knew the he would have wanted it that way. She knew he still felt responsible for the President being shot at Rosslyn. Maybe this was his way of repaying him. As they waited further word on his boss, she hoped his sacrifice had not been in vain.
"There they are!"
The call drew them even closer to the screen, the promise of the sight they had all anticipated, yearned for, even. In the breaking dawn emerged the President of the United States, looking much different than when he had entered more than five hours before: strapped to a backboard, bare-chested except for the extensive bandaging across his shoulder and torso, IV held high by a secret service man. Nancy grimaced against the pain that twisted in her gut at seeing him so battered.
The glee and relief they had felt with the capture of the terrorists now fled with the stark reality of what had been done to their President – to their friend. From what she could see, his face was bloodied and bruised, his eyes closed. The expressions on the surrounding medical personnel and staff were tight, solemn.
Abbey Bartlet followed directly behind, her right hand occasionally brushing the hair back from his forehead, her mouth set in a grim line, her eyes stunned, her own face not spared its share of cuts and abrasions. The NSA was not normally an emotional person, but she couldn't stop the sob that caught at the back of her throat. Dear God. This did not look good. Not at all.
Another stretcher appeared next, this one carrying the injured body of Ron Butterfield. Nancy was not surprised. No one would get to the President without having to take out this man. Leo McGarry and Toby Zeigler stumbled out behind, their faces white. As horrible as those hours had been for her, she could not imagine what those on the plane had been through.
"Where are they going?" she asked Berryhill without turning from the monitor.
"Xian Gaoxin Hospital. It's new. Opened a couple of years ago. Supposed to be highly advanced."
"Compared to what?"
He shrugged. They really didn't have much choice.
"He's not in any shape to fly to one of our bases?" She knew the answer, but couldn't not ask.
Grimly, Berryhill shook his head. "Several busted ribs. Broken shoulder. Collapsed lung. Concussion. At least that what word I'm getting. I have no idea how accurate the information is."
There was something else to consider with this President. "What about the – "
Again, he shook his head. "No idea, but if anything would trigger an – an episode – "
"Yeah."
She felt her teeth grit in fury as the stretcher bearers carried their precious burden as quickly down the steps as they dared. What the hell had those bastards done to him? Who the hell did they think they were that they could attack the President of the United States? That they could attack Josiah Bartlet?
Suddenly, the adrenaline that had surged through her veins for the past five hours left in a whoosh of exhaustion, and she sank into a chair. It was over, she realized. The interminable hours that seemed to stretch into days. The uncertainty. The terror. It was over.
But no, it wasn't, not quite yet. Not for one of them. Perhaps not for any of them. Because they still waited.
They waited on one man. They waited on his physical strength. They waited on his emotional strength. They waited on his spiritual strength. And they waited on his stubbornness, his willpower, and that marvelous flaw – that sense of duty – that could pull him from death's very door to fulfill his destiny.
The world waited.
China waited.
His cabinet waited.
His best friend waited.
His wife waited.
All of their hopes waited with the beautiful and bright man who, at the moment, was being rushed through the streets of Xian to receive help from the very health system he had come to reform.
They were waiting for him, if he could just wait for them.
"The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though childlike form."
Felicia Dorothea Hamans
(1783-1835)
Casabianca