A Frightened Peace

By

Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part Two

McGarry inclined his head in acknowledgement of both the request and the unspoken regret that Bartlet himself could offer no constructive assistance. With a quick smile to his friend, who was attempting to settle himself securely against the wall, he cautiously followed the agent towards the hatch.

The last slide had caused the cabin to roll slightly, so the hatch was no longer set at quite so precipitous an angle. However both men were still obliged to brace themselves with one hand in order to avoid sliding back down the angle of the floor while they battered at the warped hatchway.

McGarry was making way for a particularly heartfelt assault by Butterfield on the hatch when overhead a familiar, booming roar that momentarily overrode the ever-present thunder suddenly drew his attention. His hand closed excitedly on his companion's arm, interrupting the next enthusiastic shoulder charge. "Listen."

Startled, Butterfield did just that, grateful for the brief reprieve and using it to wait for the now ever present stitch in his side to abate. Straining, for a moment all he could hear was the steady fury of the storm. Then, there it was, utterly unmistakable. Feeling an almost unbearable weight begin to ease from his shoulders, he shared an unbridled smile of sheer relief with the Chief of Staff. He then turned to share the good news with the man lying on the other side of the cabin and frowned at what he saw.

Bartlet had his head back against the bulkhead, eyes closed. One hand rested lightly on his wounded leg, the other lay limply at his side. He was asleep, or as close as Butterfield was going to allow him.

"Mr. President?"

"Huh?" The response was drowsy. Damp, chilled clothing, wounds and aftermath from the emotional release of earlier were making it harder and harder for Bartlet to accede to his companion’s wishes and stay alert. "What is it?"

"Jets." Butterfield waited until he was sure he had the man's full attention before continuing. "There are fighter jets circling our position. We've been spotted. The medivac helicopters have a location to home in on now. Help will be here very soon."

The news took a moment to sink into Bartlet's exhausted and stressed mind, and then he looked up, almost afraid to hope. The beaming grin on McGarry's face was worth more than any number of spoken reassurances, and he offered up a tentative smile in return.

The brief moment of relief was broken when McGarry's face abruptly seemed to dip in his field of vision. Bartlet essayed a grunt of protest as his head bounced against the bulkhead behind him and he suddenly found himself almost fully reclining and beginning to slide down an ever-growing slope in the floor.

Above him, McGarry and Butterfield grabbed hastily for handholds in order to prevent themselves from sliding gracelessly down the steep gradient as the cabin rolled again, pitching up the angle of the floor even further.

Hanging on for dear life, McGarry heard a sudden pop and crackling, and then a muffled exclamation of pained exasperation from Butterfield. Twisting his head, he saw wisps of smoke issuing from around the edges of a panel on the far bulkhead a few yards from where Bartlet lay.

"That last roll must have pulled loose some wiring, one of the batteries must still be hot." The secret service agent was releasing a fire extinguisher from its housing next to the hatchway with unhurried efficiency. "I'd better get it out before any sparks have the opportunity to fan into flame…" He turned and blinked, unexpectedly finding himself addressing an empty space.

At the word sparks the Chief of Staff had given a panic-stricken gasp and released his handhold to slide in ungainly haste down the incline, fetching up almost on top of the startled President. Attempting the difficult task of interposing his body between Bartlet and the panel while simultaneously dragging his protesting victim further away, he yelled over his shoulder to the bemused agent, "Put it out! For God's sake, get it out now!"

Confused, but responding to the unmistakable sense of urgency in his voice, Butterfield began his own equally rapid but rather more controlled descent of the incline. Reaching the panel, he unleashed the extinguisher over it, and then paused to rip it away one-handed before directing the remaining contents of the cylinder into the circuitry behind to ensure that no danger remained. Putting down the empty extinguisher, he turned to face the two men.

McGarry, finding it difficult to drag the nearly limp body of a full-grown man at any speed, had abandoned the attempt and instead flattened himself over the form beneath him to shield it. Judging from the general tone of the muffled remarks issuing from under him, the President was less than happy about this quixotic gesture.

"Leo, get the hell off of me! Now!" A lucky thrust with an elbow, and a slightly winded grunt from McGarry granted Bartlet his wish and his self-appointed protector lifted his weight off him. Rolling over awkwardly, and uncertain as to whether to clutch at his abused ribs or his leg --to which McGarry in the course of his frantic lunge had administered a fairly hefty kick-- the President glowered up at his friend.

"What," he inquired with strained patience, "did you think you were doing?"

McGarry returned the look with heat, riding his own adrenaline high. "Didn't you hear Ron?" he hissed. "Or have you forgotten what effect a spark could have in here right now? And what about you? You were only a few feet away and your clothes are soaked in the stuff!"

He almost bit through his tongue as he watched Bartlet's features freeze and heard his friend draw in a short choking breath. Impulsively, he reached out to rest a hand on the President's upper arm, squeezing it gently in regret. Always the one to remind the senior staff when to think before speaking, McGarry found himself in the unenviable position of having failed to do just that.

"Mr. President, I'm sorry. That was thoughtless…”

McGarry's apology was curtailed by the sound of an ominously clearing throat behind him. He could have sworn it sounded like a growl. He turned and found himself almost skewered by the glare the secret service agent was directing at him. He had sometimes wondered what it would take to make the unflappable Butterfield lose it. Wincing, he now came to the conclusion that some questions were better left unanswered, especially when you yourself were the unwitting catalyst.

"Mr. McGarry.” Butterfield's tone was flat, but his eyes burned with the fury of a man who had had one too many curve balls flung at him by a malicious fate this day. "Would there by any chance be some details you need to fill me in on?"

The Chief of Staff couldn't help himself; he actually gulped before summoning up his voice to respond. "Earlier, just before we had to pull the President out …” he paused, then took a deep breath and completed his explanation in a rush. "I realized that his clothes were soaked in aviation fuel as well as rainwater. One of the fuel tanks is leaking into the cabin."

Offering a tentative smile of any kind at this point would have been only one more nail in his coffin, so McGarry didn’t even bother to try. He was starting to have just a bit more sympathy for the President and his caution around this man.

"So." Butterfield's voice was beginning to rise, the volume slowly increasing with each carefully uttered syllable. "You knew that we had highly flammable fuel leaking into an unstable area where grating metal or damaged wiring could ignite a spark that might start an inferno, and you didn't see fit to mention this fact to me?

McGarry flinched back from the sheer volume of that last outraged bellow, banging his head a good one against the bulkhead in the process. Wincing and at a complete loss for words, he stared up at Butterfield helplessly. To try to explain that he had felt it would change nothing, or that there had simply been no time as they lurched from one crisis to the next, sounded rather feeble in the face of such incandescent fury.

He felt an elbow digging into his ribs, then the unmistakable voice of his friend and President accusing him, “Way to piss him off, Leo.”

If McGarry had felt it safe to take his eyes off the still glowering Butterfield, he’d have given Bartlet a good fielding return. Right now, self preservation dictated he keep his attention focused on the bloodied man towering over him.

As much as he was enjoying watching McGarry squirm, the President decided --rather wisely he thought-- to break the deadlock. Slightly startled himself by his security chief's blow-up, he raised a calming hand, catching the man's attention.

Butterfield whipped his head around, and then hastily modified his glare when he met the tolerant eye of his chief executive.

"Don't blame Leo, Ron. He didn't intend to keep anything important from you." Bartlet tapped the other man's knee to emphasize his point. "A lot of stuff happened very fast. And, well, I haven't exactly been making things any easier for either of you." He waited until he saw the agent's shoulders sag slightly and the anger fade from his features, then continued. "But I would suggest that your point about our not being able to afford to simply sit and wait for rescue is well taken. We have more to worry about now than a very short, unscheduled flight if this heap of junk decides to shift again."

This timely reminder galvanized Butterfield into action. With a final, accusing glare at McGarry, he turned to scramble back up towards the hatch without even his usual courteous acknowledgement of his charge's edicts.

McGarry began to follow, then halted in his tracks at the sound of the President's voice. He saw Butterfield also turn to listen.

"One last point, fellas," Bartlet's voice was low and his gaze intense. "I don't want any pointless heroics. I know our chances are a lot better now you got me out from under that crap, but I'm still not going anywhere fast. You will be closer to the hatch and mobile. If our luck runs out and we take fire…” he closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively at the possibility. A deep breath and he continued, “…we're going to go up like a Molotov cocktail. I don’t want you to risk yourselves needlessly. Get out. Fast."

Seeing the two incredulous faces regarding him, his voice gained a distinct edge. "Do you understand me?"

Butterfield regained his voice first. "Sir, I took an oath …"

"And I'm giving you an order!" Bartlet snapped. "As your President, I am directly ordering you both to take no unnecessary risks to your lives." He glared as he saw his two companions exchange decidedly mutinous looks. "Tell me you understand that order."

McGarry snorted. "You have an interesting definition of unnecessary risk. No." He held up a hand at his friend's attempt to interrupt. "Our oaths of loyalty and our duty aside, what the hell makes you think we would ever obey an order like that?" He regarded his friend's averted head and softened his voice. "Jed, we've been friends for more than half our lives. You're closer to me than a brother. I know you wouldn't leave me, as surely as I know you never really expected me to obey you."

Bartlet tilted his head to look up at his Chief of Staff. "I know, I know", he sighed. "But I had to try, Leo. I don't want to be the cause of anything happening to you."

McGarry looked up at Butterfield and jerked his head slightly. The agent took the hint and silently moved to resume his attack on the hatch. Urgent as that task was, this was a conversation McGarry was determined not to leave unfinished. There had already been too many such conversations in recent times. He’d never had the chance to finish them and this time he wasn’t about to lose the momentum.

He settled down awkwardly next to where Bartlet lay slumped against the angle of the bulkhead wall, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, and an arm gently cradling his ribs. The end of the temporary bandage on the President's head had come adrift of the tiepin during their recent scramble, and McGarry attempted clumsily to secure the frayed end back in place. He sat back on his heels, shaking his head in disgust at his efforts.

Bartlet gave him a quick grin. "Cheer up, Leo. You were never Boy Scout material anyway."

"You on the other hand I'll just bet were a natural," McGarry countered sourly. He regarded his old friend gravely. "Sir, why did you even bring it up? You know we wouldn't leave you here."

Cold, wet and exhausted, Bartlet gave him a weary look. "I know, Leo. That was never my fear. I just didn't want to lose you." He closed his eyes and turned his face away. "Sometimes lately I think that I've done nothing but endanger or lose all those things that really matter to me since I took this office. Oh, don't get me wrong; I'm grateful for all the opportunities it's granted me. But it's taken its dues...”

And whose fault was that? McGarry’s stomach knotted, guilt raising its ugly head. He’d convinced Bartlet to run, to take on the job and pay those dues. “Jed…”

“Let me finish, Leo.” There was steel in his voice.

McGarry almost rebelled, but something told him to simply listen. Jed Bartlet didn’t need an advisor; he needed a friend, someone to talk to, one man to another. Sadly, he realized it had been a long time since they’d just sat and talked.

Bartlet had settled back against the bulkhead, his gaze turning inwards. "I put Zoey and Charlie at risk because of who I am. We nearly lost Josh that night. They tried to ruin you because you were my closest advisor.” A choking, bitter grunt that never quite made it to a laugh, “I did lose Dolores. And now with the MS, we don't know what kind of fall out everyone may experience."

Sighing, he looked up and the last traces of resistance vanished. His eyes were anguished. "I'm not even sure that it won’t cost me Abbey, and that's not just whining on my part Leo. That prospect frightens me more than anything else."

McGarry struggled to find a response. "Surely you don't really believe that all those things are your fault?" Even as he said them, he knew the words were empty and of little comfort.

He should have known Bartlet would find something to latch on to, a thread of dark humor directed at himself.

The President smiled crookedly. "Nah. I've got a pretty healthy ego, Leo, but it's not that inflated. Intellectually, I know most of those things were outside my control, or else the result of the actions of others. Except for Abbey. That I really have handled badly. And that scares me. I was stupid, and stubborn. Yes, I know", slightly annoyed at his friend's quiet snigger. "Nothing exactly new about that revelation. It's just that lately I've become so tired of it all."

"Sir, you've been fighting a great many battles on a variety of fronts recently. It's natural to be tired, especially when you also haven't been sleeping. And depressed.” McGarry sobered. It was pointless to try and deny the harsh truths Bartlet had uttered. It was an argument his years of friendship assured him he would lose. There was a future though. “But it's going to pass. I'm certain of that. The staff may have been shocked and disappointed, but they still have faith in you. They put their trust and their support behind you. And deep down you know that Abbey does too."

Bartlet gave him a grateful smile, and grimaced slightly as he tried to shift position.

McGarry leaned forward to ease his friend upright. As he drew back he again caught that faint but now utterly unmistakable smell on the man's wet clothing and it reminded him both of the continuing precariousness of their position, and of another more personal concern. He eyed the President uneasily, unsure of whether or not to broach the subject.

"Sir? How are you doing? I mean, I know we got you out of that rubble, but we're still not free, and I happen to know that claustrophobia isn't your only problem." Watching the muscles of his friend's jaw tense and the lines of strain in his face deepen, McGarry regretted bringing it up. Leaning forward, he laid a hand on the injured man's arm in an effort to provide a reassuring presence.

To his surprise, he felt the tendons under his hand relax slightly, and Bartlet gave a short laugh. It was a dry, cynical sound McGarry couldn’t quite place.

"You mean the fuel danger? As in poof?" Snapping his fingers on the last word, he shook his head in gentle amusement at his friend's worried nod. "Leo, can I be honest with you? Right now, I'm simply don't have the energy to support more than one phobia at a time."

The worry on McGarry's features faded, but only slightly. "You feeling okay?" he inquired anxiously. "Not going to have another attack?"

The President let his head fall back with a weary sigh, and smiled tightly at his companion. "No, I don't think so. Oh it's still there, Leo, scratching away at the back of my mind, but I think I've managed, if not to control it, to at least achieve a sort of …” he paused to grope for the right words. "…frightened peace."

Seeing his friend's puzzled and not overly reassured expression, he quoted in a low voice, "So shaken as we are, so wan with care; Find we a time for frightened peace."

McGarry's face cleared and he nodded, understanding the sentiment even if he couldn't quite place the quote. He gave Bartlet's shoulder a quick squeeze. "You gonna be okay now? Only I really should help …"

"Go", Bartlet interrupted him, jerking his head in the direction of the hatch, where Butterfield seemed to finally be making some progress. Judging by the satisfied sound of the occasional muttered exclamation that drifted down towards them, the agent was taking out a few of his repressed aggressions on the unyielding metal.

Oddly loath to leave his friend, McGarry gave the supine man's shoulder one last pat, and then turned away to negotiate the slope behind him. Slipping, sliding and uttering muffled curses, the Chief of Staff managed to scramble up to Butterfield's side.

"How's it coming?" He demanded breathlessly, anchoring himself in position next to the hatchway.

The agent spared him a brief glance of cautious satisfaction. "Not so bad. I've managed to make some real progress here. With luck, another couple of minutes should see the hatch clear." He paused momentarily, hanging on as the wreck rocked slightly, before continuing grimly and with more than a touch of exasperated disgust, "And not a moment too soon, I'd say. I think our time is running out."

Senses straining nervously as he attempted to gauge the ferocity of the storm and the instability of their position, McGarry could only agree. Leaning back slightly to allow Butterfield space to wield the metal bar he was using to lever away the hatch, he glanced back down towards the President. Worry clouded his eyes at what he saw.

Bartlet's eyes were closed. Apparently he had finally lost the battle with exhaustion and fallen into a light doze. Deciding that a few moments respite from tension could not hurt, McGarry didn't attempt to wake him.

He gazed across the cabin at his friend, taking the opportunity to really study him for the first time since this nightmare had begun. Taking in the pale, bruised face, bloodstained head bandage and injured leg, he felt a sick fear begin to form in the pit of his stomach. Looking at the steep slope that separated them, and remembering his own difficulty in traversing it, the apprehension rose into his throat.

"Ron."

McGarry's voice sounded strained and Butterfield turned to regard him with curiosity, and some small degree of impatience. The bottom corner of the hatch had finally yielded to his ministrations and come away from its housing. The agent was convinced that just a few more wrenches on his improvised lever would see the entire thing fall away, leaving their exit clear. Given his own waning strength and energy, he was naturally reluctant to defer that moment, however briefly. But the other man's expression held his attention and he waited for him to continue.

When the man remained silent, he prompted somewhat impatiently, "Mr. McGarry?"

The Chief of Staff swallowed; feeling a childish reluctance to voice his fear, as if articulating it would somehow give it life. "The President." He gestured down towards the fitfully sleeping man. "He pegged the situation pretty good earlier, you know. About not being very mobile. Ron, what exactly are we going to do when that hatch finally opens? There's no way he can manage that climb by himself, we can barely make it on our own. And you…”

Butterfield’s eyes narrowed, tightening his grip around the bar in his hands and daring McGarry to finish his thought.

Not about to let him dodge the issue this time, McGarry’s answering gaze hardened in return. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. I’ve seen you. You’re hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t matter.”

“He’d argue that one with you,” McGarry pointed that truth out calmly, blithely ignoring the warning threat barely hidden in the agent’s angry tone and gaze. “What is it? Broken ribs?”

“Cracked…maybe.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

“I’ll manage.” Despite his well-trained reserve, more than a hint of exasperation tinged Butterfield’s voice. Turning back to the hatch, he shoved his improvised lever into the widening crack. “It’s what I do.”

“You can’t lift, and I certainly can’t do it alone.”

A grunt as he pulled angrily on the lever, equal parts pain and frustration, was the agent’s only response. The ensuing silence clearly forbade any more questions.

McGarry knew how to take a hint. “Fine,” he muttered, finding very little reassurance in Butterfield’s stoic attitude. It was starting to get on his nerves and wasn’t helping to calm the growing anxiety in the pit of his stomach. The nightmare just kept getting worse.

“Then how are we going to get him up here?" he demanded hotly.

When his companion did not immediately rush in with the rebuttal he had hoped for, McGarry felt the dread climb even higher. Defying both executive authority and his friend's wrath had been one thing, a danger he could face with equanimity. But the idea that, after all that had happened, they might still fail at the final, literally insurmountable obstacle, left him cold with fear.

"We'll manage." Emphasizing the plural, Butterfield's voice was low, fearful of disturbing the dozing subject of their council. Acknowledging McGarry’s concerns as much as he dared, he continued, “There are still blankets in the lockers by our seats. We can construct some kind of rope to help him up."

Gripping the bar in his hand tighter, his voice hardened. "I just know that I intend to get him out of here. I'm not leaving without him."

McGarry regarded him intently, startled and considerably touched by the passionate tone of that pledge. The security chief's expression was a study in unyielding determination. The Chief of Staff felt the tension in his stomach un-knot a little and he closed his hand briefly on the other's forearm in a gesture of appreciation and unspoken agreement.

Butterfield grunted noncommittally, turning his attention back to the hatchway and thrusting the lever into the newly created gap. Metal groaned in protest. He did it again and the hatch shifted slightly. Drawing in a deep breath, he ignored the pain in his abused side and threw his full weight behind the lever. With a suddenness that catapulted him into McGarry's outstretched arm and nearly sending them both crashing down the precipitous slope, the hatch tore away and dropped from sight.

Steadying themselves, the two men instinctively swung back to avoid the rain sheeting in through the exposed hatchway. The sounds of the storm were now magnified, mingling with the distant roar of fighter planes still circling their position to direct the expected rescue teams.

Sharing a grin of pure triumph with McGarry, Butterfield grimaced and heaved himself up slightly over the exposed rim to peer through the hatchway at their surroundings.

Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the rain sheeting in through the hatchway, McGarry heard the sound of a barely stifled curse that bordered on the obscene drifting back down. It reminded him that there was still very little about their plight to encourage complacency.

"How's our situation?" he inquired, dread and hope at the possible answer warring for the dominant position in his emotions.

"Not good.” Butterfield eased himself back inside the cabin, features once again returned to their seemingly standard level of austerity. “The drop is there, just as we surmised, and it's a beauty." Eyes darting around the remains of the cabin, making note of whatever was available, he calculated their options swiftly. "The rain has softened the ground and we're on a steep slope. I could see patches of soil and trees sliding gradually even during that brief glance. One such slide hits us and over we go."

Coming to a decision, he scrambled down and across the surviving seats and began to root in the lockers. "Those rescue teams have to be only minutes away but I'm not waiting for them."

Emptying the lockers of their remaining blankets and producing a small pocket-knife he looked up at McGarry. "We're going to secure a make-shift rope and use it to help the President reach the exit."

Apprehension, now a familiar though unwelcome acquaintance, raised its head again. McGarry swallowed, then once again carefully made his way down to his dozing friend. Reaching his destination, he gently shook one executive shoulder. "Mr. President?"

"Umph!"

Forewarned by the memory of his earlier efforts at waking this man, McGarry was able to duck a wildly brandishing arm. He reflected that he would have to see if it were possible to award Charlie danger money for certain unforeseen hazards that his job as body man to Josiah Bartlet seemed to attract.

"Wakey, wakey sir. Time to go."

Shivering slightly, Bartlet focused groggily on his right hand man. "Go? You got the hatchway open?"

"Yes, sir. And Ron is of the opinion that the sooner we evacuate you the better. I tend to agree with him on that point. Our present position is insecure, to put it kindly."

"Evacuate me?" Bartlet grimaced as he stiffly attempted to sit upright. One hand clutching at his injured leg, he said dryly, "Leo, I hate to rain on your parade but how are you planning on getting me from here to there? Bear in mind that I saw your own progress, and mine will be even less agile."

"Not to worry." McGarry called on his considerable political prowess to project an air of confident unconcern. "Ron's got it under control." He hoped Butterfield had it under control. Never one to feel comfortable in situations out of his power, he was putting his faith in the secret service agent’s level-headed determination.

“I’m not blind, Leo,” Bartlet’s voice was calm, his gaze steady on his friend’s troubled features. “Ron’s hurt. He’s not going to be dragging me around by the scruff of my neck this time. And you…”

“What about me?”

“Done a lot of bench presses lately?”

“No more than you. God, we’re a pair.” A sad smile pulled at the corner of his lips and despite the situation there was a trace of laughter in McGarry’s voice, mingled with the ever-present worry and fear. “Trust Ron, sir. He’s got it covered.”

He turned his head at a soft thud, to see a bulky, crude rope stretching down from the hatchway across the steeply inclining cabin floor to within a few feet of their position. Turning back, he met the President's incredulously raised eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Well, sir, if you have any better ideas, we're more than happy to take them into committee."

From somewhere up above, a snort and a growled, single worded expletive voiced one man’s exasperated opinion of the whole democratic process.

"Nah." Bartlet sighed, managing a tight-lipped smile. "I don't have time for you to argue my proposal and tear it apart before submitting the remains to a vote." He struggled into a sitting position. "How are we going to do this?"

Carefully negotiating the debris, Butterfield slithered down beside them. Breathing heavily past the stitch in his side and apology darkening his eyes, he said, "Mr. President, I'm afraid that there's no way we can navigate the slope ourselves and still take your weight. Hence the rope.”

His explanation was clear and succinct, if delivered a bit dryly. He knew it was out of character for him, but somehow being confined with these two men had removed a few of the professional barriers he’d taken great pains to erect. “I'm going to give you a leg up until you can reach the end, then I'm afraid that you're going to have to pull yourself up along the floor hand over hand."

The President looked at McGarry reproachfully. "That's your plan?"

McGarry shrugged helplessly and pointed an accusing finger at Butterfield. “His plan. I’m just a passenger here.”

Watching the play of emotions flash across Butterfield’s face, Bartlet realized he had very little choice in the matter. It was the best they could come up with. Still, he managed a cranky growl, “I’m too old for this.”

McGarry’s brows rose dubiously. “You’re too old?”

Not even bothering to dignify that with an answer, Bartlet sighed and shook his head, then extended his hands to both men to help him upright. "Well, let's get it over with."

"Mr. President." Butterfield carefully leaned his charge forward until he was lying against the steep angle of the floor. He gestured to McGarry, who hastily scrambled up to reach the end of the rope, and watched as he braced himself there in readiness.

Sparing one last look of concern for his charge, he asked, "Now, sir?"

At Bartlet's affirmative nod, he gritted his teeth and stooped, linking his fingers under the man's undamaged leg. As torn muscles protested violently, Butterfield stifled a cry of pain and boosted him up across the steep angle of the floor towards the waiting Chief of Staff.

Bartlet let out an agonized grunt as his chest protested being dragged over the rough surface, and his injured leg dangled limply behind him. Straining upwards, he reached for McGarry's outstretched hand.

Holding the makeshift rope, McGarry stretched down with his free hand and succeeded in closing his fingers on his friend's wrist. Hauling back with all his strength, he managed to drag the President up the few feet necessary to allow him to seize the rope in both hands. Panting slightly, he checked his friend's grip was secure before releasing him.

"Alright sir?"

Bartlet's hands were white on the rope, and his head rested on his outstretched arms. He raised it slightly to give his Chief of Staff a tight smile. "Yeah, Leo. Let's get out of here."

The President took a deep breath and grasped the rope tightly as Butterfield clambered up and across the debris on his other side. The agent’s presence alongside, with McGarry above, was all the incentive he needed. Slowly and painfully, he commenced hauling himself upward hand over hand, his right leg trailing uselessly. The not so idle thought occurred to him that if he’d got out from behind a desk a bit more often this whole thing might not seem so impossible.

The two men on either side of him could offer little more than moral support. Any attempt to allow him to rest by taking his full weight risked sending them tumbling back down the slope. Breathing heavily, the exertion bringing an unnatural flush to his pale face and causing his head wound to pound in time with his heart, Bartlet struggled upwards in unrelenting silence.

"Just a few more feet, sir." McGarry spoke encouragingly, shooting a nervous glance at Butterfield.

The President gave no sign of having heard him, eyes unfocused and face strained as he concentrated all his energy on the task of placing one hand over the other. Suddenly, the tension on his limbs was relieved as strong arms encircled his shoulders and pulled him up the last couple of feet to the sill of the hatchway.

He felt the rain and wind on his face and dimly, through the blood pounding in his ears he heard Butterfield murmur reassuringly "I've got you, sir. Well done."

Feeling driving rainwater mingling with the perspiration on his cheeks, Bartlet sagged back weakly against the chest of his security chief, who was holding him firmly on the lip of the sill. He opened his eyes to meet McGarry's anxious gaze and saw the other man's expression lighten in relief. Summoning up his energy, he gave him a weak nod.

Bartlet was surprised to see the man’s eyes widen and the color drain from his face, until he realized his friend's gaze was directed over his shoulder.

"Uh, Ron …" Unable to clearly verbalize his emotions, McGarry waved a frantic hand.

Wincing at the sudden movement, the secret service agent twisted to look over his shoulder at the hillside behind him. What he saw caused him to utter a heartfelt, “Shit!” Turning swiftly back to the man in his arms and grunting as he hauled him to his feet, he said briskly, "Mr. President, we're going to have to get out right now."

"What?" Bartlet found himself already being manhandled into position on the edge of the sill. Looking down at the drop of over ten feet to the hillside below the hatchway he balked. He still hadn’t looked over his shoulder, although from the looks on McGarry and Butterfield’s faces the following question just begged to be asked, "Why?"

Without preamble, McGarry grabbed Bartlet's other arm. "The hillside above us is sliding," he snapped. “Once it hits the wreck, we're going to be pushed over that!"

Bartlet followed the pointing finger forward past the wrecked nose of the helicopter and gulped. "Fair point." He looked to the two men positioned on either side of him in the hatchway and asked --though he had a fairly nasty suspicion what the answer would be--, "What's the plan?"

Butterfield looked over his charge's head at the Chief of Staff. "Jump?"

The Chief of Staff was just as terse. "Jump!"

Ignoring the startled gasp of the man between them, they launched themselves forward into space, dropping heavily onto the soft earth below.

McGarry landed with a thud, the breath whooshing out of him. Rolling over clumsily, he saw that Butterfield had already gained his feet and was struggling to lift Bartlet. Stumbling upright, he slipped a hand under the dazed man's other arm and helped Butterfield drag him, tripping and floundering across the loose soil, trying desperately to get clear of the disaster bearing down on them.

"There!" Butterfield indicated a raised rock outcrop that seemed to offer the possibility of a sanctuary.

Both men redoubled their efforts, the earth beneath them slowly starting to move now, tugging hungrily at their feet. The distant roar of the jet fighters still circling high above lent an oddly mocking note to the scene. Help was so near, yet still useless.

Reaching the base of the low outcrop, both men began to mount it rapidly, hastily dragging the body between them, forcing themselves to ignore the President's pained exclamation as his leg banged excruciatingly against the rough surface. Driven on by the increasingly loud rumbling, they finally gained the top and threw themselves flat, Butterfield stretching his long form over the body of the President.

Pressed flat against the rock by his security chief's weight, Bartlet managed to twist his head around to regard the scene before him with horrified awe. He felt the stone beneath him tremble as the tons of mud, earth and vegetation swept past, catching the remains of the downed helicopter with its ill-fated passengers and carrying it along effortlessly, until it disappeared over the lip of the cliff and vanished from sight.

Turning his head slightly, he caught a glimpse of his Chief of Staff's shocked face, wincing as it was suddenly illuminated by a sheet of flame that roared up momentarily above the cliff edge, before abruptly dying back down. He could hear the distant crackle of fire as the aviation fuel finally ignited the wreck, and closed his eyes in silent prayer for the souls of the men whose bodies lay immolated within.

Finally, the rumbling died away and Butterfield lifted his body carefully off the President. "Everybody alright?"

Rainwater running down his face and soaking into his suit, McGarry could only offer a stunned nod, his eyes still fixed on that point where the remains of Marine One had disappeared. He was roused from his trance by an agonized hiss and looked down to see Bartlet clutching his injured leg in both hands as he attempted to gain a sitting position.

Pain aside, the President appeared to have recovered his equanimity. "Well, that was bracing! Think those guys…" he indicated the jet fighters with an upward jerk of his thumb, "…realize we got out? If not, they must be having kittens about now."

"That reminds me …” Butterfield reached into his pocket and stupefied his companions by producing a flare gun. "Grabbed it from a locker when I was getting the blankets," he explained calmly, releasing the flare up into the sky and bathing them all in a red light.

"You okay, Leo?" Bartlet studied his friend. It was difficult to be sure in the fast fading glow of the flare, but he thought that McGarry seemed to be regaining his color and balance. He felt immeasurably relieved by the man's firm nod and promptly attempted to lighten the moment. "See? I told you everything would be fine. In fact I think we cheated ourselves of a really good last-minute escape story."

McGarry regarded his old friend with disbelief. "What?" he asked weakly.

"Yeah. We allowed the drama to dissipate by giving ourselves such a wide escape margin," Bartlet continued blithely. "I estimate we had, oh, a good minute and a half before the slide hit. We lost the tension."

Grinning he enjoyed McGarry's expression, which seemed to indicate that right now his friend's emotions were, perhaps fortunately, too deep for words. His teasing mood was cut short however by an abrupt yelp of anguish as Butterfield pulled the belt around his wounded thigh even tighter. "Christ! Ron!"

"Sorry, Mr. President." Butterfield's face was creased with concern as he tried to adjust the blanket compress, which was now sodden with both rainwater and fresh blood from the rough handling of the last few minutes. Looking up into Bartlet's ashen face and seeing the convulsive bobbing of his throat as he fought down a sudden wave of nausea, the agent's attention was abruptly tugged away.

"Ron?" Worriedly, McGarry glanced from the President's drawn features to the security chief's face. His dismay mounted when Butterfield momentarily closed his eyes, then receded again when they reopened to reveal unveiled relief. Glancing upwards, he suddenly detected what Butterfield had already heard and almost collapsed as the weight of responsibility finally lifted. The noise of rotor blades was all too familiar.

The medivac choppers had found them at last.

"Mr. President?" He touched the shoulder of the man whose forehead was now resting on one drawn up knee. "Help's finally arrived."

"You're kidding me," came Bartlet's weary response. Lifting his head, he opened his eyes and winced as they were seared by the searchlight of the helicopter that suddenly dropped over the top of the ridge to hover overhead. "No, I guess you're not. Any chance we can get them to dim that light a bit?"

McGarry laughed, giddy with relief. "It hardly seems polite under the circumstances. After all, they're here to rescue us."

"Speak for yourself," the President grumbled. "As far as I can see, nine-tenths of any rescuing in this mission has already been taken care of. Remind me to compliment them on their sense of timing, by the way."

"Oh, no!" McGarry spoke firmly, looking up and squinting against the offending glare as a rescue cradle with men on the towline began a swaying descent towards their position. "I've had a long, hard day and I'm not letting you give them any excuse to toss us overboard before we get back to civilization."

Bartlet gave a weak snort, and then impulsively reached out to seize Butterfield and McGarry's hands in his chilled grasp. "Fellas, I want to say thank you. Thank you both … for everything." He gazed at them intensely, trying to convey his wordless gratitude for the risks they had taken on his behalf, and much more besides.

Seeing that understanding in McGarry’s answering smile and an almost smile from Butterfield --which was more than he had expected--, he gripped their hands tightly before sinking back and allowing the exhaustion he’d been fighting for so long finally have its way.

Closing his eyes, he muttered tiredly, “Leo?”

Just as worn-out and exhausted, McGarry allowed himself a moments peace before answering, “Yeah?”

“Can I sleep now?”

McGarry’s face broke into a sudden, relieved smile. It was over. Settling back, fully prepared to let the arriving rescue team to take them all in charge, he shared a long, sympathetic look with Butterfield and answered tiredly, “Knock yourself out, Mr. President.”

Shaking his head at the sight, Ron Butterfield sighed heavily and started to get up to lend a hand to the descending rescuers. Staggering, he slipped back to his knees and bit back a curse at the near forgotten pain that coursed through his side. The adrenaline was wearing off. Gritting his teeth, he started to get back up, and then paused. Hand pressed to his side, he looked down at the two filthy and exhausted men and weighed his options. He was missing something here.

He thought about it for a moment, and then muttered, “Aw, hell.”

Joining the President and his Chief of Staff he lay back down and waited. He figured he’d earned this moment. Let someone else do the work for once.

~ooOoo~

‘Jackass.’

Abigail Bartlet didn’t know what to feel, couldn’t pick one emotion from the muddled confusion that twisted through her mind. It was the only coherent thought she could manage. She wasn’t even sure she hadn’t said it out loud. A quick glance at the blank face of the agent sitting next to her was reassurance enough that she hadn’t.

Small relief there, especially now.

But then, would there be a reaction? The secret service were used to that particular word. Used to her using it at any rate. As much as they might want to, nobody else would dare. She almost smiled at that thought. Nobody commented, nobody reacted; at least not after the first time. By now, they’d probably lost count of the times that word had echoed down the halls of the White House.

Watching the buildings flash by, the faces of the curious as the heavily guarded motorcade sped down the street, Abigail Bartlet wondered, not for the first time and certainly not the last, what the hell she was doing here.

‘Jackass.’

It was all his fault. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to rail and spit against his stubborn pride, his refusal to face the obvious. It had been so easy to hold on to the rage these last months, seemingly the only thing that had kept her going. The whole thing was starting to get ugly. Injured pride, betrayal; in the end it all amounted to the same thing.

It was all his fault.

She found the anger, held on to it. For a moment, it felt good and solid; the warm glow of a weakened ember. Not much, but it was enough.

‘Mrs. Bartlet, your husband has been shot.”

Abbey closed her eyes, refusing the memory. It came anyway. She never could stop it. Was that when it had begun? The doubts? The hidden fears? She’d thought the MS enough of an enemy, had never counted on the vicious, hate filled human variety. Oddly, at the time she’d been ridiculously grateful and touched the grim agent had said, ‘Your husband.’

Not the President.

Your husband.

Jed.

She lost the anger. And in its place? She wasn’t quite sure.

‘Mrs. Bartlet, there’s been an accident. Marine One is down.’

Abbey swallowed hard and tried to bite back the tears. Like most things she’d done lately, she failed miserably. She felt the tracks as the tears slowly found their way down her cheeks. Wiping them away, she found a bit of the spark again, the anger.

And whose fault was that? That she was crying again? He knew she was pissed, and who she was pissed at. She had every reason to be. He deserved it. The fact that he had absolutely no idea why had little bearing on her targeting. Yes, it had been her choice. He hadn’t asked, he never did. He didn’t have to. All she’d had to do was look in his eyes and the decision was made. It was that simple.

She loved him. She was pissed at him. He deserved it.

It was all his fault and he still hadn’t figured out why. It always came back to that. He didn’t even have the decency to ask. One small, insignificant seem