The National Library - West Wing Fan Fiction

Refiner's Fire

Category(s): Post-Ep
Rating: TEEN
Disclaimer: This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...
Summary: A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.
Authors Notes: This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.
Warning:I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.

PART 6

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 00:03:11 ~

Like most Vice-Presidents, John Hoynes dreamed of the day when he would be President himself. What young and ambitious American politician wouldn't - especially after living in the shadow of that ultimate goal, rarely noticed and even less appreciated?

Still, there was one aspect to working in the White House that did not appeal to him at all, and that was *living* in the White House. Of course, in an emergency the Chief Executive could respond at once, since he slept right upstairs. Yet in the same fashion he could never truly escape the demands of his job, and found it almost impossible to separate work from relaxation, public life from private life. No wonder Jed Bartlet mentioned restless nights.

No, far better to enjoy the relative seclusion of the Vice-Presidential Mansion, halfway across DC on the spacious grounds of the US Naval Observatory. It had to be really urgent before any work followed its prime resident there.

On this particular evening Hoynes had put his feet up with a good book and the TV off. And concentrated on forgetting that, just across the Potomac, the only man in the country who outranked him was chatting it up with a mob of college students, and almost certainly garnering laurel wreaths in the process. The Vice-President dearly wanted to make his own run for the Oval Office, and he didn't want to wait out a second four-year term. But at the rate the polls were climbing recently, Bartlet would be a shoo-in for re-election against anyone masochistic enough to oppose him.

He was immersed in his novel, to the deliberate exclusion of all else, when a firm tap on the left-hand door brought him abruptly back to this world. Heaving a sigh, he lowered the paperback. <Figures. Just when I get to a suspenseful part.>

The *real* suspense was yet to come.

"Yes?"

The ranking officer of his Secret Service detail strode into the den. Hoynes took one look at that scowl and his annoyance dissipated. Something was wrong.

"Sir, I think you should watch the current newscast."

Hoynes hesitated for one heartbeat. Something was *very* wrong. Still, if the media had the details and the SSA didn't, then it most likely didn't involve the personal safety of -

He had straightened his recliner and picked up the TV remote when the den's right-hand door blew open, without even the courtesy of a knock. Both men jerked that way as the Vice-President's home secretary burst in, eyes huge.

*"THE PRESIDENT'S BEEN SHOT!"*

Silence, thundering. Not even thought would come.

With difficulty, Hoynes shook off the spell and threw a stark glance at the stiff-standing agent on his left, who made no move to deny that horrific statement. Then, in slow motion, he aimed the remote and brought his TV to life.

He didn't even check which station came up; as usual in cases of serious groundbreaking news, every channel suspended everything else. The first sight that appeared was unmistakably the presidential motorcade parked outside the Newseum, just a couple of miles away from where he sat. And that same sight at once erased any hint of order and routine: ambulances were everywhere, several people hurried about with clear urgency, and several others lay prone across the ground.

There could be no other possible conclusion.

"... those just joining us, shots were fired at the President as he stepped outside the Newseum in Arlington no more than five minutes ago... "

For an immeasurable period the three men watched the coverage together. Evidently photos and video clips were being compiled and broadcast on a minute-by-minute basis, as fast as they could be transmitted. There were snippets of the presidential party stepping outside, Bartlet meeting the people with his security and staff close by - then sharp, brutal reports that started everyone running in undeniable panic. Shouts, screams, disjointed movement, explosions of light as bullets struck metal objects from above and gunfire was returned from below. A few slightly-blurred frames caught the President up close as he was seized by his agents and hauled towards safety; others focused on the stampeding crowd and the rapid increase of human shapes stretched out on pavement. And still others communicated even more eloquently the true sense of chaos and terror in their wild swings and broken glimpses through splattered lenses... meaning that the reporters had been drawn into the vortex of violence as well.

Hoynes sat there, elbows on knees, aghast at the carnage.

As the news continued relentlessly, it soon began to repeat itself and show the same images again, indicating that no new developments had occurred just yet. They still didn't know if the President, the First Daughter, or any other public figure had survived.

That repetition helped to settle his nerves. A bit. It was time to act. <And I have access to a source of information that the media does not.>

The Vice-President stood. "Wyatt, you've got to know more than this!"

The agent stood at attention, almost expressionless. Not quite. "Sir, I came to tell you as soon as we got it on wideband."

Of course there would have been at least some delay. With so many individuals under Secret Service protection, they used a different communication frequency for each detail, to guard against the air traffic getting clogged at a vital moment. However, in a real crisis the central HQ could transmit to every agent at large simultaneously - once they could spare their attention from co-ordinating the crisis itself.

"The President?"

"He's on his way home, sir."

Hoynes exhaled. "So if he has been injured, it's not serious. What about his daughter?"

"We're not sure just yet."

<Dear God, not that child!> "Has anyone contacted the First Lady?"

"Her own detail is already on it, sir."

<Am I glad I'm not the one who has to tell her... > Just imagine informing a wife and mother of a blood-bath like that - and not even having the certainty of her family's good health at the same time.

"And the President's staff - any word on them? They were right there with him... "

"Nothing to date, sir."

The Vice-President looked away, teeth grinding. He was familiar with most of those senior staff members just by bumping into them whenever he went to the White House. He had a special regard for Josh Lyman, who almost got him into the last presidential race two years ago. And Leo McGarry had brought him onto the Democratic ticket after that, championing his value and skills despite Bartlet's own doubts.

Hoynes had seen Josh that very afternoon... and he'd talked to Leo the day before...

The thought of either man dying, so soon after he'd shared counsel and friendship - never mind the President, for whom he had a genuine if envious respect - was like a knife twisting between the ribs. The almost physical pain grew with every second, and some of it shifted into outrage. <Why do popularity and fame always attract the wrong people?>

"What the hell *caused* this?"

"The information's still coming, sir. I'll keep you up to date."

"Do that. In fact, stay right here. I don't want you out of my hearing until I've got it all."

"Of course, sir."

Now Hoynes turned to his assistant, standing silent and numb to one side. "Patrick, we'll start the official wheels at once. Call up the Joint Chiefs and get them together in my office ASAP. We won't invade the White House just yet - they've got to be going insane over there right now - but at least if we're all in one place we'll get the latest information at the same time. Oh, and ask the Attorney General to join us, too; he'll be directly involved for sure. Then contact the other Cabinet members and the Speaker. I think they'd appreciate updates from the horse's mouth, no matter how late it is."

Patrick nodded, struggling to regain his professional demeanor. "I have all the home phone numbers, sir."

"You'd better recruit a couple of others around here for phone duty, just to speed things up. No telling where some of those workaholics may be at this hour. And you can bet that if they catch the news, they'll call in themselves."

"At once, sir."

"Good." Hoynes paused, running over his instructions once again to make sure he'd covered all the bases. "I'll call the President's secretary. Someone there should know that we're standing by. And then I've got to *try* to reach Leo."

"Excellent, sir."

A curious note in his assistant's voice made the Vice-President turn back. Patrick was positively beaming at him.

Hoynes frowned. "What?"

The secretary shook his head in pure admiration. "May I say, sir, that this is positively presidential of you."

Hoynes blinked. <Of me?>

And then his brow smoothed out as the penny dropped.

** The Twenty-fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution, Section Four: whenever the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice-President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President. **

If a majority of the Cabinet declared the President unfit to continue as Chief Executive, then the Vice-President as heir apparent would take up the reins of the nation. And right now it must look very much as though Hoynes was not only rallying the Cabinet but gathering the Joint Chiefs themselves under his banner!

Bemused at the truth to that realization, Hoynes saw how others might misinterpret as well. And none of them needed an error of such magnitude at such a time.

"Rest assured, Patrick: I'm not invoking the Twenty-fifth, and I'm not planning a military coup. The President appears to be relatively unscathed. And it would require more than a few bruises and a bad scare to destabilize him severely enough for me to take over. But we're going to be on the alert in case he calls us. Besides, for each step that information is relayed along, it becomes more distorted."

Patrick just stood there, staring at his boss... and his entire stance proclaimed disbelief - even disappointment. The Vice-President glanced over at Wyatt, half-expecting to see a similar look on his own ultra-reserved bodyguard.

Hoynes drew himself up, his attitude stern. "Is that what you think of my ambitions, Patrick? All right, let me put it this way. Yes, I want to become President - but *not* over Bartlet's dead body! I'm perfectly content to let him finish his term... assuming he survives it. And no thanks to this evening's events. The least I can do is keep everyone informed and be there if I'm needed. Is that clear enough?"

His assistant retreated a step, taken aback that his effort to offer the grandest of compliments had boomeranged so badly. "Uh - yes, *sir*. I'll, uh, get right on the phone, sir." And he beat a very swift retreat.

The Vice-President watched him go, then sighed wearily.

"If that's any indication, then no one *else* will believe me, either," he grumbled.

Wyatt did not respond to that; it was not his place.

"Sir, we've just heard that Zoey Bartlet is safe and going home."

Part of the weight lifted. "Oh, wonderful!" But then Hoynes reminded himself that some others had to have fared less optimistically, judging by the blatant news footage. "Anything on anyone else?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Damn. This is going to be a very long night." The Vice-President ran a hand through his dark hair in frustration. "Tell them to get the car ready." And he picked up his phone.

*****

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

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