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 12

********

~ TIME INDEX: 12:12:17 ~

By midmorning Margaret was well past the twenty-four-hour mark of what had become a thirty-six-hour shift, but she never stopped moving long enough to let the fatigue register. Like almost everyone else in the West Wing today, she had plugged straight through the night and didn't intent to quit anytime soon; there was just too much work to do. And like everyone else, she was running on sheer nervous energy.

None of them took time out for a proper meal, casual conversation by the water cooler or a friendly chat on the phone. People grabbed high-caloric snacks from dispensing machines and ate at their desks or on the run - those with any appetite in the first place. They focused on their tasks with a collective grim determination, not wasting words on frivolous discussion. And they boycotted the phones en masse, except when calling *out*.

Everywhere you went, the phones rang. Some employees finally turned their ringers off. The central switchboard of the White House was swamped. *Anyone* could dial up the public number; all DC guidebooks published it, as this was supposed to be the House of the People. Many citizens claimed that right today, out of both concern and curiosity. Those calls that got through almost always received a weary admission that no further news had been received, and a more or less polite request to free the line. A lot of political operators knew the direct numbers to the senior staff, having enjoyed personal business dealings at some previous time, and they seized that advantage to learn more from closer to the source... yet they met with an equal resistance to discuss anything - on those rare occasions when someone chose to answer.

The Chief of Staff's phone added to this continuous cacophony; those with access to *his* number clearly believed themselves entitled to special treatment. Margaret steadfastly resisted the impulse to pick up, letting the computerized voice-mail service do its job. Considering how much she was on the move, shuttling reports and files and God knew what else, she had a convenient excuse and she welcomed the chance to exploit it.

As one might expect, even in these ultra-trying circumstances Mrs. Landingham was an oasis of calm. She remained at her desk all night and through the day, fielding messages as smoothly as a practiced police officer directs rush hour traffic. Of course, the calls to *this* phone were almost exclusively from diplomats, the highest business profiles in America, or foreign heads of state. Their volume provided a strong testimonial to the effectiveness of telecommunications.

<I'll bet most of Europe heard what happened before I did.>

Margaret had spent the full twelve hours past berating herself for turning off the news coverage just after the Town Hall meeting ended - just before all hell broke loose. The terror-stricken cries that had echoed down the corridor some five minutes later continued to haunt the recesses of her mind. She had no logical reason to feel so guilty - no one could have predicted an unleashing of such savage violence - yet one thought still endured: <I was sitting here, safe and oblivious, while they were being gunned down wholesale... >

For most of that endless first hour, few had succeeded in prying themselves away from the TV banks. The images kept coming, replayed over and over, each time through just a bit more awful. One scene in particular Margaret had no doubt she would never forget: the President caught in the first moment of surprise as agents swept in to protect him... an indistinct, dark-red blotch plainly visible right over his chest. Only after several repeat viewings (every station slowed that tape down to analyze frame by frame) could *anyone* be convinced that it was simply his tie. But for a single heart-stopping instant there -

The pervading tension could have been carved with a letter opener. Staffers of all levels scuttled frantically in all directions. Normally discreet and reserved, the Secret Service was now prominent and menacing. Security requirements had skyrocketed, likewise the press activity both inside and out. Every TV and radio remained off, and newspapers lay ignored; they all screamed the same headlines, and no one wanted to dwell on that anymore. When people spoke, they did so in hushed and anxious tones. Some conflicting reports still persisted on exactly who'd been hurt, and how badly, but the absence of the entire senior staff spelled everything out in block letters. Concern, grief, and actual fear lingered in each pair of eyes, inescapable.

<It's astounding that we can even function.>

Any chore that could be put off was back-benched without a second thought. Almost every employee abandoned his or her normal duties at some point and dove into tasks he or she had never done before. Decisions that just couldn't wait had to be made on the spot, without the benefit of those most experienced individuals who had always made them in the past.

Mandy seemed to be everywhere; she was doing a tremendous job of general co-ordination in such a chaotic setting with no chance to prepare. Any breath of news, and she saw that it got out; any question on something that didn't compute, and she found out in jig time. She updated the press, obtained input from the senior staff assistants on how their bosses would have handled certain matters, and assigned new jobs left and right as needed. Margaret ran across her constantly in the halls, and each time felt a surge of gratitude - despite the unpleasant association with those missing people for whom Mandy was struggling to substitute. Just the appearance of someone in control went a long way towards stabilizing the atmosphere.

The First Lady was another visible presence. Not only had she brought in her own staff, all of them providing welcome manpower and capable skills, but she did her utmost to assume the far-from-ceremonial role of leadership and encouragement that her husband would have provided had he been able. Everyone knew the President had sustained a head injury and Zoey was still quite distraught; everyone recognized Mrs. Bartlet's frequent donation of her valuable time away from her family to buck up the staff laboring away belowstairs.

Of course, the greatest percentage of anxiety was reserved for the President himself. All agreed that he needed to rest, despite the desire and genuine *need* of his employees to see him back at the helm. All were glad that his wife insisted he take it easy, as all knew full well he never would otherwise. And all were comforted by the First Lady's assurance that he would bounce back after just a few more hours. Still... whispers of constitutional implications continued to crop up now and then, as tenacious as lobster claws. All had no doubt that the Vice-President was ready and eager to leap in at the first chance.

Somewhere around eight Sam arrived, finally released from the hospital as both a patient and a *de facto* prisoner. Everyone mobbed him at once, but he knew little that they hadn't already heard. The poor guy had been through the coffee mill more than once and looked about ready to fall over. He did confirm that Toby was unhurt, that Leo was responding well to treatment, that Josh and Charlie would come out of this little the worse for wear - eventually... and that as yet CJ showed no sign of improvement.

Through the pre-dawn hours Margaret had passed by Danny's desk several times. Clearly the redheaded reporter was driving himself to concentrate - with an even lower success rate than the rest of them. He didn't have the benefit of a specific work plan to follow, a predefined task that would at least keep him busy. Most often she caught him staring into space.

Personally, Margaret found Mallory O'Brien's visit the hardest to face. Both of them were especially worried about Leo, if for different reasons. Mallory had grown up very close to the Bartlets; it was quite natural for her to drop in on them after she had been to see her father, and she made a point to speak with his assistant as well. Margaret appreciated the gesture, but she did not want to revisit the memory of the Chief of Staff's blood seeping into the Oval Office carpet. It brought her own emotions desperately near the surface. If they broke free, she doubted she'd be able to force them back inside again, and she wouldn't be able to work otherwise.

Time for another trip around to deliver the latest download of files, reports and instructions. To push the weariness back and shove the painful thoughts aside. Arms full, Margaret passed through Leo's vacant office and the equally-empty Oval Office into reception. Ever on the phone, Mrs. Landingham silently nodded her way. In the corner opposite, Charlie's desk likewise sat unoccupied, like another entry on the casualty list. Margaret tried to disregard this fact as she picked up a document from his inbox that couldn't be put off any longer and proceeded out towards the bullpens. In rapid sequence she circulated between Donna, Ginger, Cathy, Bonnie, Carol and more than twenty others, each of them slaving away and exchanging only a bare minimum of conversation. All knew this was but the latest of a long morning, with an even longer afternoon to follow.

The strange, uncharacteristic ban on raised voices continued. However, an observant eye would detect other communication on a deeper level. Wherever Margaret went, whenever she paused beside one of her colleagues, each woman - and several men, too - touched her lightly on the arm or hand. No more than that. Yet it seemed to weave a common thread that bound them all together, that helped them strengthen each other to endure. And their shared glances contained a wealth of feeling.

They weren't just a loose affiliation of individuals, each going his or her own way, doing a job because their contracts demanded it. They were a welded unit, focused on a higher purpose and a common goal... and none of them had to face the present or the future alone.

By the time she got back to her own desk, Margaret felt somewhat lighter of heart.

*****

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

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