And The World Stood Still

by:SheilaVR

Character(s): Jed & Co.
Category(s): General
Rating: TEEN
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...
Summary: The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.
Author's Note:I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place.

Friday, 8:30 P.M.

For those individuals either influential enough or just *lucky* enough to obtain admission, a seat at a banquet with the President as guest speaker was not to be missed. For those who did not qualify on either account, waiting outside near the parked motorcade was the next best thing, even at night, especially if they had set their VCRs in advance. While hearing The Man speak could be inspiring in itself, even on tape at home and after the fact, seeing him up close *and* in the flesh far surpassed any impersonal image on TV.

Nor were these vigils so very boring as a rule. In winter well-muffled bodies huddled for warmth; in rain they shared umbrellas; in anything else (such as *this* night, a cool summer evening), the lack of physical distraction increased the chatter. Perfect strangers struck up casual conversation with anyone else nearby, discussing aspects of the President's administration in general or the President's policies in particular, or even the President's personality for that matter. Sometimes an especially foresighted citizen would bring a portable television set for catching the live broadcast of the speech, and even the smallest screens attracted a considerable knot of instantaneous new friends. Plus, the most experienced among them could surmise some of what was going on inside by watching the Secret Service agents scattered about, their military stiffness predictable and their discreet but visible earphones a dead giveaway.

Sure enough, their first stir towards full attention indicated that the speech had concluded and that the guest of honor would soon be leaving. Engines were started and lights switched on up and down the length of the limousine motorcade and its formidable escort. Discussions waned and excitement climbed. Then there followed the inevitable, interminable delay inside as officials clustered around to praise this latest political triumph and as security cleared the halls for departure. Many people *out*side regretted the level of precaution that had to be observed wherever their President went, since it not only made him late but also made it hard for his fellow Americans to see him at close proximity for any length of time.

At long last a door to one side swung open - never the most obvious exit, for obvious reasons - and a veritable parade of men in pristine eveningwear poured out. But the people behind the barriers had eyes for only one of them. Near the troupe's middle ranks, surrounded by activity like the calm eye of a hurricane, not standing out much at all in the unbroken sea of black tuxedos and white shirts worn by all of them (designed to provide precisely that kind of camouflage), not even very striking in height or build, he nevertheless drew everyone's attention without fail. And it wasn't just the familiar face, either. Something about that carriage proclaimed a generous nature, a famous humor... and a degree of supreme political power that few individuals in the history of the entire world could ever know.

The crowd cheered, personal political affiliations forgotten, vying for a good view. Usually he accepted their approval with a word of thanks; now and then those in the first row would overhear snippets of a discussion between him and his staff; on a rare occasion he'd been known to honor one or two of the nearest fans with a brief chat or joke. Certainly, no matter how rushed he might be, President Josiah Bartlet never failed to pause a few moments in full sight and wave his gratitude that all of them were willing to wait so long just for him. He always said he owed their patience that much at the very least.

This night must have been one of the more hurried ones. He strode silently past a hundred applauding supporters to his limo (one of two identical choices, so that any potential attacker would have only a fifty percent chance of guessing right), halted for no more than five seconds to face the people, smile and raise a hand in acknowledgement of their enthusiasm, then ducked inside. The trailing staff members scrambled for their own vehicles and the motorcade started to move, that all-important limo nestled protectively in its center, flanked fore and aft by police motorcycles and Secret Service sedans, red lights flashing away.

Was the long vigil worth that mere glimpse of greatness? You'd have to ask each individual spectator, and you'd certainly get some answers other than a confident "Yes" or a disappointed "No". Celebrity-watching has ever remained a matter of personal perspective.

From the perspective of the man at the center of all this, now cruising through Washington's broad streets, the evening had been a grand success. He sat back against the plush leather upholstery, laced his fingers behind his head, and released a broad grin as the city lights twinkled past, their glow dimmed by highly-tinted, bulletproof auto-glass.

"Ah, this is the life."

The Secret Service agent seated across from him, just as neatly attired yet stiff and silent like a soldier on parade, did not reply. Nor did the driver, fully focused on piloting this ponderous parade float. The broad avenue ahead was an otherwise-deserted corridor in both directions, and every side street had been blocked off by police as well, guaranteeing unimpeded passage, their cherries winking in salute.

The limo's privileged passenger didn't let the professional reticence of his two companions dissuade him. "I remember the first time I had to drive myself through this town." He shook his head. "It was a nightmare."

And it still could be...

The chauffeur realized it first. Checking his mirrors and sides constantly, he glanced right, took a second, longer look - and yelled one word of dire warning:

*"ALERT!"*

Both men in the rear seats at once sat up, grasping with immediate trepidation that something was seriously wrong, but they had no chance to ask where or even what the problem was. In the next second a blaze of white headlights flooded the limo's starboard side as a fast-swerving sedan launched itself from out of nowhere and rocketed towards them in an undeniable collision course.

The President threw up a hand at this painful glare, and heard the harsh squeal of tires on asphalt as his well-trained driver tried to dodge in the pitifully-brief moment left. A stretch-limousine, however, is not the most maneuverable of vehicles, ranking just ahead of an inter-city bus. The reinforced windows did not disguise the details of the charging car grill - it was already that close - or seal out the roar of a racing engine. And not even these fully-armored pseudo-tanks would be proof against the impact of a half-ton steel missile at high speed. Time might have appeared to freeze itself upon this very instant, so swiftly did the mind perceive each detail... yet there was no time to duck, to summon help, even to cry out. The national might of the United States could not block the inexorable approach of destruction. All that its leader could do, in that splintered heartbeat, was shut his eyes and turn his face away.

The out-of-control sedan followed its own high-beams, as if homing in on the passenger door's presidential seal that they lit so perfectly, and smashed the entire middle span of the limo in upon itself. Shattering steel and plate-glass and the precision of an American top-security motorcade all at once. The limo slammed sideways, rubber and metal shrilled in mutual protest, its once-flawless length literally bending under the savage force. Both vehicles pinwheeled across three lanes - you can thank DC police efficiency for clearing the street of all other traffic - as the entire presidential entourage disintegrated into chaos. Voices wailed into wrist-radios and screeched out of earphones. Cruisers and motorcycles either sprang frantically forward or raced desperately back, sweeping in from all directions like a cloud of flies, even before the limo's twisted wreckage quite stopped moving. Their emergency lights painted the night scene with blood-red strokes as security agents and staff members boiled out onto the pavement and rushed to the aid of the limo chauffeur, the escorting bodyguard... and the man they were all supposed to protect.

The man who now lay in the middle of the street. A crumpled and motionless heap of once-pristine gentleman's elegance, surrounded by metal fragments, glass shards - and damp stains that looked black in the merciless illumination of the encircling headlamps.

*****

Leo McGarry leaped out of his chair, dead-white in an instant. *"WHAT?"* he shouted into the phone receiver, his expression a study in total horror.

The secretary to the White House Chief of Staff jumped at her boss's bellow. Leo didn't apologize; this jolt was nothing. "Margaret! Get everyone in here *NOW!*"

She took one look at him and asked no questions.

Donna burst into Josh Lyman's office just as explosively, and even more panic-stricken. "Josh. *EMERGENCY.*"

The Deputy Chief of Staff, on his own phone, hesitated only long enough to meet her frantic eye. "Call you back," he interrupted his chat, hung up without waiting for confirmation, and scrambled to his feet.

"Toby!"

Toby Ziegler's head bobbed up from his paperwork. Mandy Hampton stood framed in the doorway of his office, her stiff, unnatural stance shrieking disaster.

She gasped out only two desperate words. "The motorcade - "

Without a word, the Communications Director dropped his pen and followed her.

Sam Seaborn walked into the bullpen, arms loaded with take-out food, just in time to be met by a breathless Cathy. "Sam! Thank heavens you're back! Leo's office, *fast!*"

"Oh, hell. What's happened now?" The Deputy Communications Director dropped his warm package onto the nearest desk, changed direction and accelerated, all thought of supper gone in a trice.

Bonnie converged from the other side, clearly having picked up on the grapevine as well. "Whatever it is, it's *bad!*" Both women ran to keep up with him.

Now running himself, he led the way through the rabbit's warren of halls that formed the backstage of the West Wing. "Then it can only be the President."

CJ Cregg was sharing a laugh with Danny Concannon by one of the water coolers when Josh rounded a nearby corner at a *very* quick march and seized her arm in passing, dragging her forcibly after him and almost yanking her off her feet to boot.

"Hey -!" She fast got the idea that this was no joke. "What is it?" And a hideous suspicion reared its terrible head in the next two strides at his ominous silence. "Not the -"

"There's been an accident," Josh said shortly without looking back at her. And needed say no more.

"My God." She shook free and picked up the pace, high heels notwithstanding.

Eyes wide, Danny followed as far as he dared, right to the last door beyond which no member of the White House Press Corps may go. And cursed his lesser status for denying him one whopper of a scoop from the very source.

Toby detoured briefly by way of reception outside the Oval Office. The personal secretary to the President glanced up at his swift arrival, and her words of welcome died stillborn at the grim caste to his face.

He strode right up to her, as imperious as any of the Secret Service could hope to be. "Mrs. Landingham, you'll want to hear this."

No news travels faster than tragic news. A veritable flood of humanity streamed towards a common destination: the only possible source of fact. In mere minutes every corridor in the building was deserted - save one. Holding court before as many of the several dozen late-working employees as could cram into his office, Leo cleared up what he could.

"It was a drunk driver. Of all places in the city and all the hours in the day, about fifteen minutes ago he blew past the police escort, lost control of his car... and broadsided the President's limousine."

A choked whisper of shock rippled through the packed room - and quickly stilled again. Waiting anxiously for each word.

"The chauffeur has only minor injuries; he at least was wearing a seatbelt. The escorting bodyguard is critical."

Leo paused, struggling for self-control. Not a sound interrupted him, but every other heart present was screaming one unified thought: *No, don't tell us he's dead, he CAN'T be dead - *

For those old enough to remember, this was *way* too much like Dallas in 1963.

"The President is... at this time... still alive."

A concert of held breaths wheezed out at that postponement of the worst-case scenario. Still, there would be no celebrating just yet. Only *at this time - *

Leo consulted the paper he held, adjusting his spectacles as though he couldn't quite believe what he saw through them. "They only just got him to Walter Reed, so we don't have much yet in the way of details. At the very least there are fractures, internal injuries, possible spinal damage, massive bleeding... and trauma to the head." The Chief of Staff paused for breath. "He was thrown from the limo."

Almost everyone winced and several groaned in vivid sympathy.

Very quietly, "They don't yet know if they can save him."

Every single face wore the exact same tormented expression: *He's the President! He HAS to survive!*

Leo sighed wearily, helplessly, and lowered the list of damages. Not looking up. "They'll tell us more as soon as they have it."

For several moments, no one else seemed capable of speech or even thought. They were all completely stunned that so simple and careless an act, and the preservation of a single life, could have such tremendous repercussions, for the nation as a whole and for themselves as a functioning unit. It was as if, with the fall of their leader, they had absolutely no idea just what to do next.

And it seemed inconceivable that the rest of the world right outside was proceeding as usual with its multitude of standard activities, totally unaffected. In the White House, life had come to a screeching halt.

Toby stirred first. "What about his family?"

"Both the First Lady and Zoey have already gone to the hospital. The Secret Service have some people on the phone, but I think there are still several out-of-town relations who haven't been reached yet."

A respectful silence.

Leo drew himself up with an effort. "Much as I'd prefer that they find out through a personal call rather than over the air waves, there's no way we can sit on this. CJ, you'll hold a briefing within the hour, as soon as I get a complete diagnosis. And I have no doubt the press room will be full before then."

The White House Press Secretary nodded stiffly. "No doubt."

But just what would she be reporting: injuries... or *death?*

"The attending staffers for this low-profile thing were Charlie, Franco, Colette, Nancy and Rick. Charlie's staying on at the hospital as long as it takes." Translation: until he was needed either to assist the President's homecoming - or to accompany the President's coffin. "Sam, I want you to keep in touch with him; the kid's pretty shaken up."

The Deputy Communications Director nodded understandingly. "Right."

"The others are on their way here; I'll speak to them myself. Mandy, you might as well start tracking the world news cycle now. God only knows what kind of effect this is going to have on our Middle Eastern fan club."

The public relations specialist nodded readily. "Agreed."

Everyone grasped the concern at once. Certain famously volatile nations might choose this moment of U.S. executive disruption to do something rash. And that was a complication that nobody needed right now.

Leo hesitated again, struck by a new thought. "Oh, before anyone gets any bright ideas about paying a visit to show support, that entire wing of the hospital has been completely locked down. *No one* gets in." He exhaled. "Not even me."

And this time everyone present heard the anguish he was trying so hard to hide. With all his being, Leo wanted to be at Jed Bartlet's side right now. And he had two extremely compelling reasons to claim that right: he was the President's closest confidant and right-hand man... and he was the President's oldest and dearest friend.

But Secret Service procedure made no allowances for human feelings.

He pressed on quickly with business, before his emotions got the better of him. "And I know how good the scuttlebutt is around here at warping the facts. Toby, I'll make sure any hint of further development gets to you, so that you can keep the whole staff up to date. We don't want anyone spreading hysterics, or scheduling time off for a state funeral before we know it's necessary." And despite this somewhat brutal choice of phrasing, his compassion for the other employees and their own near-panic came through.

Toby inclined his head. "With enough luck and prayer, it won't be."

"Amen." Echoing every listener's sentiments. "Josh, you're with me. The Vice-President is flying out of Atlanta ASAP; he should get here by midnight. The whole Cabinet will assemble as well. We have to implement the Constitution, like it or not."

Several people flinched. The 25th Amendment outlined exactly how to go about replacing the President - temporarily *and* permanently.

Josh rolled his eyes. "This'll be the most fun of all."

"Yeah, tell me about it," his boss agreed morosely.

There was nothing more to be said. Gradually an atmosphere of resuming at least *some* order, of buckling down for the long haul, of getting the crisis work done since nothing *else* could be done - indeed of just filling time and waiting for more news, good or *bad* - permeated the room. The only thing any of them could do was hope for the best.

And fear the worst.

Leo dropped notes and glasses onto his desk with an air of finality. "As of now, all non-essential operations, and most of the essential ones, are on hold till further notice. When we know more about the President's convalescence -" he swallowed, but drove himself on, refusing to consider any other option yet "- we'll prioritize whatever issues can't hold that long. In the meantime, all of you might as well go home and *try* to rest up a bit. Senior staff, forget any plans you've made for the weekend. We're going to have quite a time of it."

Not a soul present moved. Clearly they didn't want to risk being out of the information loop for a single moment, couldn't bear the thought of being anywhere else but on hand to hear the next bulletin as soon as humanly possible. It was far past the standard quitting time on a Friday night, but no one said a word about leaving.

The Chief of Staff had turned away, a hand across his eyes as though physically holding back the fear that threatened to undermine his huge responsibilities in the here and now. But he soon noticed this quiet reigning at his back. And slowly revolved, to face a room of silent, united resolution to stick it out.

He regarded them solemnly... and nodded. "Suit yourselves. Believe me, I know how you all feel. But as much as I hate to admit it, we can't help him right now. We're just going to have to wait and see - and deal with whatever happens."

On that pointed dismissal, people gradually and reluctantly began to disperse. Many banded into pairs or small groups, sharing their whispered anxieties, drawing strength from each other, afraid to be alone. Some returned to their duty stations, plunked down in front of paperwork that helped run a nation, yet had suddenly shrunk in importance, and just gazed into space. True, the West Wing never completely slept, with various items on the burner day and night... but what did the finer details of bureaucracy and politics matter now?

The senior staff lingered behind, in case Leo had further comments specifically for them. And because, as those employees with the closest relationship to their Chief Executive, they could not do otherwise. Finding what comfort could be had in togetherness.

The silence and stillness stretched out as they traded glances full of meaning. No words were needed. Mandy leaned into Josh, who put a supportive arm around her. CJ and Sam moved closer together on voiceless, mutual accord until their shoulders touched. Toby stood a bit apart, steepled fingers held to his lips as though in prayer this very minute.

Both hands braced on his desk, head hanging as if he hadn't the energy or the will to lift it, Leo finally looked up. His face drawn and haggard.

Not at all surprised to find them there, watching him.

He didn't have to speak, either. Their tortured features said it all.

*****

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

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