7:32 PM, CEST
Tuesday, April 13
th, 2038
The American Embassy
Madrid, Spain

Alexandra Marie Bartowski often thought that she was going to literally die of boredom.

The twenty-five year old translator from the American Embassy had been assigned to a negotiation between Spain and Libya that was being moderated by the US State Department, but it turned out that the Libyan delegation – which they had been told spoke only Farsi and English – spoke Spanish just fine, thank you. That wouldn't have been such a bad thing if they had had something interesting to talk about, but they were talking about cattle. CATTLE.

Alex suppressed the urge to groan in dismay as they began to talk about what sort of grain was acceptable for cattle imported to Spain. This was the most godawful assignment she had drawn since joining the State Department.

Not that the State Department was exactly a joyous adventure. They had sworn up and down that she was going to thoroughly enjoy the job. She laughed mentally. Enjoy the job? She translated for jackasses and sleazebags, while her sister was the first officer of an attack sub and her brother was the manager of a hotel that catered to the beautiful people.

Oh well. At least she got to live in Madrid. That was certainly a bonus. She had also developed quite nicely, and knew how to take advantage of her body – something that had caused her "Uncle" John Casey quite a bit of consternation when she was a teenager.

Ah, the Caseys. Alex had, with Casey's daughter, Becca, been quite the hell-raising duo as teenagers. Separated in age by ten months, they had nonetheless ended up in the same year in school. When they reached high school, teachers at Harvard-Westlake would beg for them to not be in the same classes.

Alex had nearly had an aneurysm when her brother John had started dating Becca during her and Becca's sophomore year, but now that they were older, she had to admit that John and Becca worked very well together. Of course, the e-mail that Alex had gotten from Becca the night before indicating that Becca might be pregnant… well, that did not bode well for John's continued health and well-being.

Then she heard somebody say, "Let's take a fifteen minute break," and had to stop herself from saying, "Oh thank God." She was out the door practically before the people at the table had stood.

Once outside of the building, she reached into her purse and turned her cell phone on. State Department employees were not permitted to have cochlear cellular implants, because the potential for espionage was simply too great.

Almost immediately after her phone came on, it indicated that she had twelve voicemails and thirty-one missed calls – all of them from her father. That was immediate cause for consternation. Given her father's involvement with the Department of Defense and her mother's involvement with the CIA, one never knew exactly what the hell was going on with the Bartowski family.

She dialed into her voicemail and listened to the messages. The first eleven were some variation on "Where the hell are you" and "Goddammit, Alex, pick up the phone," but the twelfth one gave her chills.

"Alex, this is your father," the voice of Chuck Bartowski said. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. We have a Foxtrot situation in Los Angeles. Your brother is receiving a protective detail, and your sister is being pulled from her current patrol. I need you to get out of Madrid, right now. The CIA will smooth things over with the State Department, but you need to get back in-country as soon as possible. Don't go to the Chief of Station – pack only what you need, and leave on the next flight out. I'll see you when you get here. I love you."

Alex hung up the phone, her eyes wide. Slowly and deliberately, she placed the phone back into her purse. Striding to the sidewalk, she hailed a cab. One pulled over almost immediately. She got in the back seat.

"¿A dónde, senorita?"

"Por favor, al J.W. Marriott."

"They still have you living at a hotel?"

The voice in English caused Alex's head to snap up from her purse. "What a waste of American taxpayer money," the driver said, disgusted.

"What?" Alex asked. "Who are you?"

"I represent a group of individuals who think it's time for America to take a new direction," the driver replied. "The group was formed when I was four years old, but that doesn't stop me from agreeing with it."

Alex's blood ran cold. It couldn't be. No, there was no way.

But what had her father said? "A Foxtrot situation?"

She drew a deep breath. "You're with Fulcrum, aren't you?"

Alex saw the driver smile in the rear view mirror. "Damn, even the adopted Bartowski is a smart one," he laughed. "Oh yes, I'm with Fulcrum. You see, we've been after your father for thirty years, and YOU, my dear young lady, are the perfect bargaining chip."

She crossed her arms. "You'll never get away with this. The State Department knows how to find me – I have a tracking device –"

"The Secretary of State is one of us, young lady," the driver replied. "I can assure you that you will be safely hidden away from the prying eyes of the Central Intelligence Agency."

Alex was beginning to despair. She tried to open the door of the cab – no such luck. "Dream on," the driver said with an ugly laugh. "I wasn't born yesterday."

She punched the door, and collapsed back into her seat. "How did you know when I would be coming out?" she asked. "I wasn't even supposed to leave yet!"

"We didn't," the driver admitted. Alex didn't even recognize what part of Madrid they were in now. "I've just been watching you for the last several days, and I knew that you took a cab home every day. It was just a matter of sitting there today and waiting for the opportunity."

Alex fell silent. She didn't say anything for several minutes, as they drove further and further away from the center of Madrid. Finally, she had to ask. "What's going to happen to me?"

The driver lifted his head, and made eye contact with her in the rear view mirror. "Well, that's mostly up to your father, and to a lesser extent, your mother," he replied. "There's also my boss to consider – and you should know, my boss is somebody who knows your father quite well."

"Who's your boss?" Alex asked, point blank.

"Sorry," the driver replied. "I can't tell you that. And for the record, Miss Bartowski, I don't want to see any ill befall you… but I don't call the shots."

Alex was not exactly reassured.


8:01 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time
Bob Hope International Airport
Burbank, California

Chuck had a bit of a shiver as he drove onto the grounds of Bob Hope Airport. This was not exactly the site of the happiest of his memories.

He could still recall with clarity the day that an insane State Assemblyman had pursued him into the airport, driving a Metro Rapid bus. That was the day that a Fulcrum pilot in an F/A-18 Hornet had almost killed him, Sarah, Bryce, Carina, Casey. That was the day that Bryce had been shot, but it was also the day that Alex had come into their custody.

Twenty-five years ago. And now, Fulcrum had returned. There hadn't been any overt threats, any mentions yet even, but with John identifying a Fulcrum agent in downtown Los Angeles, there was no time to be cautious.

He was also extraordinarily anxious about Alex. It had been ten hours since he'd called her, and he still hadn't heard back from her. That did not give him a good feeling.

Chuck knew that his youngest was supposed to be involved with a negotiation between Spain and Libya for several days, and he hoped against all hope that that's what was keeping her from calling back. But the feeling in his gut was that something was wrong.

"This is USAF Flight 422 on final," Chuck heard over the aviation band radio in his truck. The old Ford F250 was twenty-five years old, but damned if it wasn't still reliable.

Flight 422. That was Lisa's flight. "Requesting permission to land."

"AF 422, this is Burbank Tower," the tower controller replied. "You are cleared to land at your leisure."

A moment later, he watched the French-built Dassault Falcon 7X, USAF designation VC-24 Cardinal, swoop overhead and touch down on the short runway. It quickly came to a halt and began to taxi to a hardstand.

Chuck picked up the microphone attached to his truck's dashboard. "Bob Hope Tower, this is Omaha 1," he said. "Requesting permission for vehicular incursion to airfield."

"Omaha 1, permission is granted. You have approximately three minutes of clearance."

"Roger that," Chuck replied, putting the truck in gear and pressing the accelerator to the floor. He reached the hardstand that the USAF jet had parked on with more than a minute to spare.

As Chuck pulled to a stop next to the mobile stairway that had been wheeled up to the jet, the door opened. An Air Force flight attendant stepped out, followed by his daughter. She looked exhausted, and was still dressed in her coveralls and a USS Montana ballcap. A huge smile still spread across her face when she saw her father, though, and she practically ran down the stairs to greet him.

"Hi, Daddy!" she said, wrapping him in a bear hug. Father and daughter had not seen each other since Montana had deployed on her current patrol, nearly eight months before. The irony there was that it was the intelligence that Chuck developed that so often sent Montana on her death-defying missions.

"Hey, Lisa," he replied, an equally large smile on his face. Chuck couldn't help but be proud of his oldest child. She had done so much with her life in such a short amount of time – certainly far more than Chuck had himself accomplished by the time he was her age.

She drew back from him, and immediately grew a sober look on her face. "What's going on with Fulcrum?" she asked.

Chuck sighed. "Your brother flashed on an American Express card that was issued to an account held by Fulcrum," he replied. "Needless to say, the CIA isn't taking any chances. They're sealing the Intersect Project up as tight as they can, and I'm bringing the family in."

Lisa nodded and tossed her duffel bag into the bed of the Ford. "What about the Montana?"

"Captain Wilkinson is being ordered to take the boat to the Falklands," Chuck replied as he opened the shotgun door of the truck. Lisa got in, and Chuck continued as he walked around to the driver's side. "He is under orders to not discuss his destination with anybody but the crew or the Pentagon. The Montana will be on radio silence unless contacted directly by the Chief of Naval Operations or the Chief of Staff of the Navy. They'll be hiding in a special shelter constructed by the British Navy."

Lisa looked concerned. "How many people know about this?"

"Your mother and me," Chuck replied, starting the truck and driving toward the airport exit. "Sam Tyler, the CNO, the Chief of Staff of the Navy, the director of the CIA, England's Minister of Defence, and of course Captain Wilkinson. Not even the President knows the particulars."

Lisa still didn't look happy. "There is way too much sensitive equipment and intelligence onboard the Montana, Dad," she insisted. "If she gets captured… the Intersect Project is screwed."

"That's why she's not going to get captured," Chuck replied as he turned out onto Hollywood Way. "You're the boat's first officer. You know as well as I do the procedures if Montana's commander thinks she's about to be taken."

Lisa knew the procedures very well. It could only be done with a sixteen digit code that had to be retrieved from the captain's safe, and it involved the detonation of the nuclear warhead on one of the fourth-generation Tomahawk missiles in the forward part of the boat. The detonation of the five kiloton warhead would all but vaporize Montana and ensure that none of her secrets were captured.

Of course, the very fact that Montana had a nuclear warhead onboard was top secret. An international treaty signed twenty-six years before had banned sea-going nuclear weapons effective January 1st, 2025. If Montana was captured and the weapon discovered, not only would the secrets of the Intersect fall into enemy hands, but the crew of the boat would be considered terrorists and thus not subject to the Geneva Conventions.

Lisa didn't even want to think about that.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of her father's cell implant ringing. "I hope to God this is Alex," he muttered. "Hello?"

"Mr. Bartowski?"

Chuck didn't recognize the voice. "Yeah, that's me."

"I have a message for you, Mr. Bartowski. This message is from General Melvin Powers. It is from General Louisa Beckman. It is from Maximillian Calijo."

Chuck's eyes went wide, and he stood on the brakes. The F250 swerved crazily in the middle of the street before coming to a halt. "WHO THE FUCK IS THIS?!"

"I have no name, Mr. Bartowski, or at least, none that you need to know. But I'm quite certain you know exactly who I am."

Chuck took a deep breath. "Fulcrum."

"Indeed, Mr. Bartowski. Surely you didn't believe we'd disappear forever."

"I kinda had my hopes," Chuck replied sarcastically. "Now what the hell do you want?"

"No, Mr. Bartowski, I think the more accurate question is, what do YOU want?"

Chuck's brow furrowed. "Exactly what does that mean?"

"Tell me, Mr. Bartowski, how long has it been since you heard from your daughter, Alexandra?"

Lisa couldn't hear what her father was hearing, but she could see that his hands had tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "It's been several hours."

"Yes, Mr. Bartowski. Actually, we know that it's been at least ten hours. You see, that's how long we've had her in our custody."

Chuck's eyes went wide. "I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU HURT SO MUCH AS ONE HAIR –"

"Oh, do calm yourself, Mr. Bartowski," the Fulcrum agent replied, a trace of irritation in his voice. "We're men, not savages."

"The last time I dealt with you fuckers, there didn't seem to be much of a difference," Chuck growled. "What the hell do you want?"

"What we've always wanted, Mr. Bartowski. The Intersect."

Chuck nodded. "So you want me."

"Or your son. Or your daughter. Any will suffice."

"You're not getting my son or my daughter," Chuck spat.

"Then we'll happily take you, Mr. Bartowski. But don't take too long to decide. The program director is a most impatient individual."

And the call was disconnected. Chuck didn't say a word, just hit the gas.

"Dad," Lisa said. "Dad, calm down!"

"They have your sister, Lisa!" Chuck barked. "How the hell am I supposed to stay calm?"

"Dad, if you keep driving like this, you're going to get us both killed, and what good will that do Alex?" Lisa demanded, anger creeping into her voice.

Chuck slowed down. "You're right," he replied. He sighed. "I guess the best option is for me to just turn myself over to Fulcrum."

"Oh, the hell!" Lisa snapped. "You are NOT just giving up to a bunch of terrorists, Dad!"

Chuck pulled the truck over and looked his daughter in the eyes. "If I don't, your sister will die."

Lisa looked right back at him. "Dad, you and Mom stopped Fulcrum from taking down the President. I would think anything else would be a walk in the park after that."

Chuck looked at his daughter. It seemed so long ago. She had been fifteen months old when Fulcrum had tried to use their ECOMCON plot to take over the White House.

But she was right. He and Sarah had kept it from happening. They had taken on Fulcrum, and they had won. When Fulcrum had sought revenge a year later, they had beaten them.

Now, twenty five years later, Fulcrum was back. But that didn't mean they couldn't be beaten again.

Chuck nodded. "You're right," he told Lisa. "Let's get home to your mother. We've got some work to do."