CHUCK VERSUS ROUTE 66—PART TWO (Chuck 6-06)

The sixth episode of an imaginary sixth season of Chuck.

Disclaimer: No infringement of WB copyright is intended and I don't own Chuck, although there are several scenarios by means of which I could. Or not.


CHAPTER 6

Saturday morning, in the Burbank Buy More

Morgan stands before the video wall in the Electronics section of the big-box store. He stares—hands on hips, amazed, amused, and a little proud—as thirty-two different makes and models of high-def flat-panel televisions identically broadcast the trending news story….about the still mysterious ("…no known photos…some even claim it's just a social-media hoax…but some folks in Arizona, New Mexico, and Oklahoma know better….") young couple traveling through the heartland in a blue vintage sports car ("…it's a 1962 Mustang I, right? no…a Corvette…or maybe a Firebird?"), doing good deeds and helping others all along the way.

"Hello…son." Big Mike's basso voice startles Morgan. He turns to greet the approaching, hefty store manager, who's attired in his usual pale-yellow shirt and green tie.

"Hey Big Mi—uhh…Dad."

Big Mike seizes Morgan's right hand and all but lifts him off the ground with his handshake.

"Good to see ya son! How's the girlfriend? You lookin' to buy her a nice new TV? There's a real fine corporate discount plan for family now, y'know—"

Morgan slips his hand free and takes a defensive half-step backward. "No…I'm here 'cause of the voicemail you left at C. I."

"That? Well that was meant for Bartowski, son. Where's he at?"

"Chuck and Sarah are—shall we say—out of town," Morgan replies, puffing up his chest. "For the time being. But as I'm third-in-command at the company, you may consider me their duly designated representative."

Big Mike looks dubious. "That so?"

"Would I lie to my own dear stepfather?" asks Morgan as he slips an arm up around the manager's broad shoulders. Big Mike snorts knowingly…but then shrugs.

"Well…I suppose I can trust you to deliver a package. Got it in my office. C'mon."

Morgan accompanies his dear stepfather to the office in the back. Big Mike sits down at his desk and starts to rifle through a big pile of forms and envelopes on top, while Morgan reacquaints himself with the setting. Big Mike's prized, wounded trophy marlin Norman is again hanging prominently on the office wall, and the sloppy repairs on its broken body are still apparent. A flatscreen TV mounted just beneath the fish is tuned to the same news program as the ones on the video wall, and still running the story about the Route 66 mystery couple.

Big Mike eventually finds a padded manila envelope in the stack on its desk, and passes it to Morgan. It's addressed to Chuck Bartowski, care of the Burbank Buy More. There's no sign of a sender or a return address, but the postmark is from Mannheim, Germany. One end of the envelope is sliced open.

"From Germany…? Hey, maybe it's from Jeff and Lester!" exclaims Morgan. "Heeey—you opened it already!"

"Yep—it is—and of course I did!" Big Mike fires back. "Considering who it came from, I had to make sure it wasn't a bomb or somethin' else that'd mess up the store. 'Cause with those two clowns you never know."

"Point well taken."

Morgan peeks into the envelope and extracts its only contents: a DVD in a jewel case, labeled crudely with a Sharpie: Cover Demos for Chuck—For Your Eyes and Ears Only.

"Interesting." He scratches his hirsute chin. "Did you play this?"

"Only the first video. It's typical Jeffster! nonsense—some 80s retread—with Patel getting his face all up in the camera. Not worth my time to play the rest of it. I'll leave that to Bartowski. Still can't figure out why this got sent to me in the first place…."

"Well, that's easy enough—they didn't know our new address. Jeff and Lester took off for Germany a couple of weeks before we moved into our new complex—"

"Complex," scoffs Big Mike. "You mean that ugly ol' office building out there across the parking lot."

"Yes…that…and the veritable maze of secret chambers and passageways that extends beneath your store!"

"Give it up, son. I know for sure there's nothing down there. The gas company even confirmed it when they came out to fix that leak a few weeks ago. So you might as well just retire that crazy story."

Big Mike points his thumb over his shoulder at the TV screen.

"Next thing you'll be tryin' to tell me, it's Bartowski and blondie who're the two that saved those kids out in Oklahoma and all that."

"Even I'm not that crazy," Morgan answers him, with a perfectly straight face.


Saturday afternoon, in the suburbs of St. Louis

(Music: "I Won't Be Long," by Beck)

Chuck pulls the Corvette into a big, busy multi-island filling station just off the Interstate, stops at the pump nearest to the exit and farthest from the convenience store, and swiftly emerges from the car to refuel it. From the passenger seat, Sarah—in dark sunglasses with her hair tied up under a kerchief—keeps watch on the scene around them, and especially on a Jeep parked at the next island, with three young and exuberant male passengers. Several of the youths quickly take notice of the beautiful blonde in the gorgeous Corvette, and give them both surreptitious and increasingly long looks, while nudging each other.

Sensing a possible threat, Sarah leans across the center console and—smiling slyly—admonishes her husband, "Pump faster, sweetie."

"I'll do my best," Chuck replies, deadpan—then winks at her.

Sarah's eyebrows lift playfully. "Well, a girl can't ask for more than that."

As soon as the tank is filled, Chuck has the nozzle re-inserted in the pump, the gas tank cover replaced, and the receipt in his hand in just a few seconds.

Meanwhile, the driver of the Jeep—a young woman—has just returned from paying for her gas inside the convenience store. As she starts to climb into her vehicle, one of her passengers murmurs something. The woman glances over the roof of her Jeep toward Sarah and Chuck—and her mouth opens in surprise. She pulls out a smartphone.

"Chuck…!" cries Sarah in alarm.

He's already behind the wheel and starting the engine as the young woman aims the phone at them. A glance to make sure nothing is blocking their escape route—then Chuck gives it the gas, and the Corvette scoots out of the filling station just as the woman snaps the photo.

"Were we busted?" Chuck asks once they are back on the freeway frontage road.

"I'm not sure," replies Sarah. With a self-assured smile, she adds, "It doesn't matter though, because all she could've gotten were the backs of our heads and our bogus plate. So now aren't you glad we stopped at that flea market?"

At Sarah's feet is a plastic grocery sack containing a half-dozen used license plates from different states.

"That was clever, for sure. Learned that trick from your dad, I bet?"

"Yep. Matter of fact, it helped us make a clean getaway with this car the first time."

She grins at the recollection—while Chuck rolls his eyes.

"Like I said, clever. And also illegal. Technically."

Sarah laughs and reaches over with a warm hand to rub the back of Chuck's neck.

"But only if we get pulled over before we reach Chicago. And you're not going to let that happen 'cause you're such a careful driver…am I right, sweetheart?"

With the double dose of Sarah's confident tone and loving touch, Chuck's misgivings evaporate.

"You know you're right." He mirrors her delighted smile, as they return to the anonymity of the Interstate highway.

A moment later his iPhone, resting on the center console, buzzes.

"The secure line," he notes, as Sarah reaches to answer the call. "Is it Morgan?"

"No," she says, evincing surprise. "It's Casey."


Fifty minutes later

After one more stop to change the license plate again, Chuck and Sarah arrive at the Mississippi River waterfront in downtown St. Louis, where the gleaming stainless-steel Gateway Arch stands, 630 feet high. The area around the Arch is full of tourists with cameras, so Sarah gets out of the Corvette at a quiet corner several blocks away and walks off in search of the ticket booth. By himself, Chuck just appears to be an ordinary guy with a fancy car and a New Jersey license plate. He parks in an underground garage without attracting much attention, and goes to meet his wife in the line for the tram ride to the top of the Arch.

The person immediately in line behind Sarah is John Casey, in his preferred black leather flight jacket.

Sarah and Chuck say nothing to Casey and very little to each other. They hold hands, and from time to time turn to each other, grin, and kiss avidly—knowing that it will tease their former partner, who groans louder with each PDA, and eventually turns his back to them. They gradually progress in line toward the boarding area, passing through a security checkpoint and a metal detector. Eventually they are standing in front of one of eight access doors in a line. A tram arrives, and all eight doors hissss open at the same time. The empty tram car in front of Chuck, Sarah, and Casey has five seats. Sarah enters; then Chuck, and then Casey.

The fourth person in line—a T-shirted, goateed stringbean of a tourist who is mostly focused on his smartphone—starts to follow them in. But after a low wolf-like growl and a menacing glare from Casey, he decides to wait for the next tram car. The doors close, and the tram begins to ascend.

"Hello, John," Chuck begins. He looks down to check a custom scanning app running on his iPhone.

"Okay—there's one security cam over Sarah's left shoulder, so keep your faces down. I'm not reading any listening devices. We've got four minutes and forty seconds before we reach the top."

"That's all the time I'll need," says Casey. He sounds irritated. Sarah and Chuck exchange wary glances.

"First…I want to know how the hell you two let Alex get into a direct confrontation with a potentially violent target last week."

"She handled it really well, I think—" replies Chuck.

"That's beside the damn point!" Casey barks back at him.

"We're sorry. It won't happen again," says Sarah, staring laserlike into her former partner's eyes. "We'll be more careful from now on. You have my word on that, John."

"And mine too," adds Chuck.

"All right," says Casey, mostly mollified. "All right then—to the business at hand. I suppose I don't have to tell you that Beckman's had eyes on you since you left L. A."

"Well…it's not like we've gone off the grid this time around," Sarah notes.

"I noticed that much myself."

"And Beckman's already let on," adds Chuck. "She sent us anniversary greetings via Roan Montgomery."

"Well that's real touching," Casey snickers. "But I don't think you know exactly how much the General's been investing in Carmichael Industries lately. Fixing Castle you know. But did you hear about an unexplained drone strike in the Arizona desert right in the vicinity of—"

Chuck turns wide-eyed to Sarah. "Huh! That would explain—"

Casey cuts him off. "Not to mention an urban black-ops EMP assault on your pals at SNN that conveniently erased everything they had on you. And FBI agent Mazowiecki packed off to Alaska for getting too nosy. And who knows what else."

The big Marine folds his arms and waits for a response from his friends.

"So you've been spying on our behalf?" Sarah asks incredulously.

"Just looking out for Alex at first…but yeah. Got me a night in the slammer as Mazowiecki's guest—"

Chuck grimaces and Sarah rolls her eyes.

"…and soon after that, I was invited to a little chat with the General herself. A chat…and a warning. She claims she's just protecting you both—but my gut says you're being set up for something. Beckman wants something from you."

"Did she mention the Intersect?" asks Chuck. "Or the Key?"

Casey shakes his head. "No…but what else could it be?"

"John—there's something she probably doesn't know about," Sarah interjects. "She's got a double agent in her ranks…a woman named Juanita Saldana."

"That's the operative who nearly trapped us in Las Vegas," Chuck adds. "She's a specialist in surveillance tech and exotic weaponry."

"The General didn't mention her."

They all fall silent for a moment, as the tram continues to climb through the girderwork inside the Gateway Arch, and a canned narration for tourists softly drones on inside the car. Then Casey recalls something.

"Exotic weapons, huh? I did have a very brief dustup with a nano-drone on the street in Washington. The General sent a calling card…right before she waylaid me."

"That sure sounds like Juanita's work," says Chuck, and Sarah nods.

"Which puts her mighty close to Beckman already," Casey realizes.

"Right," concurs Sarah. "Apparently, much closer than we thought. And worse, Juanita knows that Chuck's got the Intersect back."

"D'you think she told Beckman that?"

"I doubt it," replies Chuck. "Juanita covets Intersect technology herself, to sell to Silicon Valley. But maybe she deduced the real reason why Sarah and I are headed to Chicago. Though we did figure that making this into a week-long vacation trip with lots of stops would make that less apparent."

"Of course that wasn't the only reason for the road trip," Sarah immediately says, with a telling smile and a hand on her husband's knee.

"Hmmnh," Casey grunts impatiently. "Two minutes and fifty seconds left. Let's stay on task, okay? Grimes already told me you're transporting Keys to Ellie. What's the objective?"

"To make Intersect neurotech safe for any user," says Chuck. "No more brain-melting. It'll be a tool for teaching and learning, just as our Dad originally intended. A tool that can at last be shared freely and openly."

Casey frowns—and Sarah hurriedly adds, "Just the operating system, of course. Not the government secrets in Chuck's brain."

"That's right," Chuck continues, and taps his forehead. "Those I am going to remove—once and for all—as soon as we accomplish our mission."

He gently shoulder-bumps Sarah. "Then...settle down in Burbank to make some babies."

Sarah shoulder-bumps him back. "Or go through the motions at least."

"Geez, you two!" Casey grimaces. "Your plan for the Intersect sounds all kumbaya and Jimmy Carter to me. But I guess it would once and for all get the monkey off your backs. It's just too bad your sister has to be in it so deeply."

"Ellie's expertise is indispensable," Sarah retorts. "She wants to do this. She knows there's some risk involved."

"And besides, Ellie's already dealt with Justin Sullivan and Daniel Shaw," Chuck points out. (Sarah nods in agreement—but looks mystified at the mention of Shaw.) "After all…she is a Bartowski."

"And now, she's gonna be a target!" Casey fires back. "Once she takes possession of those Keys there's no going back. Both of you are trained to counter any threat—but what about her? And what about her husband and their daughter?"

"My mom is there with them," says Chuck, half-heartedly.

"One retired, aging spy. Terrific." Casey chuckles, then adds, "No offense. But do you really think she's enough to keep 'em all safe if this Saldana skirt decides to make a move on 'em?"

"That's a good point," Chuck admits.

"But we can't be there to protect them ourselves," says Sarah in frustration. "In order to fund her research, Chuck and I have to keep taking on jobs for C. I. At least until the Volkoff funds are restored to us."

"And that's a big if," notes Chuck. He swallows hard. "…What about you, John?"

"What about me what?"

"You can watch over Ellie and her lab," continues Chuck. "You could come back and work with us. Just for a few weeks. You were right there when this whole Intersect affair got started. Wouldn't you like to be there for the endgame?"

"Babysitting your sister's not exactly what I'd consider an endgame."

"It won't be babysitting," Sarah presses him. "It's surveillance. Counter-measures. Tactics. The kind of stuff you're really good at. Think Costa Gravas. Goya's palace."

Sarah's recollection surprises Casey. "You remember all that?"

"We'll set you up with the resources you need," Chuck quickly offers. "Just name it."

"Salary and benefits, right? Just like before?"

"Oh, absolutely," Chuck swears.

"And who knows," teases Sarah, "maybe Gertrude will even want a piece of the action and show up to help."

"Piece of something anyway," quips Chuck, earning dagger eyes from Casey.

"I mean…isn't it time she chased you for a while, John?" asks Sarah.

"Maybe…yeah…"

Casey grunts reflectively, and then nods. "All right. I'm in. Put me to work."

The Bartowskis grin with elation, slap backs, and shake hands with their old friend and returning partner, as the tram slows to a stop at the apex of the Gateway Arch.


Back on the west coast, in Castle

"Morgan...shouldn't we be leaving this for Chuck to deal with? I mean…it is addressed to him and all that."

Alex's voice is mildly disapproving—but her hands are affectionately squeezing her boyfriend's shoulders, and the gleam of curiosity in her eyes belies her words as she watches Morgan fastidiously pluck the Jeffster! DVD from the padded envelope with two fingers, and carefully slip it into a laptop on a workbench in front of him. She's leaning against the back of his chair, holding a small bottle of hand sanitizer.

Morgan turns his head to look at her as the DVD spins up. Alex reaches around and squirts a generous dose of sanitizer on one of his palms.

"Thanks, baby." He rubs his hands together. "Job one for us is to make Chuck and Sarah's work easier….right?"

"That's right."

The two of them have closed themselves inside the wire-mesh and duct-tape Faraday cage they'd built in Castle four days earlier.

Morgan shrugs. "Okay…so we're tasked with taking care of the trivial stuff and saving them the trouble. So we'll inspect this disk and give them a complete report on it."

"Or…" says Alex knowingly, "quote-unquote 'inspect' it—then simply slip it back into the case as if it was never touched, right?"

"There is that option as well," Morgan replies. He kisses her on the cheek as she leans down alongside him to set the bottle of sanitizer down on the workbench, and she wiggles in delight.

"But do you really think we need to be playing the disk in here?"

"I'll admit it's probably overkill, yeah. But Big Mike's right that we can't be too careful when dealing with Jeff and Lester. Especially Lester!"

A playlist of eight songs appears on the laptop screen. Without paying attention to the titles or the sequence, Morgan clicks on the PLAY icon for the first song in the list.

A scene from a grainy, thinly colored 80s-vintage MTV music video materializes: a bookstore window crowded with lurid murder mysteries and crime novels. The slender wrist of a woman, bedecked with several bracelets, reaches down to grab one of the books.

Suddenly, Lester's face appears—shrouded in a red hood and crudely superimposed on the backdrop—and fills the entire screen as he glares at the camera and begins singing in a falsetto that's exceptionally shrill, even for him:

("You better look out 'cause suspicious eyes are watchin'….Don't let them see us!

I know that you and I should not be seen here talkin'...")

"Ohmigod," says Alex. "What is this?"

"I think it's…it's a Toni Basil cover?" suggests Morgan.

("I kinda like the razor's edge…."

Lester tosses his head and winks his left eye, and then his right eye, at the camera.

"I always think of danger…like to walk a tightrope…")

"This is all kinds of wrong!" Morgan asserts. "This isn't a Jeffster!-type song at all."

"Why would they record it then?" asks Alex. "What's going on with them?"

Morgan hits PAUSE—then BACK to the playlist.

"I'm beginning to think that we should just leave this little gem for Chuck and Sarah to enjoy, after all."

Alex studies the playlist on the laptop screen—and jolts.

"Morgan…look at the titles of those songs!"

He looks at the list more carefully:

Over My Head—Toni Basil

Private Eyes—Hall and Oates

Chuck E's In Love—Rickie Lee Jones

Sara—Starship

Need You Tonight—INXS

Bad—Michael Jackson

Right Here Waiting—Richard Marx

Somebody's Watching Me—Rockwell

"Yeah…some of these are plain strange even for Jeffst—Hey wait a second!"

Morgan runs his finger down the screen.

"'Chuck E' ?...'Sara' ?…'Need You Tonight' !…'Somebody's Watching Me' ?"

"It's some kind of message for Chuck and Sarah…don't you think?"

"More than that," Morgan replies with certainty. "It's a call for help!"


Flashback to that Saturday afternoon in May 1997 in southern California

(Music: "Be Quiet and Drive [Far Away]," by the Deftones)

From the instant she takes hold of the wheel, she loves that blue Corvette.

The whole way south on the I-5, across the sprawl of Orange County, down to the seacoast at Capistrano Beach and past rugged San Onofre Mountain, she grins—unselfconsciously flashing her mouth full of braces again and again—and laughs out loud often, and lets her blonde hair flare out behind her. Nearing San Diego, she takes the car off of the freeway west of Mission Valley, and tools on into the tree-shaded suburban streets on the periphery of the city, still brimming with youthful delight.

Then, as she and her father approach their neighborhood—and her high school—her expression closes up and she goes quiet. Jack realizes that she's mulling something over, and he's pretty sure he knows what she wants.

They stop at a traffic light, and she turns toward him—somewhat hesitantly…

"Dad? Can I drive past the school…just once?"

Jack smiles, having anticipated this. "Sure, darlin'. Just keep right on goin'—"

"Umm—I mean—by myself? Please?"

He looks into his daughter's cute, earnest, hopeful face…and immediately gives in.

"Of course, darlin'. Once we pass this intersection you can just pull over and leave me off there. Don't forget to come back for me."

"I won't!" she says excitedly.

But just as the traffic light changes to green, a police cruiser pulls up to the intersection on the cross street to their right. The patrolman inside has his window rolled down. He gives the blue Corvette a long, hard stare…and then picks up his radio handset.

Alarms go off in Jack Burton's head. His daughter, looking straight ahead and intent on cruising past her classmates in the Corvette, remains oblivious for a few extra seconds—until she catches sight of the police car in the rear-view mirror.

"Are we in trouble?" she asks frantically. "Is he gonna come after us?"

"Only if he gets a stolen-car bulletin. Can't be sure he won't. So darlin', I think we're gonna have to make sure he can't follow us."

To Jack's surprise, she seizes on that suggestion. Her eyes narrow and her breathing amps up. She grips the wheel and executes a clean racing turn left into the next intersecting street—then pushes hard on the accelerator. The Corvette lunges down the side street which—fortunately—is free of other traffic at the moment.

Jack places a hand on his daughter's shoulder to settle her down.

"Eeeasy now, darlin'…let's try something a little more subtle, okay?" He points ahead to the next intersection. "Turn right there—and then the first left—then the first right after that. Don't worry…we'll be in the clear in just a moment."

The teen sighs, "I know where we're going. We've gotta ditch the car, right?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

She shrugs. The Corvette weaves right, left, and right into a busier neighborhood. There's still no sign of the police cruiser behind them. Just up ahead is a full-service car wash.

"In there," Jack instructs. "That car wash! Hurry, darlin'."

They squeeeal off the street and come to an abrupt stop in the entrance lane. Their luck is holding: no line of vehicles in front of them, and the young attendant is already coming their way.

"Get your things and head for the waiting room," Jack whispers in his daughter's ear, "then duck out the back door soon's you see your chance. I'll catch up to you at home. I'm really sorry about the school thing, darlin'."

She beams at him. "It's okay, Dad. It was fun while it lasted." She gets out of the car, leaving the driver's side door open, lifts her grey duffle bag out of the back, and saunters off toward the waiting room. Jack smiles wryly and grabs the car keys before he too leaves the Corvette behind. He slips on a pair of very dark sunglasses.

The approaching car-wash attendant doesn't notice how Jack carefully wipes the keys against the fabric of his slacks before he hands them over—with the key ring hanging at the very tip of his pinky finger.

"Afternoon, sir," says the attendant, his eyes on the Corvette. "What a beauty!"

"You said it," Jack replies as the youth takes the keys. "Okay…so I want the full-service, and you make sure you give the whole interior a real good cleaning and wipe-down. Real good. I want all that leather to just gleam. You got that, son?"

The attendant nods eagerly and hands Jack a ticket that won't ever be paid.

Jack chuckles to himself as he strides toward the waiting room, confidently divested of the stolen car. Already inside, his blonde seventeen-year-old daughter presses her face to the window, giving that dreamy blue '62 Corvette one last longing look as the attendant drives it into the wash.

(Music: "Be Quiet and Drive [Far Away]," by the Deftones, fades away…)


Flash forward to the present Saturday night, in a rental-car return lot near Chicago-O'Hare Airport

Just after dusk, in a light, cool breeze that warns of a chilly night to come, Sarah and Chuck stand alongside the blue Corvette for the last time. They'd deliberately parked in the middle of the return lot—seeking anonymity among endless Toyota Corollas, Ford Fusions, and Chevy Malibus—but even here, even under the homogenizing yellow glow of overhead lamps, their ride for the past adventurous week stands out.

Sarah has the keys in her hand. She leans forward through the open driver's-side window to scan the interior of the Vette one last time and make sure they'd left nothing important inside. Chuck has their luggage at his feet, and his iPhone pressed to one ear.

"Ellie and Awesome are on their way with the minivan," he softly says to his wife. "Said they'll be here in five minutes or less. We have to meet 'em at the front gate."

"Copy that." Sarah nods and withdraws from the Corvette. "You know—even after everything that's happened this past week—the most amazing thing for me was getting this car…this same car…."

Chuck hears the faint wistfulness in Sarah's voice. He stuffs the iPhone in his pocket and takes her in his arms.

She nestles close to him and continues, "It's almost like we…I…was given a chance to…well, you know, make up for the last time. Does that sound crazy?"

"I don't know, babe. But there's no question that you did just that."

Sarah turns her gaze up into Chuck's eyes. "You mean we did. Together. You always bring out the best in me, Charles Irving Bartowski."

"And you in me, Sarah Lisa Walker Bartowski."

They kiss in celebration of their epic road trip, and in assurance of the strength of their bond. Then Sarah slips her arm in Chuck's, they each grab hold of a bag with their free hands, and they saunter away across the lot to go meet Ellie and Devon.

"And wow," says Sarah fervently, "after the week we've just had, I'm sure hoping this'll be nothing more than a nice, quiet, relaxing visit with the family."

"Roger that, babe," Chuck concurs.

(Music: A few bars of the "Route 66 Theme," by Nelson Riddle and His Orchestra, play softly as Chuck and Sarah walk off, and the scene fades to black.)