N/A: This is long. I'm sorry about that but it had to pulled out of my head before I lost it. The last part was especially difficult to put down on paper. I left out a lot that the purists would find necessary but if you've done it, you'll know what I left out and if you haven't you won't miss it then. Like they told us, it's not the fall that kills ya, it's the sudden stop.

And MasterTomeWriter, see if you can find the wee hint of the story you so crave but have to suffer for.

Previously:

Chuck Bartowski could never handle a woman's tears. They were his kryptonite.

She's not that kind of girl, you arrogant prick.

She viewed her time with Bryce as nothing more than physical exercise.

That's definitely a 'yes' signal you're sending there.

Oh, Sarah Walker, you are the biggest fool in the world


Citadel
Monday morning 8am

Chuck was trying to be as sneaky as possible. The last thing he wanted to do was have yet another confrontation with John Casey. He figured if he could just avoid running into him for a week or two, he'd be home free.

And of course, who was the first person he should run into but the Devil himself.

"Hey, what the hell happened to your face?" Casey was shocked and immediately concerned.

"Well, y'see, it's like this. I went down to my car for…"

"And I didn't hear him return since I was in the bathroom and when I went out to turn out the lights and go to bed, well, he startled me and that's the result" pointing to his face with a distinctly sheepish look.

Carrie had hurried into work. She didn't want Chuck to have to face Casey alone. Lately he'd been especially vicious in his comments to Chuck about any 'relating' that Chuck and Carrie might be tempted to do.

"Hell, what did you hit him with? A bus? Chuck, you Ok, no dizzy spells, ringing in the ears, strange memories of mammaries, anything like that?" Now he was grinning like an idiot.

"Funny, ha ha, Casey. She did one of these Kung Fu thingies with her foot and knocked me out cold. Do not startle this girl when she's in a pissy mood, Major, you won't survive."

Casey grinned delightedly at Carrie. "Agent Webb, my sincerest congratulations. I think we've finally, finally found a way to get Bartowski to stay in the damned car. You do your Kung Fu thingy and…"

5 Months Later
Los Angeles, CA
Apartment of Carrie Webb
Sunday Morning 10am

Chuck Bartowski had definitely died and gone to heaven. He felt like he'd been killed in the most pleasant way imaginable. And from the looks of things, his partner in crime had also died from extreme pleasure. But at least she'd passed on with a smile on her face. And such a salacious smile for such a demure young woman. Yes, woman. All woman. "I love you, Carrie Anne Webb, always and forever."

He chuckled to himself. She made the most delicious little 'eep' sound when she… His cell was ringing. He pulled up the sheet, covering her.

It was probably Casey preparing for another round of "didn't you learn anything from…" and he was so not in the mood.

"Hello, Casey, I guess I'm secure." He almost laughed out loud. Carrie had him in her world famous 'embrace of death'. She was straddling him in a most lascivious manner and had both arms firmly wrapped around him. She snorted in her sleep and wiped her face on his chest before settling back to sleep with that smile on her face.

"Funny, Bartowski. If you and little Miss Pole Dancer 2005 are capable, we have a situation that requires you immediate and full attention down here. I've been stalling Beckman for the past hour, Chuck. Sorry, but 'hide the salami' time is over. Duty calls you. I'll see you in 15."

'Well, shit. So much for the lazing around the rack plans. And an amazing rack it is, too.'

"Carrie, Carrie, c'mon, babe, wakey-wakey. We got a briefing with Beckman in 15, no make that 14 minutes. Casey called."

A very sleepy and satisfied "Screw Major Casey. It's Sunday and I'm in no position to move. Well, Ok, if you really want me to move…" and she began that thing she did so well with her hips and…

"NO! Please, not that. We have to get moving or Beckman will have a cow. And we need to go now. I don't want to lose this to a damned bunker under some little desert town in Idaho or Nevada. So. Move. Your. Fabulous. Fanny."

Citadel, Los Angeles CA
10:18am

"You're late, Bartowski. I see Miss Pole Dancer is late as usual. I may have misjudged you, Bartowski. Don't ask me why because I won't tell you." He was bending over his computer console and hadn't even looked up when he heard Chuck enter the Ops Center.

"I'm sure she'll be here as quickly as she can. Why didn't you call her cell also? Why did you assume we were together? I deliberately left the watch in my apartment. Wait, damnit, Casey, you've bugged her apartment, too? That's going too far, Casey, even for you. Those bugs better be gone before the end of the day or …"

Carrie snuck in hoping no one would notice that she'd been getting coffee for she and Chuck and a glass of Drano for John Casey.

"Relax. I bugged your car. You were lo-jacked. I figured you'd try and hide yet another egregious breach of protocol so I went passive.

"Ahem, Team Bartowski, since you're finally all together, could we please begin the briefing. I do have things I like to do on Sunday afternoons. Things I don't normally get to indulge myself in since the arrival of Mr. Bartowski on the scene." General Diane Beckman was out of uniform. She was wearing a tennis outfit. She most definitely had plans.

"Satellite surveillance and ground operatives have been monitoring the movements of elements of Al Queda to Somalia. Groups of Arabs and Europeans seem to be making a pilgrimage to the coastline south of Mogadishu. Mr. Bartowski, do you remember the Somali national that you and Agent Walker eliminated on Treasure Island last winter, well, his brother…"

Chuck flashed, hard. "Abu ibn Faud, brother, Suleiman ibn Faud, known pirate and self-styled Pirate King of Somalia, recent activities centering around increased seizure of vessels within 200 miles of the coast of the Horn of Africa using Swedish Boghammers and crewed by Somali nationals loyal to ibn Faud the elder. Informants report that cargoes of pesticides, chemical such as …" and he finished his recitation 10 minutes later.

General Beckman looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Major Casey was subdued, almost introspective as he processed the information Chuck had provided. Carrie Anne Webb was staring at Chuck with a mixture of consternation, adoration, pride and astonishment.

"Excellent, Chuck. You've synthesized all available data into one cogent report. I'm glad we record these conferences. I'll have a transcript prepared and disseminated to embassy intel staff within the hour.

"General, the chemicals they've been hijacking, what use are…" Casey started to say when Chuck interrupted him.

"My God, General, they're making GB, Sarin. It's 500 times more lethal than cyanide and can be delivered via aerosol, food or water. This guy needs to die right now, not a moment's delay, General. He's planning mass murder!"

General Beckman absorbed this new revelation. "Team, hold fast, I'll get right back with you. I need to have some numbers crunched." And she disconnected.

"Cristos, Bartowski, you really shook up the General. I haven't seen her turn even more pasty white since you told her to kiss your ass back…"

Carrie reached over and held Chuck's hand. "Hey, don't lose yourself in the flash, Ok, I have plans for us. We'll get through this, together. The Team will do what's necessary to prevent this outrage. Whatever it takes, right, Major Casey?

"Right, Agent Webb. Whatever it takes. These bastards are going down."

General Beckman had returned to the conference. Had it been only 10 minutes since they'd taken the break?

"Yes, Mr. Bartowski, mass murder initiated by attacks against American citizens and American interests throughout Europe and the Middle East. Based on the amounts we calculate can be produced, casualty estimates are in the tens if not hundreds of thousands and possibly higher depending upon the mode of delivery and the locations."

"Nuke 'em, General. Today. Send in a B-1 and take them out. Hell, send the B-52 fleet and turn that shit hole into a glass parking lot. We know who and where they are, General. What's the delay?"

"While I agree totally with the sentiments expressed by you and Mr. Bartowski, Major Casey, the United States does not and will not use nuclear weapons to solve its problems. We're preparing a more…surgical solution. We have a team in Africa already on the ground and they've been tracking the movements of these terrorists under the guise of looking for bio-weapons manufacturing facilities. Suleiman Ibn Faud will be dead before the end of the week, I assure you."

"Now, Team Bartowski, are you up for a little travel to sunny Italy? We're going to relocate you to the Embassy in Rome to coordinate overall operations. You'll take your entire staff with you. You will have Carte Blanc with the Embassy staff. Accommodations will be arranged while you're in transit. You will leave tonight via Air Force transportation and be in Italy tomorrow. Check in with me when you arrive, Mr. Bartowski. And again, excellent work, Team." And the floating logo of the NSA appeared.

"Jesus, doesn't she ever say goodbye?" wondered a bemused Carrie Webb.

"Nope. Probably has sex via the field manual, also" snarked a suddenly wooden Casey. Chuck was very apprehensive. If Casey was this rattled, then the situation must be dire, indeed.

"Well, kiddies, it seems General Beckman has discovered your little arrangement. This email details our covers. Chuck, meet your Mrs." He pointed to Carrie and laughed. "She certainly has a wicked way of telling you two that Momma knows and approves, although grudgingly. I've never seen her so effusive in her praise, Chuck. Strange days, indeed. Again, I may have misjudged you, Bartowski."

"Now wait just a minute, Casey. Walker and I went undercover as married people lots of times, well, Ok, twice but you're making a totally unsupported assumption here. Totally out your ass, as a matter of fact." Chuck was indignant. Casey had stepped over the line – again.

"Then I suggest you read the email. After all, it was addressed to you, Chuck." And Casey smiled, yes, smiled and chuckled as he left the office and headed out to recall the support agents and brief them on the relocation.

Chuck read the email. Shit. She was suggesting a honeymoon in Rome? What has she been smoking? A sanctioned marriage between handler and asset? Rome?


Fr: Beckman.d

To: Bartowski.c

Subj: Rome

Mr. Bartowski, it has come to my attention that you have recently initiated a relationship with your CIA handler. This office does not condone such activities between asset and handler unless a legal relationship exists between said individuals. Neither the NSA nor CIA can condone such activities without the existence of such a legal relationship.

Chuck, Rome is a wonderful city for a working honeymoon.

D. Beckman, NSA
Commanding

CC: FLOTUS


John Casey was having an absolutely magnificent time planning the relocation of the Team and staff to Italy. He'd done a stint as deputy air attaché there in his younger days and he remembered Rome as a spectacular city, rich in culture and women. Oh, the women. And the food. The only thing he absolutely detested about Italy was the absolute dearth of decent breakfast food. He'd had to take his morning meal in the Embassy cafeteria and even then the locals had screwed up scrambled eggs and bacon. He'd ask Rivera. Every time he saw him he seemed to be eating breakfast.

"Hey, Jose, what's good in Italy for breakfast. You've been there. When I was there I just ate in the cafeteria."

"Don't know, Major Casey, I just eat what's put in front of me. Easier all around for me that way."


"Carrie, I have to go out and run a couple errands, pick up some personal hygiene stuff, for the trip. Anything I can get you?"

"Nope, just keep in mind that I don't like that Axe crap you wore. Smelled like a musk ox in heat. I prefer my man's au natural scent. Sweaty and horny." She grinned and blew him a kiss and went back to work running the studies through the CIA database. So far, so good.

Chuck went out and got in his car. "Ellie, hi, it's me. Listen, I need you to meet me at…"

LaCienega Drive
Los Angeles, CA
Sunday 3pm

"Rome? Chuck, you're going all the way to Rome to propose to Carrie. Oh, my, oh, my, little brother you sure do know how to do it. Rome." Elliejoy was a phenomenon rarely seen in nature. It was an incredible burst of warmth and sta-puff marshmallow stuff. Maybe cotton candy.

"Well, we have a new client with locations in Rome and Europe and I thought since we're already there on the Company dime, why not do something memorable. Think she'll like it?" He opened up the box again. The solitaire sparkled in the sunlight.

"Chuck, if she doesn't, she's crazy. Chuck, I'm so proud of you. Especially how you got right back up after Sarah Walker left you and went out and found yourself the perfect mate. You two are perfect together and you're going to have such beautiful babies…"

"Whoa, Ellie, let's just get engaged and maybe married over there and we'll worry about kids and stuff later." 'Maybe never', thought Chuck. He hadn't exactly had an excellent role model of a dad.

"You're leaving tonight? On a chartered plane? How romantic. Take lots and lots of pictures, little brother. I'm never going to see Rome." Eight months pregnant Eleanor Faye Bartowski Woodcombe MD waddled to the parking lot and her beloved Volvo. "Call us when you get there. Have a safe flight," and she was out of the parking lot and on her way home.

LAX
8:45pm

"Alright Bartowski, where's Pole Dancer? She's late as usual." Casey had a schedule to keep. And it didn't include CIA agents who couldn't tell when Mickey's big hand was on the 8 and his other hand on the 9.

"Right here, Casey." Carrie had run the last 50 yards, dragging her suitcase on its wheels. She was going to Rome. With her Chuck. Life was so good and right. In balance.

Chuck kissed her on the cheek and took her bag. "Oof, what you got in here, rocks?"

"Nope, but when we hit the ground we're in hostile territory and our armory is packed and in the cargo bay. I just want a little protection, that's all."

Casey nodded approvingly. He hadn't considered that his toys were packed away and wouldn't be immediately available if it dropped into the pot. She did. Again, she impressed him. And that took a lot. Of course, what really impressed him was how easily she controlled Bartowski. Or tried to. Most times she was successful but there had been a few rough times and she'd let him have it with both barrels.

"Damn it, Chuck, I told you to stay behind the barrels, you can't be out here dodging bad guy bullets. That's our job. Your job is to go in there after we secure it and do the flash thingy. I can't take out the bad guys if I'm worrying about my sweetie's ass. If you do that again, no specials for a month."

Casey saw the look on Chuck's face and started laughing. He didn't know or want to know what one of Carrie's 'specials' were but if it kept him from getting killed trying to be a hero, then he was in full agreement. Chuck Bartowski was already a hero to his Pole Dancer. And that should be enough for any man.

Five hours later
Over Central US

A C-130 was not luxurious accommodations by any means but it had the room for the entire Citadel team and their equipment and armory. Casey had informed the team that MOP gear would be coming on-board at their final refueling stop in the US as well as some special medical equipment from the DoD and the CDC in Atlanta.

The powers-that-be were taking the threat of Sarin very seriously. No doubt about it, someone pretty high up watched the uplink of Chuck's briefing of his flash back in L.A. Someone with a near zero tolerance for unnecessary risks to the team. Sometimes being around Bartowski wasn't really a bad thing. Especially not since he'd met and well, shacked up with, Agent Webb. affectionately know by her nom de guerre, Pole Dancer, a reference to how she worked her way through grad school. No one snickered about it any more. Not since Major Casey threw one of the larger agents through a wall for making a very lewd comment about his partner within hearing distance of Chuck Bartowski.

When the agent threatened to file a complaint with General Beckman's office, Casey just laughed and asked if he remembered what happened to the old Chief of Station. Nothing further was said. It was easier to deal with Casey than an enraged Chuck Bartowski. Casey might hurt you but Bartowski would kill you.

Chuck and Carrie were sitting in the back, trying to get comfortable in the torture devices the military humorously referred to as 'seats'. Since there were only 11 passengers, they had the entire section to themselves. The other agents gave them their privacy. More than one of them envious of the Boss' incredible luck in landing Pole Dancer.

Chuck had evolved into "the Boss" quite naturally and totally by accident. His skills at planning and execution as well as how he seemed to pull facts and figures out of his ass were legendary. No one called him "Boss" to his face, of course. In fact, Chuck himself had always assumed Casey was 'the boss' if there was one. But even Casey would agree that Chuck Bartowski was 'the Boss". Beckman seemed to agree. She'd even started having private briefings with him and he was required to sign off on all paper work regarding the agents assigned to the Citadel. He was, in essence, if not in fact, Chief of Station. Why Beckman kept the position open instead of filling it with Bartowski or someone who could be convinced to just stay out of the way of Team Bartowski was beyond John Casey.

Chuck knew Carrie was tired. She'd been on the go since the call and actually had a lot more to do than Chuck did. All Chuck's "stuff" was between his ears. He was his own workstation.

"Hey, Carrie, put up the arms of the seats and stretch out and put your head in my lap. You need to sleep and I have a million things to run through before we even land in Savannah for the final upload and refueling. You've had a long day and if I remember correctly, you also had a very physical night. So stretch out and catch some z's. You'll need to wide awake when we hit Rome."

He'd talked to the crew chief and gotten a couple of blankets to cover her with. For some reason she was always cold. And 30,000 feet was cold in a virtually uninsulated cargo plane.

She was out like a light in seconds. She really must have been tired.

Chuck was wired. And also tired which probably accounted for his lack of attention to one specific detail: Embassy staff and personnel. He flashed on the file and began to review the personnel, looking for anyone who might have ties to the Somalis or Al Queda. Sure, they'd all been vetted but that meant nothing in today's world. He'd finally learned the key to surviving in the SpyWorld: Trust No One. Well, ONE one, Carrie. He trusted her. He loved her.

He'd gotten through the J's and felt the need to hit the head. Unfortunately, the love of his life was comfortably asleep with her head in his lap, one arm wrapped around his thigh as if to ensure her sleeping self that he was still here. Still her's.

He pulled back her thick hair and slowly ran a finger around her ear, whispering "Carrie, please wake up, please. I have to use the facilities, babe." She just smiled and settled in more deeply and gripped his thigh tighter. "Please, Carrie, wake up now." No response.

Drastic times called for drastic measures. "Carrie, I've made up my mind. I'm going to take that vow of celibacy and join a monastery in Bulgaria."

She opened one eye and turned her head ever so slightly so she could see him. "You do that and it'll be the last day you ever stand to pee, Chuck Bartowski, the last day."

"Well, speaking of that, let me up so I can do that one last time then." He smiled and helped her sit up on the seat beside him. "I'll just be a second and then you can go back to drooling all over my lap, babe. Just one second."

When he got back she was sitting upright, buried in blankets and drinking something that looked like old recycled motor oil. "We'll be on the ground in Savannah in about 2 hours and maybe we can get out and stretch our legs and warm up a bit. I know you hate these unheated birds but times running out for us. The mission clock is running and we're a bit behind the timeline."

"Chuck, you ever think about what you want out of the future? You, we, can't do this forever, y'know? There are things I still want to do that aren't CIA events, y'know? I mean, I'd like you to meet my folks, especially the brats, and I know my mom would love you. My dad, now, that's your challenge. Ever wonder why there are no boyfriend pictures in my house? Simple, no boyfriends. My dad scared them off. Literally. He's not a bad guy just doesn't think anyone is ever going to be good enough for me. Well, I've got a surprise for him. You are." She leaned over and kissed his cheek and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Carrie Anne, I didn't plan to do this in quite this fashion, in fact, certainly not in the company of 9 other agents who are probably wondering why we're whispering. But…" and he reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the blue velvet box but didn't open it. "Would you marry me, Carrie Anne Webb?"

"No, Chuck, I won't marry you. I'll only marry for love." She looked at him with those big eyes shiny with unshed tears. "Only for love, Chuck. Not for the convenience of the damned CIA or NSA." She got up, tossed the blankets across the seat and stalked back to where the other agents and Casey sat and plopped down in one of the seats and listened to the discussion.

Chuck was stunned, literally stunned. How could he have been so wrong about her? How could he have misjudged her so badly? His self-confidence was totally shot to hell. She'd played him, lied to him from the very start. She was no better, no, she was worse than that fucking Sarah Walker.

He sat there staring at the small blue velvet case he held in his hands. His hopes were in that box. He wouldn't be a bit surprised if when he opened the lid he found the diamond had shattered, just like his heart. 'I'll only marry for love'. What a crock of shit this turned out to be.

He tossed the blue velvet case onto one of the seats and walked forward to the cockpit. He climbed up the ladder and sat in the engineer's jump seat. The pilot turned to him to ask what the problem was, took one look at the agent's face and turned around and concentrated on his flying. He'd just seen the face of death and had no desire to gaze upon it before his time.

Casey watched as Pole Dancer walked back and sat down across from him. Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. He didn't know what was wrong but he had a feeling that Chuck had said something that really hurt her. He knew Chuck would never intentionally hurt her so whatever he'd said or done was… none of John Casey's business.

They were still 30 minutes out of Savannah when Chuck got a cell phone call from Beckman. He could hardly hear her over the drone of the engines and the wind tearing along the fuselage of the plane. "Bartowski, secure" he almost had to shout to be heard. "Beckman, secure. Change of mission objectives. You will deplane in Savannah and await a military jet to take you to a staging area for the attack on the pirates. There you will meet with the ground forces and our CIA agents and accompany them to the target site. Chuck, this is a very hazardous mission but we need the intel the intersect can provide from a review of any records found after the attack. Our CIA operatives will be instructed to follow your orders only repeat only after the objective has been secured. After you review and report, return to the staging area for a flight to Rome to rejoin your team. Any questions?"

"No, General, none. It a straight forward kill, loot and scoot. I understand." Beckman picked up on Chuck's tone of voice. "Mr. Bartowski, is everything all right? Are you mission capable?"

"Everything is just wonderful, general, couldn't get any better."

"Beckman out."

He put his iPhone away and walked back to the pallet containing their personal gear. He rooted through the bags until he found his. He pulled it from the pile and walked to the forward-most seats. He opened his bag and changed into his ops uniform and went through a mental list of the weaponry and ammunition he'd require. He would not put himself into the hands of unknowns without the ability to defend himself. He separated his gear and pulled out a rucksack and repacked what he couldn't carry in the duffel. He had no idea what a "military jet" was so he planned on wearing as little as possible in case it was a cramped cockpit.

"So, Bartowski, going to war? A little early to be changing duds now, isn't it?" He'd seen the look on Carrie's face and saw the matching one on Bartowski's when he'd pulled his gear.

"Change of mission, Major Casey. You and the rest of the team will be continuing on to Rome from Savannah. I'm taking another flight and will join the team later. I don't have a timeline, Casey, just what the General told me. A mission op order with so many holes you could drive a truck through. Just instructions. Be a good little foot soldier and go here, Mr. Bartowski. Are you mission capable, Mr. Bartowski? Be a good boy, Mr. Bartowski."

"Chuck, what's…"

"Nope, can't discuss it, Major Casey, orders, y'know? Uh, Casey, take care of the Team for me, will ya? Make sure Webb wraps up in those blankets. She's a cold flyer." And a cold everything else too.

He held out his hand to Casey. "It's been a pleasure, Major, not always, but mostly." Now Casey was worried. This was not the Chuck Bartowski he'd known for the past 8 months since Webb appeared. This was the Bartowski with steel in his spine and limestone for a heart. What the hell happened?

Savannah, GA

The plane nosed down in preparation for landing. Casey shook Chuck's hand and said "I'll see you in Rome and I'll take care of Carrie for you. I promise, Chuck." Chuck just nodded, released Casey's hand and turned to gather his gear. He turned back to Casey and shouted over the reversing engines "She said 'No', Casey, she said 'No'."

Casey looked at Chuck as the crew chief opened the side hatch and lowered a ladder. Chuck slid down with a speed and grace that surprised Casey. 'What did he mean, 'she said no?' He walked down the side of the plane and grabbed the blankets Carrie had been wrapped in. When he pulled them off the seat he saw the small blue velvet case and he knew what was wrong. 'Aw, shit, Chuck, I'm sorry.'

He didn't think Chuck Bartowski was coming back this time. He didn't want to stick his nose in their business but Chuck was getting to be like the nasty little brother he never had. He grabbed the velvet box and walked toward the rear of the aircraft.

The large loading ramp was being lowered and through the opening he saw something that few people outside a select few would ever see. A Lockheed Blackbird. And Chuck Bartowski in pressure suit and flight gear climbing slowly up the ladder into the rear cockpit.

The Blackbird held speed and altitude records that had not been touched in 40 years. And since they were officially out of service, the urgency of Chuck's portion of the mission became crystal clear.

He turned to Carrie and motioned her over to the ramp. "See that guy climbing into the rear cockpit of that Blackbird?" She nodded but couldn't make out who it was. Just some pilot in a pressure suit and helmet.

"Yeah, Casey, I see. That's an old recce bird from back in the day. Went like a bat out of hell though. Someone important is getting a fast ride to nowhere, that's for sure."

He stared at her, mentally reviewing everything he'd seen or heard since the flight began.

He tossed the velvet case at her. She caught it. Opened it. Looked at Casey and saw contempt and anger.

"That 'guy' is Chuck Bartowski, Agent Webb. Seems to me, Agent Webb, that Bartowski's already had one fast ride to nowhere. Crying shame he's got to take another one. Damn, what is it with you CIA bitches. You just love screwing him over, don't you? Is it a course at the CIA training academy now, Screwing Over Bartowski 101? First Sarah Walker rips out his heart but he man's up and drives on until he meets you. I thought he'd finally found the perfect match, unfortunately it was a perfect match for Sarah Walker. And just when he's healed, when he's incredibly happy for the first time since the damned intersect got shoved into his head you go and do it again."

"Casey, he doesn't love me. He's never loved me. I was just someone to keep him company at night. He needs a cover so Beckman gives him one and the CIA gives him the cover ring and the asshole asks me to "marry" him in a goddamned air force flying icebox so we'll have a cover engagement. He never loved me. He's never, ever said it. Never. I'm not a CIA whore, John Casey. I loved him. But I will not 'marry' for the convenience of the damned agency. Give them back their damned ring." Carrie tossed the blue case back to Casey. There were tears of anger in her eyes. She was enraged that Casey would even think that she was like Sarah Walker. She walked past Casey to walk down the ramp. She needed air.

Casey grabber her upper arm and spun her around. "You know when he went out to run some errands early this afternoon, Webb, he picked up his sister and went shopping for an engagement ring. This is not a CIA ring. This is not an NSA ring. This is no stupid prop. This ring is a promise from Chuck Bartowski to you. Well, little missy, did you ever tell Bartowski you loved him? Did you ever think to really look at what he did and why. Did you even care? Keep the damned ring, Webb, I don't think he's coming back this time. I saw it in his eyes. I heard it in his voice. He said 'It's been a pleasure, Major, not always but mostly', and he asked me to make sure you were warm because you were a 'cold flyer'. You're a fool, Webb, a fool."

The last part of the sentence was almost drowned out by the Blackbird's two engines pulling thrust and turning onto the runway. The other team members were grouped on the end of the ramp watching something that no one would probably ever see again. A Lockheed Blackbird accelerating down a runway, clawing it's way into the heavens and disappearing from sight in less than 10 seconds. No one knew the Boss was on it.

Casey briefed the Team on the change in plans and ushered them back onto the aircraft. Their turnaround time was short and there was no time for sightseeing. The MOP gear and the stuff from the CDC were loaded and secured. He ignored Agent Webb for the remaining 14 hours of the flight.

Carrie Webb lay across several seats, wrapped in blankets with her head on Chuck's coat. She'd never told him she loved him. Never. He never told her either but he said it in everything he did for her. She'd always felt loved and was heartbroken that he might not have felt the same. He was right. They really did have to work on their communications skills. She finally cried herself to sleep, clutching his jacket and the blue velvet box. It would not be opened until he opened it. The ring would remain inside, until he took it out and placed it on her finger. It would remain so until either he returned to her or the world turned to dust.


Blackbird
Somewhere over the Atlantic

Chuck looked at the display for the radar interception. When he boarded and was strapped in he heard the pilot say over the intercom "Put your hands in your lap and don't touch a damned thing. This bird is old and cranky and you know zilch about her. We'll be in Saudi Arabia in 3 hours plus in-flight refueling times and that's where you get off. I'll refuel and keep on heading East until well, you don't have the need to know. Just be quiet and keep your hands in your lap."

There were no ports or windows in his part of the cockpit. And the absence of sound was surprising until he realized they were probably cruising at 80,000 feet at Mach 5 or higher. The sound they made was already 20 miles behind them when it was heard. The only breaks in the monotony of the flight were the refuelings and then only because they had to plunge down from the edge of space to 15,000 feet to meet the Texaco. A quick fill-up and then it was back to the edge.

"Wake up back there, we'll be on the ground in 10 minutes. Please return your seat and tray table to the upright position and thank you for flying Area 51 Air. Oh, and don't touch the skin of the aircraft on your way down the ladder unless you want to pull back a charred stump. The leading edge is about 1,500 F. You'll be met at the ladder by your next contact for the final leg. Good luck."


Saudi Arabia
Unknown location

"So, how much HALO experience do you have, Agent?"

"HALO? Well, I'm pretty experienced but it's been a while since I've had the time."

"Well, I'll help you into your gear about 30 minutes before you exit the aircraft. You have a GPS transponder and a board to help you in the descent, just remember to keep your oxygen mask on until you hit 12K then remove it immediately. Your stored O2 is about 10 minutes. Everything's automatic. Just step out and let the equipment do its thing. Oh, if the chute fails to open, just bring it back and we'll issue you another one."

Jumpmaster humor goes over like a fart in church with Chuck. 'HALO is not the game, numbnuts, it's High Altitude Low Open parachute descent.' Damn, he was hearing Casey in the back of his head again. Even his subconscious was getting snarky. Well, it would definitely be an experience. It was still dark and would be for another hour or so. He did some rapid calculations and figured he'd be falling at 88 feet a second, every second. Terminal velocity would be about 110 MPH. That meant he'd free fall for about 8 minutes before his chute opened automatically at 1,000 feet assuming he didn't slam into a 1,500 foot mountain… Bartowski humor didn't fare much better.


Over Somalia
40,000 feet

He could do this. All he had to do was walk off the back of the ramp and hope the slipstream didn't break his back or tear off a critical piece of equipment. He felt his balance shift as the pilot slowed the giant cargo plane to give him at least a fighting chance of survival. Chuck knew from his flight simulator games that the pilot was dangerously close to stall speed.

The jumpmaster hit a switch and the ramp began to open. They'd already depressurized the cargo ramp otherwise he'd have been sucked out miles from his departure point. Two minutes later a scared-shitless Charles Irving Bartowski stepped off a perfectly functioning aircraft and began his descent into the desert 46 miles southwest of the major port city of Bosaso, Somalia.

He wasn't prepared for this at all. He'd never jumped from a plane before, certainly not one going more than 275 mph and his body began to tumble end over end, head over heels, falling at less than terminal velocity because of his tumbling but still falling…falling…

He spread out like a starfish, arms and legs extended, hands cupped, trying to grab the wind and slow and then finally stop his tumbling. He knew that he was hyperventilating and that wasn't good considering he was using precious oxygen at a rate far beyond expected. Hell, if he couldn't stop the tumbling before the barometric altimeter reached it's target altitude, he'd suffocate before the opening of the chute snapped his spine like a piece of uncooked spaghetti.

His wind milling arms finally slowed his tumbling until he was almost stable, face up, looking at the sky lit by a rising sun and still he fell, now at full terminal velocity. He pulled his left wrist towards his masked face and pulled the cover off the face of the altimeter, shocked at his altitude, 2,700… 2,600… 2,500. He needed to get over onto his belly damned quickly and found it was a lot harder than it looked. He had nothing to push against except the air so he extended his left arm and 'grabbed air' and he spun over on his belly.

He suddenly couldn't breathe, he tried to suck air into starved lungs but his air supply was gone. Still he fell, not tumbling, not spinning, finally having attained a stable balance but still falling.

From somewhere in the recesses of his short term memory a voice pedantically repeated 'keep your oxygen mask on until you hit 12K then remove it immediately keep your oxygen mask on until you hit 12K then remove it immediately keep your oxygen mask on until you hit 12K then remove it immediately.'

The mask, take off the damned mask. He opened his visor with hands that didn't seem to belong to him, grabbed the quick release tab and pulled the mask from his face and breathed in shockingly cold air. And still he fell.

He wasn't prepared for the shock of the chute opening. He hadn't been prepared for any of this. He'd had enough. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and wrap himself around his Sar...

His landing was classic. Instead of the standard PLF (Parachute Landing Fall), feet, legs, butt, shoulder, he landed feet, ass, head. Even the helmet didn't totally cushion his head from the impact. And nothing cushioned his bony ass. He laid there for what seemed an eternity before he hit the Koch releases and dropped out of his harness. He sat up, looked around and saw… nothing. Just a rocky plain with short brown stubble that passed for grass in this part of the world. No sign of his ground team.

He sighed. What a fubar this turned into. He had no idea where he was in relation to where he should be. He unsnapped his ruck from his belly and opened it. He took a long pull on his plastic canteen and stowed it away on his LBE. He took out his M1911 and put it into his shoulder rig and removed and quickly assembled his MP-5. Shrugging his shoulders to seat the rucksack more comfortably he moved to the next item on his mental checklist.

He gathered up his chute, rolling it in his arms and wondered what to do with it. He found a depression and dumped his chute, covering it as best he could with a few rocks and some dried brush. He took out his GPS and found his location on his mini-map and realized he had a 3-mile hike ahead of him to reach the rendezvous site. Assuming they were still alive and kicking. He knew he was and that was enough for now.

The latest intel sent by Beckman showed that the pirates had relocated to a series of seaside fishing villages west of Bosaso near the border with Eritrea on the northern side of the Horn on the Gulf of Aden. That was the ultimate destination for him. But first he had to meet up with the ground force agents. His part in all this was simple, accompany them to the target site, wait until the dirty work was done then go in and read the mail, I.D. the bodies, record and transmit his flashes and catch a plane for the Eternal City, Rome.