CHUCK VERSUS WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS—PART TWO
The second episode in an imaginary Season 6 of Chuck.
Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck—but it's fun to try and write as if I did.
CHAPTER 8
Sixth day, right before sunrise, atop the O'Callaghan-Tillman Bypass Bridge
Held at gunpoint by an unidentified but violent operative masquerading as a policeman, high on the spectacular bridge above mighty Hoover Dam—deep beneath which, somewhere, Chuck and Sarah are in peril and depending on them for aid—Morgan and Alex are frightened, worried, and pissed off.
With Alex's help, Morgan gingerly gets to his feet after having been slammed against the bridge guardrail by their attacker. He takes a protective half-step in front of her, as they stand shakily at the railing. His eyes shift back and forth in frustration between the unfolding incident at the dam below and the revolver pointed directly at his midsection, while Alex wordlessly glares over Morgan's bruised shoulder at the bogus policeman.
"Listen," Morgan pleads, "I don't know who you think we are—but we're just tourists, man! All I was doing just now was checking us in on Facebook. I don't know why you—"
"Shut up, shrimp!" their burly captor snarls, and aims the gun at Alex's forehead. "You talk too damn much. One more word and I'll do your girlfriend."
Grinning menacingly, he extends the weapon toward Alex as Morgan rises on his toes, attempting to shield her.
The bogus policeman starts to laugh at them both—but the sound morphs into a faint "Huh?" as he inexplicably grabs at his neck. Then his jaw droops, his eyes glaze over, and he topples toward Morgan and Alex. Reacting quickly, Morgan grabs the man's revolver on its way down and nudges Alex out of the way as their captor pancakes face-down on the sidewalk—with three tiny darts in the back of his neck.
Standing behind him on the sidewalk is a shrouded female figure in a black UNLV hoodie—the one Morgan noticed earlier on the bridge—holding a tranq pistol. She slips the hood back to reveal herself: Mary Bartowski!
"Mama B! Thank goodness!" cries Morgan. He looks down at the unconscious agent and nudges him with his foot. "Nighty-night, douche!"
"Morgan, you watch your language," says Mary firmly. "And I think you should let me have that gun."
"Oh, okay, sure…" Morgan hands her the revolver while Alex gives her a grateful hug. "How'd you know we were here anyway?"
"How did you miss me in the back of your truck?" Mary replies with a mischievous grin.
"Ummm…well…."
"Fantastic save, Mrs. Bartowski," Alex interjects. "Thanks! We were trying to call for help for Chuck and Sarah. Morgan had a number…"
Her voice trails off as she reaches frantically into the pocket of her jeans for her own iPhone, and all but throws it at her boyfriend.
"Morgan! You've got to find that number right away—Google it or something please!"
He thumbs the screen. "Oh boy, let's see…Hey wait, I've got a better idea! There's something else Chuck told me…" He opens Alex's address book and quickly zeroes in on a specific listing. Then he shows the screen to Alex so she can read the name: Dad.
"That go to his satellite phone?" he asks her.
"Yes but what—?" Alex cuts her question off because Morgan is already calling the number. He shifts impatiently from one foot to the other while circuits click into place, directing his call who knows where…then finally a ring…and before the second ring, a familiar baritone voice comes on the line:
("Alex? Alex! Is that you? Are you all right?" Then—somewhere farther off, an explosion!…)
"Casey, it's me—Morgan. I'm borrowing Alex's phone."
(A burst of machine-gun fire…and then: "Morgan? What the—where's Alex—is something wrong?")
"She's fine, John. She's right here. We're in Vegas on a little vacation—"
"Hi, Dad!" Alex yells over his shoulder at the phone.
("Well that's terrific, numbnuts, but I'm a little busy—[KA-WHOOM!]—right about now!")
"I kinda got that," Morgan replies, "but actually, it's Gertrude I need to talk to."
("Whaaaa? What makes you think she's anywhere near here, you moron?")
"Ahh! Casey, you just don't know how I've missed hearing you call me that! But come on, man—you've been gone almost a week now! Couldn't have taken you that long to find her!"
(Casey grunts—it sounds like an affirmative grunt—and an instant later, Gertrude Verbanski is on the line, shouting over the roar of a rocket launcher. "Grimes! What the hell do you want…?")
Morgan winks at Alex and Mary and says, "I just need a phone number."
A few minutes later, on the Nevada side of Hoover Dam
The gates have just been opened for the day—and a few early-bird tourists are already strolling down from the parking garage to the glassed-in visitors center, and on from there to the roadway that runs along the top of the dam. The morning sun has yet to penetrate this far into the canyon, but the air is already warming very nicely.
As they make their way out to the dam, a few of the visitors stop to admire a pair of immense bronze winged statues on black granite pedestals, set dramatically in front of a high wall of red rock at the western portal to the dam itself. One of the tourists stoops to read the 1930s-era commemorative inscriptions on the pedestals, out loud to his companions. Then, without any warning, there is a low whooshing rumble beneath their feet, and the statues begin to vibrate.
Startled, the tourists fall back from the statues. But just as abruptly as they started, the rumble and shaking cease.
"Earthkvake?" asks one in a thick accent.
"No, I don't think so," replies another. "I'm from California and that didn't really feel like a quake to me."
"Sorta sounded loike a big loo flushing," says a third tourist.
Their attention is drawn back to the statues when they hear a pounding noise coming from somewhere in back, followed by a metallic creeeeeaaaaak!—and then the tourists are even more amazed when…
(Music: "Heroic Theme [from Chuck]," by Tim Jones)
…a tall young man, dressed in normal business attire—but sopping wet from head to toe—pops up behind one of the pedestals. He immediately squats down with one arm extended to help a young woman emerge right behind him: a beautiful blonde in a print blouse and skirt, just as drenched as he is. They turn to each other, embrace, and kiss enthusiastically. Then the man takes the lady's hand and leads her out from behind the statues. And only then do they realize that they have an audience.
"Morning!" Chuck cries out, with a friendly wave. "Don't mind us—just went for a lil' swim in good ol' Lake Mead!"
"It's most refreshing," Sarah adds.
At first the tourists are too astonished to react—then, somebody notices how tightly Sarah's wet clothes are clinging to her, and all the cameras and phones come out.
But Chuck steps in front to shield his wife from the leering tourists, and the two of them hustle across the road toward the visitors center, laughing as Chuck's soaked sneakers squish and squeak on the concrete.
"Wow, that was some ride—wasn't it, babe?" he asks her.
"Yeah…I suppose." Sarah looks with displeasure at her waterlogged clothing. "But if we were ever going to do something like that again, I'd much rather it was in the shower."
They're about halfway to the visitors center entrance when sirens begin to wail all over the dam complex. Someone standing at the wall at the crest of the dam is yelling and pointing downward toward the river, and all of the other tourists in the area are running toward him, to find out what's happening. In the confusion, Chuck and Sarah slip into the visitors center, looking for refuge.
The scene inside the building is similar: everyone there is pressed against the tinted observation windows and making loud and nervous comments about something happening down below. Chuck and Sarah weave their way in far enough to see what it is: an enormous cascade of water bursting out of an opening in the canyon wall, just barely downstream of the dam and the powerhouse.
Chuck leans toward Sarah's ear and whispers, "Guess all that water had to go somewhere."
"We need to get away from here now," she replies in his ear.
Chuck takes his iPhone out of his pocket and grimaces. "Totally soaked—useless. Morgan can't find us. Gotta figure out another way back to town."
"And here's more trouble," Sarah murmurs, nodding over her shoulder. Three Bureau of Reclamation police officers have just come into the visitors center and are eyeing the agitated crowd of tourists nervously. Chuck and Sarah duck lower to conceal themselves.
"They're bound to wonder why we're so wet," whispers Chuck.
"Yeah. Umm, unless…?" Sarah gestures upward with her eyes, to a fire sprinkler head in the ceiling about six feet above their heads. Chuck smiles and nods in assent. They scan their surroundings looking for a suitable weapon, until Sarah spots a ball-point pen sticking partway out of the back pants pocket of a pudgy middle-aged man, just within reach.
She takes a step forward—as if trying to push her way closer to the window—then pretends to stumble, and throws an arm around the back of the man with the pen to steady herself. He twists toward her in surprise and finds himself staring down the front of Sarah's wet blouse, as her hand swoops down behind him and seizes the pen.
"Ohhh—pardon me sir," Sarah coos, palming her prize as a big-haired woman on the other side of her mark makes a nasty face and jerks him away.
"Nice," Chuck whispers.
Sarah smiles appreciatively and asks him, "Care to tango?"
Chuck grins. He waits for a little space to open in the milling crowd, then slips his right arm around Sarah's waist and starts to bend her backward as if they're doing the tango—but just far enough for her to get a clear shot at the sprinkler head. Sarah lets the ball-point pen fly, and it breaks the tiny glass trigger in the center of the sprinkler as Chuck swings his wife upright again. It all happens so fast that nobody around them realizes what they've done—until a generous spray of cold water pours down on all of the tourists in the vicinity.
As people scream and laugh and jump away from the sprinkler, Sarah has the presence of mind to pick up the pen and hand it back to its now thoroughly confused owner.
But then—someone shrieks, "Oh my God! The Hoover Dam is leaking all over!"
"Oops," Sarah says. "Didn't expect that reaction."
Then she and Chuck are dragged along as the moistened mob pushes for the exit doors—which are fortunately wide enough to let everyone through without anyone getting trampled. The Reclamation police officers, yelling at the tourists to calm down and slow down, are helplessly swept to either side.
Outside, the sirens are still wailing. As the crowd from the visitors center flees up the hill toward the parking garage and bus stop, other police officers are methodically evacuating the remaining tourists from the top of the dam. Sarah and Chuck reach the bus stop, and jog along a line of idling motor coaches until they find one labeled FREE CASINO SHUTTLE TO VEGAS STRIP and board it.
The bus is almost empty, and the Bartowskis take a pair of seats at the back. Then Chuck notices that Sarah, drenched to the bone and all out of adrenaline, is shivering. He returns to the front of the bus to ask the driver for a blanket. No such luck—but then he spies a discarded newspaper on one of the empty seats.
"Old trick from backyard camping with Morgan," he tells Sarah while blanketing her in newspaper from the knees up. "Sorry that it's not very stylish."
"Mmmm, works for me," she drowsily replies.
Then Chuck sits back down and holds his wife close to him, with both arms around her to keep the newspaper in place. Sarah sighs comfortably and rests her head on his chest. By the time the bus has filled with noisy hyped-up tourists and departed for Las Vegas, the two of them are sound asleep.
Ninety minutes later, in the La Plata Linda Hotel
In the private glass elevator, approaching the fifty-ninth floor, Sarah turns to Chuck and wrinkles her nose.
"Both of us smell like the river. I think we'll have to burn these clothes."
"I agree," says Chuck. "It's lucky that we have a plentiful supply of bathrobes to wear."
"Race you to the shower," Sarah replies, giving him a peck on the cheek.
But when the elevator doors open, they see that the door to the honeymoon suite is wide open, propped by a laundry cart. The concierge is standing in the hallway right in front, and very apologetic.
"I'm so sorry, Mister and Mizz Carmichael. Housekeeping came a little bit early this morning. But I think they're almost done in there."
"We'll encourage them to be quick about it," says Sarah, taking Chuck's arm as they step around the laundry cart and into their suite.
Two young women in immaculate white uniforms are making the bed, but instead of focusing on that task, they peer suspiciously at Sarah and Chuck as they walk by.
"They're doing a terrible job," Sarah whispers. "Just look at those corners!"
"And the TV's on," Chuck adds. "Something's not right." Sarah's hand tightens on his arm as they move cautiously into the kitchen.
Another white-garbed housekeeper is sitting at the counter with her back turned to them, holding a coffee mug, and intently watching the frenzied local news coverage of the UNEXPLAINED ACCIDENTAL RELEASE AT HOOVER DAM on a widescreen TV high on the kitchen wall.
Sarah and Chuck freeze in their tracks at the same instant—when they both notice that the woman is raven-haired and has her right arm in a sling.
"Hello again…Juanita," Chuck says emphatically. "How's the wing doing?"
"We'd have thought you'd be busy with a mop and bucket somewhere other than here right about now," suggests Sarah.
Saldana laughs and shakes her head, then turns to face them. "Funny, Sarah! But the facility is undamaged. Our barriers did the job they were designed to do."
"Then I guess we can all feel relieved that our hard work wasn't for naught," Chuck says dryly.
"Why are you here, Juanita?" asks Sarah. "Surely not for another fight."
"That would be foolhardy," Saldana replies, looking dolefully at her wounded arm. "No—I have come for two reasons. One is to return the tools you left behind." She points with one foot toward the two C. I. briefcases, set on the floor beneath the kitchen counter.
"Thoughtful of you," mutters Chuck.
"And—Sarah," continues Saldana, "your pistol is inside one of these cases as well. Unloaded, of course. However, there are two fully-loaded tranq guns pointed at you right now, held by my two assistants—both sharpshooters. So I encourage you to stay still."
Chuck turns his head just enough to confirm that the bogus housekeepers have a bead on the two of them. Sarah glances down the length of the kitchen counter, stealthily measuring the distance to a utensil drawer she knows is full of knives.
Saldana reaches across the counter, a little clumsily with her uninjured left arm, for the remote. She points it at the widescreen TV and changes the channel.
"My other reason for being here is to offer you a final chance to save yourselves," she adds.
"Save ourselves?" Chuck asks. "What do you mean by that?"
Saldana tilts her head at the television screen. "Watch and you will see."
The TV is now showing a video recording of the winged statues next to Hoover Dam, taken by a camera somewhere above them—possibly from the roof of the visitors center. A rolling timestamp at the bottom of the video indicates that it was made a little more than two hours earlier.
While everyone else's attention is momentarily drawn to the screen, Sarah takes one small step closer to the utensil drawer.
Now the video shows the early-morning tourists standing around the statues, before staggering back in surprise as the ground shakes. Behind the statues—out of sight of the tourists but clearly visible to the camera—a rusty manhole cover flips up, a soaking-wet Chuck emerges, and he helps a similarly saturated Sarah climb out.
Though on edge and still unsure of Saldana's intent, Chuck and Sarah can't help but smile as they watch themselves kissing in celebration of their narrow escape from the flooded air shaft. At the moment when they have emerged from behind the statues and are about to run away from the gawking tourists toward the visitors center, Saldana pauses the video.
"Off the record," she says, "I sincerely apologize for your near-drowning. We had no idea that particular old Fulcrum defense system still remained. Though—of course—you never would have been in any danger at all, if only you had chosen t—"
"The point, Juanita?" Sarah snaps at her.
"My goodness—how testy!" Saldana chuckles. "But understandable, given your travails over the last couple of hours. So I will spell it out. What I see in this video are two domestic terrorists—once two of the CIA's best agents but now gone rogue—making their getaway after planting the explosive charges that triggered the underground flood."
"Say what?" asks Chuck incredulously. "Who's muy loco now?"
Ignoring him, Saldana continues, "And…only an uncharacteristic miscalculation on their part—or perhaps mere dumb luck—saved the hydroelectric power plant, and perhaps the dam itself, from far worse damage." She folds her arms and breaks into her signature smug grin.
"I'm sure you realize how ridiculous all of this sounds," Sarah says dismissively, as she takes another barely noticeable step toward the utensil drawer.
"Ridiculous to you, sí. But what matters is whether the FBI thinks it is ridiculous." Saldana turns off the TV. "And…call me loca if you choose—but I am confident that they will soon find plenty of evidence in support of that scenario."
"Unless…we cooperate with you and Fleming?" Sarah wearily asks.
"¡Exacto! You catch on quickly for a Harvard woman," Saldana replies, winking at Chuck—who can only glower at her in angry frustration.
Suddenly—a loud clatter and thud, as the laundry cart comes rolling and bumping from the entranceway into the middle of the honeymoon suite, and the front door slams shut. Without thinking, Saldana's two lady sharpshooters turn toward the ruckus—giving an opening for Chuck to flash, and Sarah to dive for the utensil drawer.
Then Mary runs in, right behind the advancing laundry cart, with her tranq pistol in one hand and the revolver captured from the bogus policeman in the other. She slides underneath the line of fire of the sharpshooters and somersaults into the kitchen, coming up in a squatting position and tossing the tranq pistol to Chuck.
Just that quickly, the two CIA sharpshooters find themselves targeted by Mary with the revolver, Chuck with the tranq pistol, and Sarah with a knife in each hand!
"Drop your weapons!" Chuck barks at the two agents. "Now!" Thoroughly abashed, they place their tranq pistols on the floor and kick them over toward Mary.
Chuck exhales deeply and turns toward Saldana, expecting her to look downcast and beaten. Instead, she has her iPhone in hand and is grinning as assuredly as ever.
"I was mistaken to think we might all depart here peacefully," she says. "No matter. I have learned that in dealing with you, I need a few extra cards in the deck. My tactical team has been in the air close by all this time. I just called them in—they will be on the roof immediately above us in two minutes or less."
Sarah looks urgently at Chuck—asking with her eyes: Do we fight? or run? But before he can decide what to do—
Bang! The front door to the suite flies open once again.
"Perhaps even sooner," Saldana adds—but she looks confused.
"Nobody shoot us, please! We're unarmed! We're coming in!"
Saldana silently mouths ¿Qué?—while Sarah rolls her eyes and Chuck slaps his palm to his forehead.
"It's clear…Morgan!" he shouts in the direction of the entranceway—then adds, under his voice, "For the moment anyway."
"I did it, buddy!" Morgan is yelling, as he bounds into the kitchen breathing hard and waving a white handkerchief. "I did it—I made the call—he's here with me right now!"
Enter Alex, with a no-nonsense expression reminiscent of her father, and another tranq pistol. Right behind her follows a distinguished-looking, sun-bronzed man in his late forties or early fifties, with precisely trimmed dark-brown hair, mustache, and goatee; in a sharp royal-blue suit and red tie with Marine Corps logos. He goes straight over to Chuck, who breaks out in a thousand-watt grin as they shake hands.
"Splendid to see you again, Mr. and Ms. Carmichael," says the man, nodding respectfully to Sarah across the kitchen. Then he turns to Saldana and hands her a business card.
"Special Agent Saldana, I presume. My name is Julio Johnson—I'm an attorney."
Saldana's eyes go as wide as the Deep Skillet tunnels as she reads the card:
ALIAS SMITH, JONES, & JOHNSON, PARTNERS, LLC
Prudent Legal Representation For The Clandestine Community
"My firm represents Carmichael Industries," Johnson continues. "I was summoned by Mr. Grimes because there seems to be a problem with closing out the cyber-incident response project you contracted."
"Damn right there's a problem," says Chuck, stabbing an accusing finger at Saldana. "We did the job—fully to specs—but now, the CIA wants to detain us because of what we know."
"Hmm…that's irregular to say the least," Johnson muses, as he pulls an iPad out from beneath his jacket and opens the case files for a quick inspection.
Meanwhile, Sarah—still holding the knives—sidles over to Chuck.
"I remember this guy!" she whispers excitedly in his ear. "I drew up the retainer agreement!"
"Yeah—and right now I'm really really glad you did, baby."
Johnson looks up from the iPad and tells Saldana, "There is nothing included by either party to this agreement that would allow the CIA to detain our clients—even temporarily."
"Then I…am changing the terms of the agreement," Saldana huffs.
Johnson shakes his head. "You can't do that, madam."
Saldana laughs at him and gestures toward the door. "I and my tactical team can, and will."
"Aren't they a little overdue at this point?" Sarah asks.
The attorney calmly puts his iPad down on the kitchen counter and takes an iPhone out of his jacket pocket.
"Suit yourself, Agent Saldana. I will not waste time arguing with you. My clients are quite clearly exhausted and uncomfortable and no doubt feeling somewhat harassed by your threats. A quick call to General Beckman should settle this right away." He thumbs the keypad once and brings the phone up to his ear.
"You have her on speed dial?" asks Chuck with awe.
"Wait!" cries Saldana, leaping up at Johnson and tugging on his arm in a pathetic attempt to get the phone away from him. "That will not be necessary! Let's talk!"
Johnson nods, cancels the call, and points toward Chuck and Sarah. "Talk to my clients."
"Sí, sí…all right then, what is it you want?" Saldana grumbles through clenched teeth.
"Simple enough," Chuck answers. He starts counting off on his fingers: "No tac team. No detention. No FBI. No further contact with or harassment of my employees or our family. And remit the balance of our payment promptly upon receipt of the invoice."
Johnson waves his iPhone, putting a silent exclamation point on Chuck's demands.
"Understood," says Saldana meekly. "And I will personally make sure of it."
"Settled," Sarah adds. "Then I'll see you and your two associates out to the elevator, Juanita dear. Meaning now."
Chuck shakes Johnson's hand once more. "Couldn't have timed it better, sir. Thanks for getting out here so fast…from L.A., was it?"
"Correct," the attorney replies with a friendly smile. "And no problem. It's all billable hours."
Out in the foyer, when the doors to the elevator open, Sarah is surprised to find that it already carries a passenger coming down from the roof: Steve Rosen, the head of casino security.
"Well, good morning, Mr. Rosen," Sarah calls out cheerfully. "What brings you up this way so early?"
"Morning, Ms. Carmichael. You'd think I'd have seen everything that could possibly happen on this property after nine years—but noooo! Would you believe somebody just tried to land an entire black ops team on the roof?"
"My goodness!" Sarah exclaims, subtly nudging Saldana with her elbow. "That's just crazy!"
"Isn't it now," Rosen agrees, winking at Sarah. "But nobody lands on my roof without filing a flight plan—nobody!" He pats the front of his jacket, and something slender and metallic underneath makes a solid clinking sound. Then he steps to the side to let Saldana—grim-faced and muttering unintelligibly—get into the elevator with her two sharpshooters. Rosen scrutinizes the three of them with obvious disapproval.
"You don't look like regular housekeeping staff," he says.
"We quit," Saldana retorts.
Just before the doors close, Rosen leans out and asks Sarah, "You and your husband are still on for lunch today, I hope? Really would like to talk some business with you."
Sarah gives him a thumbs-up sign, then whirls around and flies back into the honeymoon suite—and into the open arms of Chuck, who is waiting for her just inside the door. Alex discreetly shoos the rest of Team Carmichael and attorney Johnson toward the kitchen, to hunt up some champagne. On the way there, Morgan pulls Johnson aside and asks him, "By the way—can you do something about a parking ticket?"
After a reasonable interval of wildly passionate kissing, Chuck lifts his head back just enough to look deep into Sarah's gleaming eyes, and says—
"You know, babe—I always thought it was mostly hype—but maybe it's true after all, about what happens in Vegas…."
