Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 11
CAST (in order of appearance):
Chuck "Stan Marsh" Bartowski – Trey Parker
John "Eric Cartman" Casey – Trey Parker
Morgan "Kenny McCormick" Grimes – Matt Stone
Lester "Kyle Broflovski" Patel – Matt Stone
Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi
Lt. Colonel John Casey – Adam Baldwin
Abraham Fitzgerald – Ned Beatty
Sarah Walker Bartowski – Yvonne Strahovski
Captain Will Williamson – Alex O'Loughlin
Roger Flanagan – Ian Holm
First Minister Ian Paisley – Anthony Hopkins
Martin McGuinness – Colm Meaney
President Viktor Yuschenko – Philip Glenister
Sen. Langston Graham – Tony Todd
Colonel Ron Lesley – Michael O'Neill
2:30 PM, Mountain Standard Time
March 2nd, 1999
South Park, Colorado
Chuck, Casey, Morgan, and Lester came strolling out of the movie theatre. "That movie STILL kicks ass!" Chuck declared
"Yeah," Casey replied, "but that whole part about lighting farts on fire is bullshit. That doesn't actually work."
"Yeah it does," Morgan rebuked him. "I've done it before!"
"No, it doesn't," Casey insisted.
"Yes it does!"
"Fine! Morgan, you think it works, go ahead. Light a fart on fire. Here – here are some matches!"
Morgan looked at Casey balefully, but took the box of matches. Lighting one, he held it up to his behind, bent over, and farted. Sure enough, a jet of flame shot out behind him –
And then the flame enveloped his entire body! "AAAHAHHHAH!" Morgan screamed.
"Holy shit, dude!" Chuck yelled.
"Ah! Put it out! Put it out!" Casey hollered. He looked around frantically. There was a stick lying on the ground. He picked it up and started whacking at Morgan with it, trying to put the flames out.
But his efforts were futile as the stick itself caught fire. "Ah! This stick is on fire!" shouted Casey, still whacking away at Morgan.
A wailing siren sounded as an ambulance rounded the corner. It screamed up to the curb and screeched to a halt – and was immediately rear-ended by a salt truck. The salt truck fishtailed from the impact, knocking its rear end up onto the curb. The impact jostled open the tailgate – and its entire payload of salt spilled out onto Morgan, burying him in a mountain of salt.
Casey, Chuck, and Lester looked wide eyed at the scene, and then Chuck and Lester both turned accusing glares on Casey.
"Oh my God, you killed Morgan!" Chuck shouted.
"YOU BASTARD!" Lester added.
And then –
6:30 AM, Eastern Standard Time
February 17th, 2012
Bumpass, Virginia
Chuck Bartowski jolted awake and sat bolt upright. "Holy crap!" he shouted as he came to.
His shout roused John Casey, sleeping in the other twin bed in the room.
"What the hell are you goin' on about over there, Bartowski?" he grumbled sleepily.
Chuck turned and gave Casey the evil eye. "Did you drug me last night?"
"Yes," Casey replied. "You were having trouble sleeping, so I gave you a glass of water with an NSA sleep agent in it."
"Goddammit, Casey," Chuck growled, "you know I have freaky dreams when I get drugged!"
"Shut up and go back to sleep, Bartowski. We have to sit tight for at least the next day, so you might as well stock up on your sleep."
Casey was right. They were hiding out in the middle of nowhere, Virginia – what kind of town had the name "Bumpass", anyway? – with Casey's friend, Abraham. And Abraham was a frightening character – he looked like something out ofDeliverance.
"Crap," Chuck muttered, as he rolled over and went back to sleep.
11:33 AM, Greenwich Mean Time (6:33 AM EST)
Belfast, Northern Ireland
"Dart One, you are cleared for immediate landing," the tower controller's voice sounded in Sarah's headset. "Welcome to Belfast."
"Thank you kindly," Captain Williamson replied. He deployed the flaps, dropping the Hornet's speed to just over 150 miles per hour.
Another long flight in the USMC F-18F. This one had been six hours, flying from Brasilia to Belfast. It had involved another two inflight refuelings – one with a KC-135 flying out of Eglin Air Force Base in Florida, and another with a British Vickers VC-10 flying out of RAF Lakenheath. On the second one, Williamson – who was absolutely loopy from a lack of sleep – had started making obscene groaning noises. "Oh yeah, I always like the Brits better," he had moaned.
Ordinarily, that kind of behavior would've aggravated Sarah no end. However, with as little sleep as she'd gotten, she found it rather amusing, and had to turn off her headset mike to keep her giggling from being transmitted over the channel between the two aircraft.
After the Hornet was on the ground and had slowed to below fifty miles per hour, Sarah pulled out her cell phone – well, the cell phone that Casey had gotten from the questionable dealer in Downey. She turned it on – and found she had a text message.
It was from Senator Graham. "Mtg arr IP 1230."
Meeting arranged, with Northern Irish First Minister Ian Paisley, 12:30 PM. She smiled. She didn't know how the hell Graham had accomplished that, but it was certainly easier than doing a stealth insertion into Paisley's office.
As Williamson parked the Hornet, an ancient looking car came rolling up to the aircraft. An equally ancient looking man climbed out of the car as Williamson popped the canopy.
"No offense," Sarah said, "but what the hell is that?"
"Oh, that's a Ford Cortina, love. Once upon a time the greatest muscle car on the roads of Britain. Ye'd know it better as a Torino."
Sarah couldn't help but laugh. Her father had had a Gran Torino when she was younger – and he thought it was the shit, until one day Sarah came home and called him "Starsky." Then he thought that HE was the shit.
"I'm Roger Flanagan," the old man introduced himself. "Aide to Minister Paisley. And would I be correct in thinkin' yer Sarah Walker?"
"That would be me," she replied.
"Then we'd better be on our way," Flanagan said. "The minister's expectin' ye for lunch."
Williamson was left with the aircraft this time. As Flanagan drove Sarah through Belfast on her way to see Minister Paisley, she couldn't help but think about the last time she was here.
That trip had been the beginning of the end for her and Bryce. She had told him about some of her past missions, and he'd practically gone through the roof. It was odd, really – he was a trained field agent, and he'd gone ballistic over things he KNEW she had to have done, and yet, when she had told Chuck about the same missions, Chuck had reacted calmly.
There was a reason why one of them was off hunting Fulcrum and the other was her husband. And she wouldn't have it any other way.
Of course, the one mission she had told Bryce about that she could NEVER tell Chuck about was Alexander Litvinenko. She could never tell anybody else about that one, ever, although she had a feeling of unease that somewhere, deep within the Intersect, there was a file on the mission. Sarah prayed every time she heard the name mentioned that Chuck wouldn't flash on it.
The car arrived at the Stormont at a quarter after twelve – a little early, but that was okay. Flanagan led Sarah inside Northern Ireland's Parliament building, getting her a visitor's pass on the way in.
Sarah followed Flanagan through the corridors of the Stormont, until they arrived at an office with a simple placard on the door: "First Minister, I. Paisley."
Flanagan knocked on the door. "Enter at yer own risk!" Sarah heard from within.
Flanagan opened the door, ushering Sarah into the office. Ian Paisley sat on a couch in the center of the office, with another man who looked very familiar facing him.
"May I presume that ye are Miss Sarah Walker?" Paisley asked, a cheerful lilt to his voice.
"Well, yes, I am Sarah Walker, but I'm not a 'Miss'," she replied. "My legal name is Mrs. Sarah Bartowski, but that's pretty much irrelevant."
Paisley raised his eyebrows and looked over at the other man. "Oh, not at all! It seems to me like ye've got a damn lucky husband, Mrs. Bartowski! What do ye think, Marty?"
"Oh, aye," the other man replied.
Then Paisley looked from the man to Sarah. "And where's me manners," he said, realizing he hadn't introduced the two. "Sarah Walker, this is Martin McGuinness, former deputy first minister of Northern Ireland."
She raised an eyebrow. "Interesting that you're here," she said. "This actually concerns both of you."
"Well, if you wouldn't mind, we'll get to our afternoon repast first," Paisley said, "and you can tell us about it over lunch."
Lunch was very traditional Irish fare – shepherd's pie and Guinness. Sarah decided to forgo the "sandwich in a bottle", as Chuck called the Irish beer, and asked for water instead.
"So, do tell us what brings ye here to Eire," Paisley said.
Sarah swallowed the food in her mouth, took a drink of water, and said, "Do you remember, just before home rule began back in 2007, that a group of four men was shot dead in a pub not far from here? And that when Scotland Yard investigated, they discovered that those four men were plotting to assassinate Mr. McGuinness?"
Paisley raised his eyebrows, and McGuinness leaned back in his chair. "I remember that quite well," the former IRA man said. "Closest anybody's ever come to actually sendin' me to the great man in the sky."
Sarah looked back at McGuinness. "You should know," she said, "I'm the one who took them out."
McGuinness' eyes widened, and he looked over at Paisley – and then smiled. "Alright, Ian, pay up!"
Paisley's eyes narrowed, and he grumbled something in Irish Gaelic, but he reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He pulled out a twenty pound note and passed it to McGuinness.
Sarah was confused. "What was that all about?"
"We've had a bet about that for nearly five years," McGuinness said, a note of humor in his voice as he pocketed the twenty. "Ian here was convinced that it was a Brit job, that Five took care of it. I told him that the Brits could've cared less if Belfast burned, that it had to have been the Americans. And it would appear that I was right."
Sarah smiled. "So it would seem that we owe ye," Paisley added. "Would I be correct in thinkin' that yer here to collect?"
"Yes, indeed," Sarah said. "But I don't need the favor. Gentlemen, what would you think if I told you that the President of the United States needs your help?"
9:00 AM, Eastern Standard Time
Bumpass, Virginia
Chuck was incredibly bored. There was only so much you could do in a hillbilly's farm house when he didn't have so much as basic cable. While Chuck and Casey did have an amusing time watching an hour of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood on PBS, that ended quickly – and there was nothing else on broadcast TV.
"God I'm bored…"
Casey stood up. "Then let's do something about that. Go get Walker's gun, meet me out in the barn in five."
"Oh, joy."
But Chuck did exactly what Casey instructed. He went to the bedroom and retrieved Sarah's Colt 1911A1, and then headed outside to the barn.
Casey was in the process of drawing a bullseye on a big piece of cardboard. When he finished, he set it up on a hay bale at the opposite end of the barn from Chuck. "Alright," Casey said. "We're gonna work on your shooting skills."
"My what now?" Chuck asked, incredulous.
Casey shook his head. "Your gun. Turn the safety off."
Chuck looked at the gun and found the safety. "Okay," he said, flipping it off.
"Now, pull back the slide and chamber a round."
Chuck obeyed. "You have there a semi-automatic handgun," Casey informed him. "That means that you don't have to re-cock or re-chamber between rounds. Each time you squeeze the trigger from now on, you will fire, until your clip is empty. Alright?"
"Casey, I'm not sure about this…"
"Alright, pretend the target down there is a guy with a gun pointed at Walker."
Chuck frowned. "I think Sarah could take better care of herself than I could."
Casey sighed in exasperation. "Fine, he's got a gun pointed at your kids."
Chuck's eyes widened. Turning toward the target, he aimed the gun, "gangsta" style at the target and unloaded all nine rounds in the clip. He heard a cat yowl in protest, and saw a pigeon drop to the floor of the barn. The cat perched itself in the corner and growled angrily at Chuck. The pigeon was beyond help – a .40 caliber bullet through its body.
When he turned back to Casey, the NSA agent's face had taken on a look of sheer amusement. "That was quite possibly the most horrible job of shooting I've ever seen. First of all, don't ever hold your gun like that. You look like an idiot. Actually, no. You look like a gamer."
Chuck gave Casey an evil glare, but he was right. "Hold the gun in both hands, like… this," Casey continued, demonstrating.
He pulled out his Glock and held it clasped in both hands, index finger of his right hand on the trigger guard. "Now, stand with your feet at least shoulder width – it'll give you better balance."
Chuck, watching Casey, did as he said. "Alright," Casey said. "Now, when you shoot, make sure you're looking at your target, and take your time."
Casey set himself, looked downrange at the target, and then fired. The Glock's eleven bullet clip was emptied quickly – and as Chuck watched, the cardboard target jumped eleven times, Casey putting every single round within a one inch radius.
"Damn," Chuck breathed.
"Alright," Casey said. "Pop your clip."
Chuck hit the button to eject the empty clip. "Reload," Casey ordered, handing Chuck a box of .40 caliber ammunition.
That part actually wasn't very difficult. When he was finished, Chuck slapped the clip back into the Colt. "Try again," Casey said.
Chuck pulled back the slide, chambering a round. He set his feet, brought the gun up in both hands, looked at his target, aimed, and fired. Nine bullets – and this time, all nine hit the target. In fact, they were all within a foot of each other.
"Not bad, Bartowski," Casey told him. "Maybe all those video games paid off after all. Now, reload and let's do it again."
5:00 PM, Ukraine Time (10:00 AM, EST)
Kiev, Ukraine
After lunch with the Northern Irish ministers, Sarah had headed back to the airport. Williamson had the Hornet refueled, hot, and ready to go the moment she got on board, and they lifted off at 1:50 PM local time.
With the trip to Kiev only being about 1500 miles, there was no need to refuel, so Williamson pushed the throttles all the way open, and the trip took just over an hour. With the Ukraine two hours ahead of Northern Ireland, they landed at 5:00 PM local time.
A Zil military jeep was parked on the tarmac – but no driver. "Alright, Williamson, you're driving again," Sarah told him.
She remembered exactly where the house was – it had been nearly seven years, but she still remembered. Williamson navigated the streets of Kiev like a native as Sarah directed him to the house, and twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of it.
Sarah jumped out of the Zil and approached the door. "Nyet!" the security guard standing on the porch informed her, aiming his AK-47 at her.
"Please, I need to see the President," she responded in Russian.
"Nyet!" the security guard barked again.
Sarah sighed. "Tell Viktor that a Blackjack dealer is here to see him. He'll understand."
The security guard raised an eyebrow at Sarah's use of Yuschenko's first name, but he went inside. A moment later, he came back out. "You may enter," he said in Russian.
Sarah stepped inside the house, and was escorted to the dining room. "Ah, Agent Walker," President Viktor Yuschenko said, rising from the table. "It has been so long – and yet, you have still not learned Ukrainian."
Sarah smiled, bowing her head. "My apologies, Mr. President," she replied.
"So, Sarah Walker, how are you?"
"It's actually Sarah Walker Bartowski now, Mr. President."
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Married to a very lucky young Polish man, yes?"
Sarah had never thought of Chuck that way. "Well, his family's lineage is Polish, but he's a second-generation American."
"I see," Yuschenko replied. "And you are a mother now, I think?"
She narrowed her eyes. "How could you possibly know that?"
The Ukrainian President smiled. "Ah, Agent Walker – or should I say, Mrs. Bartowski – you forget, I am married, and have children of my own. When a woman becomes a mother, she changes – there is a different look about her, a different, shall we say, aura. You are no longer the angry young woman you were seven years ago. You are clearly a mother, and a happy one at that."
Sarah shook her head. She had always prided herself on being unreadable, but Viktor Yuschenko had amazed her with his ability to read her seven years before, and now was doing so again. Maybe that's how he got elected, she thought.
"But I am wasting your time, Agent Walker," Yuschenko said. "What can I do for you?"
"Mr. President, the President of the United States needs your help. On Monday, a group of high-ranking military officials are going to attempt to launch a coup d'état to remove him from office."
Yuschenko just stared. "Why would they do such a thing? He has helped to bring peace to the world, convinced the nations of the world that nuclear weapons are unnecessary!"
"That's why," Sarah replied. "They believe that he is weakening the United States."
Yuschenko shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "But I do not understand – what can I do to help the President?"
"Fly to Washington tomorrow," Sarah replied. "Meet with the President on Sunday, and issue a joint statement declaring your support of the nuclear disarmament treaty."
"I am but one nation's leader," Yuschenko protested. "What good will I do?"
"You will not be alone," Sarah said. "You will be joined by First Minister Ian Paisley of Northern Ireland, President Luis Da Silva of Brazil, and provided my meeting in Belgrade goes well, President Boris Tadić of Serbia."
"And why will those three be there?"
"Because they all owe me a favor," Sarah said simply. "Because without me, all three of their countries would be in chaos, and none of them would be where they are today."
Viktor Yuschenko cocked his head and looked at Sarah strangely. "But I owe you nothing. It is you who owe me a favor, if I remember correctly."
"This is true, Mr. President," Sarah admitted. "You owe me nothing. However, I believe you to be a good man, one who wishes to see democracy succeed, one who would truly not want to see the United States' government fall."
Yuschenko stared at Sarah, looking at her for quite a long time. Finally, he spoke.
"You are very wise, very perceptive, Agent Walker. All of that is true. The United States is a valuable ally. I do not wish to see your government fall."
He sighed. "I will fly to Washington tomorrow morning. Does the President know that I am coming?"
"He'll know, Mr. President. And thank you."
9:42 AM, Central Standard Time
El Paso International Airport, El Paso, Texas
The unmarked white CIA jet swooped out of the sky. Onboard was one passenger – the junior US Senator from North Carolina, Langston Graham.
He had flown to El Paso under the guise of doing a Congressional inspection of Fort Bliss. In reality, John Casey through Director Tyler had requested that he go there to take a closer look at the ECOMCON facility. Casey's reasoning had apparently been that there was nobody better to examine it than a former spy with far too much access.
A black sedan with "US Army" on the doors was waiting at the executive terminal. "Senator Graham?" asked the uniformed man leaning against the car.
"That's me," Graham confirmed.
"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Colonel Ron Lesley, executive officer for Fort Bliss. I understand you're coming to take a look at our little command facility?"
"That's correct," Graham told the Army officer. "You know, the intelligence committee just wants to know a little more about what's going on down here. No big deal, really."
"Excellent," Lesley replied, reaching out to shake Graham's hand. Graham took it – and felt a pinprick on the palm of his hand.
His eyes went wide, and he jerked his hand away from Lesley's – but it was too late. He could already feel his knees buckling.
"You must think Fulcrum's stupid, Senator Graham," Lesley said as Graham dropped to the tarmac. "But don't worry. We'll make you comfortable. You'll enjoy being our guest at Fort Bliss."
And the world went black.