Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 16
CAST (in order of appearance):
Brigadier Gen. Skip Waterson - Christopher Meloni
Commodore Forrest Saxon - Gabriel Byrne
Lt. Commander Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin
Carina Miller - Mini Anden
Gunnery Sgt. Mitch Tucker - Terry Crews
Sen. Langston Graham - Tony Todd
Dr. Samuel Tyler, DCI - John Simm
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi
3:00 AM, Chamorro Standard Time (12:00 Noon, Eastern Standard Time)
February 19th, 2012 (February 18th, EST)
Andersen Air Force Base, Guam
Brigadier General Skip Waterson, commander of Andersen Air Force Base, looked exhausted. And he had good reason to be.
Four hours beforehand, he had been roused from bed by a phone call that purported to be from Commodore Forrest Saxon, commander of CTF-77. Waterson had verified that it really was Saxon by asking him about a rather embarrassing incident from when they were both in Iraq nine years before.
Saxon had asked Waterson to send them a KC-10 to refuel a ES-3 and an F/A-18 that were flying from the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower to Guam. He had added that he had an individual onboard with a National Command Authority identification card.
Waterson had thought he was going crazy at that point, but he had deployed the KC-10. It had landed four hours later, with the Hornet and the Shadow behind it.
Four individuals disembarked from the two aircraft – Saxon, a US Navy pilot whose nametag said Harrison, and two civilians came off the Shadow, and a US Marine Corps pilot whose nametag said Williamson came out of the Hornet. "You mind explaining what the HELL is going on here, Forr?" Waterson asked.
"We're on the –"
Saxon was cut off by the civilian woman. Waterson was sure that ordinarily she was extraordinarily good looking, but right at the moment, she looked exhausted and on the ragged edge of sanity. Her face was pale, with dark bags under her eyes. Her hair was in desperate need of a shower, and her eyes were bloodshot and a little crazy looking.
"Sarah Walker Bartowski, Central Intelligence Agency," she interrupted, holding up her NCA identification card. "We need to get to Washington, DC, and we need to get there FAST."
"I need to know why first," General Waterson replied.
"Don't have time," Agent Bartowski replied.
Waterson stood his ground. "If you're going to appropriate one of my aircraft to fly halfway around the world, you are damn well going to explain yourself first."
Sarah sighed. This was getting to be a pain. "Alright, fine. You know the ECOMCON exercise scheduled for Monday? It's a sham."
"It's a WHAT?"
"It's a sham. It's a cover for a domestic terror organization known as Fulcrum to remove the President from office, and replace him with the individual of their choice, at this point probably General Melvin Powers."
Waterson felt like he had been punched in the stomach. General Powers? HIS commanding general?
"Prove it," he said, not believing her.
Sarah blew out her breath, frustrated. "I don't have TIME," she snapped – and that's when Saxon interrupted her.
"I was part of it, Skip," he admitted, looking down at the ground. "I was part of it, but I got out, because I can't condone removing the President, especially not this one."
Waterson couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You, Forr? You, of all people? How could you get involved with something like that?"
"I don't know, Skip," he replied. "It just seemed like the right thing in 1999. You know, when Kosovo was starting to go down the tubes, and Bill Clinton was getting bomb-happy?"
Waterson shook his head in amazement. "So, I presume the reason y'all need to get to Washington is to keep the President in his Constitutionally appointed office?"
"That would be correct," Sarah said. "So, we need to get there as fast as possible."
Skip Waterson closed his eyes for a moment. "Fine," he said. "I've got a B-1 that has to rotate out of service anyway – the bomb bay doors have malfunctioned, and apparently Boeing has to replace the entire system. It's flying home tomorrow, so what the hell, I'll send it to Langley Air Force Base, with all of you onboard."
"Thank you," Sarah replied. "We can fly it – we've got our own pilots. Three of them, in fact."
"Not a chance," Waterson snapped. "Your pilots look like death warmed over. I'll send two of my pilots."
And so, at 3:00 in the morning, a B-1B Lancer supersonic bomber rolled down the runway of Andersen Air Force Base, taking off into the night sky and disappearing, its charcoal gray paint blending in with the black sky.
The only evidence it had been there was the sonic boom that rolled across Guam as the bomber broke the Mach.
4:30 PM, Eastern Standard Time
February 18th, 2012
Fort Meade, Maryland
General Diane Beckman, the director of the National Security Agency, and the true power behind Fulcrum, thought she was going crazy. Thirty hours earlier, she thought that she had everybody in hand. Bartowski and Casey were going to be conveniently taken out at the farm in Bumpass, Walker would be taken care of in Belgrade, and Art Graham was safely sequestered at Fort Bliss.
Since then, all hell had broken loose. Sam Tyler had personally led a rescue team to extract Bartowski and Casey and dispatch the NSA strike team. Walker and a Marine Corps pilot had taken out her NSA men in Belgrade and then escaped in a Navy aircraft. DEA Agent Carina Miller and a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant had extracted Graham from Fort Bliss practically unchallenged.
What was it with the Marine Corps, anyway?
But to make matters worse, Walker and her Marine pilot had then shown up on the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower in the company of a US Navy pilot and none other than Bryce Larkin. They had extracted Commodore Saxon from custody, and when Captain Drexler had attempted to interdict them, the Marine pilot had stolen an F/A-18 Hornet, and blown Drexler from the sky.
And so, General Beckman thought that she was slowly slipping into the depths of hell – until her secure phone rang.
"This is Beckman, secure, and this had better be good."
"Yes, ma'am," came the voice of one of her agents. "We've discovered where Walker is – she used her NCA identification card at Andersen Air Force Base, and base commander General Skip Waterson logged it as such. She, along with Larkin, Saxon, Captain Will Williamson of the USMC, and Lieutenant Commander Rachel Harrison of the US Navy, are currently headed for Washington onboard a B-1 bomber from Andersen."
"You don't say," Beckman said, sitting up in her chair.
"Yes, ma'am. Also, the aircraft seen leaving Fort Bliss was identified as belonging to Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell Tucker of Moab, Utah."
Beckman groaned inwardly. Moab, making her life miserable yet again.
"Gunnery Sergeant Tucker rented a car in Knoxville, Tennessee, four hours ago. We have all the information on that car from Enterprise. According to its GPS, it is currently on Interstate 81, outside of Roanoke, Virginia."
"Any word on Bartowski and Casey?"
"No, ma'am."
"No matter. Just let me know when you have something."
She hung up the phone, and smiled. Her collapsed spiderweb was slowly rebuilding itself.
6:40 PM, EST
Richmond, Virginia
The black Chevrolet Impala sped down Interstate 64, headed eastbound – toward Hampton, Virginia, toward Langley. DEA Agent Carina Miller was at the wheel, while Gunnery Sergeant Mitch Tucker slept in the shotgun seat, and US Senator Langston Graham slept in the back seat.
Tucker had hopped the Beech King Air out of Fort Bliss easily, and then headed toward Washington. However, over Tennessee, one of the turboprops had decided to throw a blade, effectively disabling the aircraft for however long it took to get a new propeller for it.
He had landed at the Knoxville downtown airport. The three fugitives, all exhausted, had gone to a hotel for the night, and the next morning, visited the adjacent Enterprise office to pick up a car.
They had left Knoxville at noon and were headed toward Langley. They had all maintained strict phone silence, to keep the NSA from getting a bead on them.
But as Carina headed into Richmond, she noticed something strange. There was a black Lincoln Navigator a few cars back that had been on her tail for almost eighty miles. Perhaps not so odd out in the open country, but it was a little strange heading into the city.
"What's your game, buddy?" she asked quietly – and then, without warning, jerked the Impala across three lanes of traffic to take the exit for Gaskins Road. Sure enough, the Navigator cut across the road to follow her, and that was followed by another Navigator and a Suburban.
"Oh, this is not good," Carina muttered, as Tucker and Graham both blinked themselves awake, roused by the sudden maneuver.
"What's going on?" Graham asked sleepily.
"We've got a tail," Carina replied. "Probably NSA. Mitch, I need you to get out a gun and be ready for some action."
"Yes, ma'am," the Marine reservist replied.
Carina took a hard left onto Three Chopt Road, the three NSA vehicles following. She floored the accelerator, brining the Impala's speed up to nearly ninety.
Weaving in and out of traffic, Carina was creating some amount of havoc, which the three NSA vehicles only exacerbated. At one point, a police officer pulled out behind her, and she almost breathed a sigh of relief – but then, the NSA Suburban pulled up to the front and literally shoved the police car off the road.
After four miles on Three Chopt, Carina took a somewhat unexpected left onto state route 6, heading toward downtown Richmond. One of the Navigators overshot, but the other two vehicles followed her as if they were glued to her bumper.
"Shit!" she shouted. "Bastards!"
"You want me to start shooting?" Tucker asked.
"Not yet," she replied. "I still have a couple of tricks up my sleeve."
Three miles later, she took a left onto Malvern Avenue, and then almost immediately, a right onto Broad Street – the main drag into the center of Richmond. The NSA vehicles were starting to struggle to keep up with her maneuvers.
As they flew into the morass of one way streets that was downtown Richmond, Carina said, "Alright, Mitch, NOW."
"Happy to oblige," Tucker replied. He rolled down his window and leaned the upper half of his six and a half foot body out of the car, locking his legs around his seat. Drawing a bead on the lead Navigator, he put a bullet into its radiator. A cloud of steam erupted, but the Navigator kept going.
"Dammit," he hissed. The Suburban pulled around the lead Navigator, and Tucker fired twice. The driver swerved, and the bullets took out a side view mirror and a headlight. "God dammit!"
The steaming Navigator was starting to smoke as the engine ran hotter and hotter without coolant – but it was still coming. "Die, mother fucker," Tucker said, firing off the rest of his clip. He was bound to get lucky.
And he did. One of his bullets found the Navigator's left front tire. It swerved, clipping the Suburban, which lost control and began to roll. The smoking Navigator slammed into the rolling
Suburban just as flames began to shoot out from under its hood. The rear Navigator slammed on its brakes – and did a powerslide right into the other Navigator's rear end.
All the kinetic energy combined managed to rupture one of the vehicles' gas tanks, and as soon as the fumes were exposed to the flames coming out of the lead Navigator's front end, it exploded. "Holy shit!" yelped Tucker as he watched the enormous fireball form, not a block away. He ducked back into the Impala.
"I think we're good," he said, as Carina took a left onto Adams Street, to head toward Interstate 95.
8:05 P.M. EST
Over Virginia
The B-1B Lancer designated Homecoming-One had begun its descent into Langley Air Force Base when it was joined on either side by an F-16 from Langley. "Homecoming-One, this is Beagle Lead, do you read?"
The USAF pilot keyed his microphone. "This is Homecoming-One, over."
"Uh, Homecoming-One, we have orders to shoot you down… what the hell is going on?"
Sarah heard that in her headset and froze. "Uh, I have no idea, Beagle Lead. What do you mean, shoot us down? Over the state of Virginia?"
"I don't understand, either, Homecoming-One. Just tell me you have something that contradict the orders of a Lieutenant General, and we'll back off."
Sarah unbuckled her seatbelt and made her way to the pilot's seat. "I have something," she told him, retrieving her NCA card and handing it to him.
"Uh, I have a National Command Authority card here," the pilot informed Beagle Lead. "It is ID number 4047573."
"Copy that," Beagle Lead replied. "Does the holder of the ID card have orders?"
"Ma'am?" the pilot asked.
"Tell him to disregard his previous orders, and to land immediately."
"Beagle Lead, the orders are to disregard your previous orders, and to land immediately."
"Copy that," Beagle Lead said. He peeled off, the other F-16 following.
"You are one high priority woman, ma'am," the pilot said, looking up at Sarah.
"I think you'd find my husband agrees with you."
8:15 PM EST
Fort Meade, Maryland
General Beckman picked up her phone as it rang. "Beckman, secure."
"Uh, ma'am, we have a problem," came the voice of the agent who had spoken to her earlier. "Agent Miller and Gunny Tucker managed to evade our strike team in Virginia – in fact, they managed to cause a traffic accident that destroyed all three of the strike team vehicles. Three miles later, they stopped their vehicle and removed the GPS unit."
"Shit," Beckman breathed.
"Uh, there's more, ma'am," the agent continued. "The F-16s that were launched from Langley to shoot down the B-1, uh, they refused to comply with those orders. They said that they were given orders by the holder of a National Command Authority ID card that superseded their previous orders."
Beckman put a hand to her forehead. "Let me guess. ID number 4047573."
"Yes, ma'am, Agent Sarah Walker."
General Beckman just sat there for a moment – and then, without warning, picked up the STU-8 and hurled it through her window.
"FUCK!"
8:25 PM EST
As the B-1B taxied toward the staging area at Langley Air Force Base, the occupants could see a lone black Ford Crown Victoria racing across the base toward them. It was anybody's guess as to who was in that car.
An old GMC pickup with a set of stairs attached to it pulled up next to the Lancer, situating itself next to the hatch. The Crown Vic rolled to a stop next to the truck, and its three occupants climbed out to wait at the bottom of the stairs.
Forrest Saxon was the first one off the plane. "Commodore Saxon!" Sam Tyler called as soon as he saw him. "We need to talk, sir, immediately!"
The Navy flag officer nodded, tiredly. He'd been expecting this debrief for a while.
Will Williamson and Rachel Harrison followed Saxon, and Bryce Larkin came immediately behind Harrison, holding her hand. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, John Casey looked at Bryce.
"Larkin," he growled. Bryce ignored him, and turned to the other man standing there – Chuck Bartowski.
"Seems like the shit always hits the fan when we're involved in something together, eh, Chuck?" he said with a grin.
"The shitteth hath been splattered all over the walleth," Chuck replied, deadpan.
Bryce's smile got a little bigger. "Haven't heard that… well, since our last kegger at Stanford… uh, before…"
"Yeah," Chuck said, distractedly. He suddenly found he didn't care what Bryce had to say.
In an instant, he had dashed up to the top of the airstairs. Looking down a couple of inches, he looked into the eyes of his very, very tired wife.
"Hey, you," Chuck said, almost shyly.
"Hey to you, too," she replied, in the same tone of voice.
Chuck kissed Sarah gently, trying not to overwhelm her. She closed her eyes and savored the feeling of his lips on hers – it hadn't even been sixty hours, but it seemed like an eternity since he had last kissed her.
When they broke, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. Looking into his eyes was almost hypnotic, especially with how exhausted she was. But when she looked in those eyes, she knew, right then and there, that it was almost over – she'd be able to go home soon, they could return to their kids.
"Alright, Chuck," she said softly. "Let's finish this."