After discovering how volatile the situation really might be, Sarah had placed a call. The call bypassed Chuck’s CIA handler, Father Michael O’Halloran, going directly to CIA Director Sam Tyler.
When Sarah read him the memo and the op order over the secure line, he had practically hit the roof. He told her and Chuck not to move. He told them to get O’Halloran and Casey to their house as fast as humanly possible. Then he told them that he would be in Los Angeles in six hours.
True to his word, just over six hours later, there was an insistent banging on the door. Chuck opened it to reveal Director Tyler, looking like he’d swallowed a hot coal.
“Do you have any fucking idea what the implications of this are?!” he exploded, the moment Chuck opened the door.
“Uh, if you don’t mind too terribly, I have two fifteen month olds sitting in this room who I would prefer to not be exposed to profanity quite yet,” Chuck replied sarcastically.
Tyler frowned, and looked over at the couch. There sat John and Lisa, watching Sesame Street. John smiled, and Lisa waved. “Uncle” Morgan, who was supposed to be watching them, dozed on the end of the couch.
Sam Tyler waved back at them half-heartedly. “Fine,” he said, resuming his tirade. “Do you have any f-u-c-k-i-n-g idea what the implications of this are?”
Chuck looked at him with irritation in his eyes. “I believe I do, yes,” he replied. “Can we take this into my office?”
Tyler sighed, but followed Chuck to the office. Sarah, Casey, and O’Halloran were all waiting there, and it became a bit of a tight squeeze when the two men walked into the room.
“Afternoon, all,” he grumbled.
“And a good afternoon to ye as well, sir,” Father Mike O’Halloran chirped back cheerfully.
“Do NOT start with me, O’Halloran,” Tyler growled. “I am NOT in the mood.”
Casey finished the necessary procedures to bring up a video conference on the plasma screen on Chuck’s wall, and a moment later, General Beckman appeared. “Alright, what the hell is going on?” she demanded. “If this was big enough for Director Tyler to actually personally fly to Los Angeles, it has to be huge.”
“General Beckman,” Chuck began, “I flashed on a memo you wrote fourteen years ago regarding the feasibility of shutting down the nation’s communications network in the event of a severe emergency, so as to prevent a national panic from spreading.”
She nodded. “Yes, the Emergency Communications Control memo,” she said. “I was on President Clinton’s National Security Council, and was asked to draft a memo to that effect.”
Chuck nodded. “Well, it seems that Fulcrum got their hands on that memo and have subverted it to a plan to overthrow the administration – a plan which they intend to put into effect next Monday afternoon.”
Beckman’s eyes widened. “Son of a bitch!” she shouted. “Now do you believe that Fulcrum exists, Tyler?!”
Sam Tyler looked at her sullenly. “I still have my doubts,” he replied, “but I’m beginning to come around.”
Beckman put her hands to her head. “This can’t be happening,” she moaned. “Not after all I’ve put into my career.”
Taking a deep breath, she looked back up. “Alright, I need to know how you know that they’re actually going to do this, and that they’re going to do it next Monday.”
Chuck nodded. “The op-order I flashed on stated specifically that this was never to be run as an exercise, only as an actual mission. As far as how I know it’s going to happen next Monday – Casey received a call up letter from March Air Reserve Base telling him to report on Monday for an exercise known as the Emergency Communications Control protocol, or ECOMCON.”
Beckman shook her head. “Well, there it is then.”
Sarah spoke up for the first time. “Do we have any idea who might be involved with this? The op-order specifically mentioned people from the military, in addition to the cabinet, the Senate, and the Supreme Court.”
Beckman sighed again. “I really have no idea,” she said. “If we’re talking military, you might want to start with Melvin Powers –“
“The chairman of the Joint Chiefs?!” Casey exclaimed. “As in, the commanding general of the United States Air Force?”
“Yes, Casey, your titular boss and mine,” Beckman responded. “He has been a very vocal critic of the nuclear disarmament treaty, and has made it quite clear that he intends to run against the President as an independent this fall. Maybe he’s decided it’s just easier to go about it this way.”
“Senate’s easy enough,” Sam Tyler interjected. “Lou DeBlasio, without question. He wants to shut the Intersect project down, yesterday pretty much. With no Intersect, there’s no self-aware intelligence database to prevent this from going forward.”
“Director Tyler, that’s a pretty bold accusation to make,” Beckman stated. “Senator DeBlasio is the ranking minority member on the Armed Services Committee.”
“And you saw him at the Intelligence Select Committee hearing, General,” Tyler snapped. “He pretty much threw me, Senator Graham, and the Intersect to the wolves.”
“He’s also been very critical o’ the treaty,” Mike O’Halloran added. “Very critical.”
“Agent O’Halloran,” General Beckman replied, “if we were to suspect everybody who was critical of the treaty, we’d have forty percent of the United States population on our list.”
“Yes, but who in positions of power have been critical?” O’Halloran persisted.
Beckman stared back at him. “Let’s see, approximately thirty percent of both houses of Congress, three Supreme Court justices, about half of the President’s own cabinet, and a large portion of the military-industrial complex, NOT TO MENTION twenty-three governors. Shall I go on?”
Suitably chastised, O’Halloran shut up. “Alright,” Beckman said. “So we have only one firm name to go off of – Forrest Saxon.”
“Yeah,” Chuck replied. “His name was at the bottom of the op-order I flashed on.”
Beckman shook her head. “Commodore Saxon is a highly decorated navy veteran,” she sighed. “He’s one of the few aviators currently in the military who has achieved ‘ace’ status. And he commands Combined Task Force Seventy-Seven. Do you understand what that means, Mr. Bartowski?”
“It means he commands a task force that consists of a Nimitz class aircraft carrier – specifically the USS Eisenhower – two Ticonderoga AEGIS missile cruisers, four Arleigh Burke class destroyers, two Oliver Hazard Perry class frigates, a Los Angeles class fast attack submarine and a Virginia class fast attack submarine, in addition to numerous support ships,” Chuck shot back. “How’d I do?”
“Your technical knowledge is impressive, Mr. Bartowski,” Beckman replied, “but your knowledge of tradition clearly is not. CTF-77 has been the aircraft carrier battle and strike force of the Navy’s Seventh Fleet for nearly seventy years. It has engaged in battle in World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, Desert Storm, and Operation Iraqi Freedom. It spent four years off the coast of Vietnam, launching dangerous air operations – perhaps you’ve heard of Yankee Station?”
Chuck was himself beginning to look chastised. “My point, Mr. Bartowski, is that Commodore Saxon was appointed to be the commander of CTF-77 because he is a highly respected naval fleet officer. We can’t just waltz into the South China Sea and accuse him of being a traitor.”
“Okay, okay,” Chuck replied, “but what about this? If he was, as the op-order said, the naval section chief for Fulcrum, wouldn’t it make sense for them to want him to stay in Washington? The South China Sea is an AWFULLY long way away. What if he decided to back out, and there’s a higher ranking naval officer who got pissed and had him sent basically to the other side of the world?”
Beckman leaned back, thoughtful. “That’s a pretty far-fetched theory, Bartowski, but it does have a certain logic to it.” Chuck nodded. “So, what do you propose we do then, Mr. Bartowski?”
Sarah interrupted. “Send an agent to the USS Eisenhower, have that agent talk to Commodore Saxon,” she replied. “See exactly what he knows. If Saxon really did get the boot from Fulcrum, he might be willing to help us. If he’s still part of Fulcrum… well, we’ve dealt with that before.”
“True,” Beckman replied. “We need an agent, though, who is pretty much a stone-cold killer and has extensive experience with Fulcrum for something like this.”
Chuck, Casey, and Sarah all said the name simultaneously. “Bryce Larkin.”
Sam Tyler’s head jerked up. “NO,” he snapped. “I am NOT sending one of my best field agents off on some cockamamie wild goose chase.”
“Director Tyler, this is not a cockamamie wild goose chase,” Beckman replied. “Bryce Larkin has more experience than anybody with Fulcrum. He has personally taken down twenty of their agents. If Saxon is a Fulcrum agent, he can deal with him. If he’s not, Larkin can get him to tell us exactly who’s involved.”
Tyler closed his eyes and sighed. “Fine. I’ll issue the order.”
“Good,” Beckman replied. “Is there anything else for right now?”
Nobody had anything to add. “Very well,” she said. “I have some work to do. If there are any further developments, contact me IMMEDIATELY.”
And with that, she signed off.
Tyler turned to Chuck and Sarah. “There is a CIA armory team on the way,” he told them. “They’re going to install armor in the walls of your house and cars, along with bulletproof glass.”
Chuck’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “What?!” he replied in shock. “You’re going to turn my house into a fortress and my Dodge into a tank? I grew up in Los Angeles, for God’s sake!”
“I don’t care if you walked through MS-13 territory every day on the way to school,” Tyler shot back, getting very close to Chuck, “you are a priceless government asset, and Agent Walker represents a massive investment on the part of the government. If Fulcrum, or Al Qaeda, or the Crips and the Bloods, or Manchester United, or the goddamn Wizard of Oz wants to take the two of you out – I don’t bloody care, they’re bloody well going to have to bust their asses doing it.”
Chuck looked over at Sarah. She nodded, and he turned back to Tyler.
“Fine,” Chuck breathed. “Do whatever you need to do.”
Tyler nodded. “I was going to anyway. Now, I need to use the video conference again.”
“Go right ahead,” Chuck replied. “Mi casa, su casa, although it’s pretty clear that you assumed that long before you ever stepped through the door.”
“I’m sorry, Bartowski, but do you have a problem with me?” Tyler asked, turning back to face Chuck.
“Who, me? Why should I have a problem with the man who walks in my front door, yells ‘fuck’ in front of my two kids, decides to turn my house into Fort Knox and my cars into Bradleys, and then decides he’s free to use my shit in my Nerd Cave?! No, no problem at all, you little troll!”
Chuck had gotten visibly very agitated while ranting, and now he was standing as close to Tyler as he could without actually touching him. His fists were clenched by his sides, and his face was red.
Casey and Sarah just sort of looked at each other worriedly. Chuck towered several inches over the CIA director, and Tyler, being an analyst rather than an officer, would probably get his ass kicked in a one-on-one fight.
Of course, Tyler, being the director of the CIA, was also making no indication that he planned to back down. He stood toe to toe with Chuck, his fists also clenched, a vein standing out on his forehead as he stared up at the taller man.
But Mike O’Halloran’s Catholic seminary-trained common sense intervened at that point. “I think that’ll be enough o’ that, ye two,” he said, stepping between them. “Bartowski, stand down. Director Tyler, all due respect, but ye have better things to do with yer time than argue with an asset.”
Chuck glared at O’Halloran, and then looked back at Tyler. “I’ll be in the living room with my kids,” he spat, stomping out of the room.
Sarah sighed deeply, and followed Chuck. “Director Tyler, I believe ye have a call to place to get Agent Larkin movin’, don’t ye?” O’Halloran reminded him.
When Sarah reached the living room, though, Chuck wasn’t there – just the two kids. “Where’s Daddy?” she asked them.
John and Lisa both pointed at the front door. Sarah walked to the front door and pulled it open.
“- just a TV show, Chuck!”
“It was TORCHWOOD, Morgan! For God’s sake, why didn’t you just throw on a porno for them to watch?!”
“Chuck, come on, man.”
“Morgan, no. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of putting up with your shit. I’m sick of you being a slacker, and I’m sick of my family tolerating your crap.”
“Chuck!” Sarah shouted. “That is enough!”
Chuck was breathing raggedly. It was clear that he was incredibly angry, but he needed to be brought down to size. “Just because you’re pissed at Director Tyler, and the CIA, and this whole situation doesn’t mean you can take it out on Morgan! He’s your best friend, for Christ’s sake!”
Morgan looked at Sarah, a look of shock still on his face. “No, Sarah, he’s right, I mean –“
“No, Morgan. Well, yes. You shouldn’t have been watching Torchwood with the kids, and we might need to talk about that. But everything else he said, he had no right to say that. You’ve been just as good a friend to Chuck, and to me, as we have to you.”
Chuck had a look of shocked amazement on his face. “Excuse me? I have no right to tell Morgan he’s a slacker?”
“No, Chuck, you don’t,” Sarah said, turning to face her husband. “Who encouraged you to go out with me that very first time? Who encouraged you to pursue me? Who told you not to give up? Who was by your side no matter what happened the last four and a half years?”
The words gradually registered with Chuck, and his face fell. He turned back to Morgan. “I am so sorry…” he said softly.
Morgan nodded. “Don’t worry about it, dude. I understand. You’re under all kinds of stress right now, from time to time you’re gonna blow off some steam.”
“Thanks, Morgan,” Chuck replied. “Listen… don’t worry about the Torchwood thing. I’ll talk to Sarah about that.”
Sarah smiled. “Oh, really,” she said.
“Hey, don’t let me get in the middle of some sort of marital argument,” Morgan said. “I gotta go – I’m supposed to pick Anna up in fifteen minutes anyway.”
He walked to the curb, jumped in his old GMC van – Sarah had jokingly dubbed it the Mystery Machine, just because of the way it was painted – and rumbled off down the street. Sarah turned to Chuck.
“You can’t do that to him,” she said softly. “Morgan’s been through too much with you for you to do that.”
Chuck’s whole body seemed to droop, and his eyes became fixed on his worn out old Converse trainers. “I know,” he replied quietly. “I guess… being up for thirty-six straight hours, and all the flashes I had last night, and everything with Director Tyler… I shouldn’t have taken it out on him.”
He looked up again, and his eyes were glistening. “Thank you for stopping me,” he said. “I mean… thank you.”
Sarah stepped up next to him and wrapped her arms around Chuck, embracing him tightly. “That’s why I’m here,” she said quietly. “You know, that whole ‘to have and to hold, for as long as we both shall live’ bit?”
She looked up at Chuck, and he smiled down at her. “That’s why I love you so much,” he said, echoing her words from that morning.
Sarah stood up on her tiptoes and kissed Chuck briefly. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she replied.
“Captain Drexler to comms. Repeat, Captain Drexler to comms. You have a priority-one communication.”
Captain Jack Drexler, US Navy, was commander of Carrier Air Wing Seven, currently embarked on the USS Eisenhower. He was also asleep when the message came through.
Sighing, he got up. Throwing on a pair of slippers, he made his way to the communications room. “Yeah?” he asked, stepping inside. An ensign handed him a phone.
“Captain Drexler, this is Fulcrum command. Do not respond to anything I say. A CIA agent by the name of Bryce Larkin will be arriving on the Eisenhower tomorrow to speak with Commodore Saxon. After Larkin speaks with Saxon, arrest the Commodore and place him in the brig, and eliminate Larkin, however you best see fit. If you understand, hang up the phone.”
Captain Drexler hung up the phone. Years had passed since he had been recruited into Fulcrum, but notification of the ECOMCON exercise had gotten him ready for just about anything. And now, things were going forward.
“If you understand, hang up the phone.”
There was a click in the earpiece. The phone line went dead.
The hand that held the phone replaced it in its cradle. Rising, the caller crossed to the bathroom, opened the door, and turned on the sink.
A splash of water to the face, maybe to feel a little more human.
The final mission was six days away still. Before then, though, Team Chuck had to be eliminated in its entirety. Larkin would be taken care of on the aircraft carrier, but how to deal with Casey, and O’Halloran, and Walker, and Bartowski himself? For that matter, how to deal with Director Tyler?
The unspoken questions rang hollow, because General Louisa Beckman had no answers for herself.
