6:00 PM Eastern Standard Time
February 16th, 2012
Fort Meade, Maryland
“General Beckman, we have a posident on the use of National Command Authority ID number 4047573 – Agent Sarah Walker – at MCAS Miramar.”
Everybody in the room stopped. “Do we have video?” Beckman asked excitedly.
“Yes, ma’am,” she heard, and the large high def screen on the wall switched from multiple displays to one large shot – a red and white Toyota Yaris, Chuck Bartowski at the wheel, John Casey riding shotgun, and Sarah Walker leaning forward, ID card in hand.
“That’s a Buy More Nerd Herder,” Beckman said. “Why didn’t we have a GPS track on it?”
“GPS tracker is showing that particular vehicle at 5151 Mission Valley Road in San Diego,” was the answer she got. “My guess is that they removed the GPS device and left it when they took the car.”
“Do we have any other way of tracking them?”
“They all have clean phones with no GPS locators in them,” was the response. “They’ve all removed their watches – they were left at the Bartowski home in Los Angeles.”
“What about local law enforcement? We can report it as a stolen vehicle.”
One of the technicians zoomed in on the license plate. Beckman picked up the phone. “I need to be connected to the California Highway Patrol,” she informed the operator.
A moment later, she heard a voice in her ear. “California Highway Patrol dispatch. My name is Lucy, how may I assist you?”
“Lucy, my name is General Beckman. I’m with the National Security Agency, authorization code victor one oscar six five nine two. We have had a vehicle stolen, and I need to put out an all points on that vehicle.”
She heard typing in the background as Lucy verified that Beckman was who she said she was. “Alright, General Beckman, can you please describe the vehicle and license plate?”
“The vehicle is a red and white Toyota Yaris hatchback which says ‘Nerd Herd’ on the sides. It has custom plates, sierra delta november hotel one four. Three occupants, two Caucasian males, one Caucasian female. Driver’s name is Charles Bartowski; he is thirty years old, six foot three, approximately one hundred seventy pounds. Passengers’ names are John Casey, he is thirty-nine years old, six foot four, approximately two hundred ten pounds; and Sarah Walker, she is twenty-nine years old, five foot nine, approximately one hundred thirty pounds. They are to be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”
“I copy all that, General Beckman. Can you tell me approximately where the vehicle might be?”
“The last known location of the vehicle was at Marine Corps Air Station Miramar; however, that was approximately three hours ago.”
“Alright, we’ll distribute this bulletin to all agencies in the Southland and San Diego areas. Is there anything else?”
“If you could call me at this number” – Beckman rattled off her office phone – “as soon as you apprehend the suspects, that would be greatly appreciated.”
“Copy that, General Beckman. We’ll be in touch as soon as we have information.”
And with that, the line went dead. Beckman smiled. “Come into my parlor,” she whispered.
3:30 PM Pacific Standard Time
February 16th, 2012
Hawthorne Municipal Airport, Los Angeles, California
“Hey!” Chuck exclaimed, watching the hangar door roll open. “I remember this airplane – I flew it from Moab to Flagstaff!”
“Yes, yes you did,” Casey replied, looking at his Lear 35J. “My own personal Learjet. I haven’t used her since then, either – rented her out a few times, though, so she hasn’t just been sitting here for four years.”
“So, what, we’re just going to fly directly to Washington and then wait it out till Sunday?”
Casey looked at Chuck like he’d lost his mind. “No, we’re going to fly to a little tiny municipal airport in Virginia and then hide out with a friend of mine till Sunday, at which point we’ll drive into Washington.”
“Oh, joy, three days in the Virginia countryside with John Casey,” Chuck groaned. “I can hardly wait.”
Victor Ramos was a private security guard. Employed by Securitas Security Group, he had been assigned to Hawthorne Municipal Airport for just over a year.
He had just stopped by the security office in the small terminal, and was heading out in his Ford Ranger pickup, on his hourly rounds. He was driving past the hangars, when something caught his eye.
Victor stopped the truck, and called into the security office. “Hey, this is Bravo-Seven,” he said. “Wasn’t there a fax that just came in from CHP about a stolen red and white Toyota Yaris?”
“That’s affirmative,” was the answer.
“What was the license plate on that?”
“Uh… sierra delta november hotel one four. Why?”
“Well, it’s sitting in front of hangar seven.”
Casey had fired up the Lear’s engines. He was just taxiing out of the hangar when he heard the sirens.
He looked to the left – and saw a swarm of Los Angeles Police Department cruisers entering the field. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, and pushed the Lear’s throttles to the stops.
“Can’t you call your friend?” Chuck asked, terror in his voice as the Lear fishtailed onto the runway.
“Forget it,” Casey replied. “They’re on a tactical takedown mission.”
He tossed Chuck his phone. “Call speed dial nine, right now.”
Chuck didn’t argue – he pressed the nine and held it down. Without warning, he heard the roar of an explosion not far behind them.
“What the hell was that?!”
“NSA Incinerator, in the back seat of the Herder,” Casey replied. “I’m hoping it buys us a little time.”
Mark Charles was stuck in the command center in the Parker Building in downtown Los Angeles. Nothing like being a captain to ruin his fun.
“Captain Charles, this is Lieutenant Mathis,” he heard the twenty-year veteran say over the radio. “Suspects have escaped in a Learjet, registration number navajo five five nine jesus christ. Do you wish to notify the Air National Guard?”
“Give me a moment,” Charles replied, chuckling at how ridiculous Mathis’ personal phonetic alphabet was. He pulled up his interface program and logged into the FAA database.
Lear model 35J, registration number N559JC, registered to John Casey.
His eyes widened and he keyed his mike. “That is a NEGATIVE. Do NOT notify the Air National Guard. In fact, inform all units to maintain radio silence regarding this operation from here on out, unless they are speaking directly with me, and then over encrypted channels only. Copy?”
“Copy.”
A moment later, one of the encrypted radios beeped. “This is Charles.”
“Captain Charles, the suspect vehicle was destroyed. No officers were hurt; however, two vehicles did suffer minor damage.”
“Lieutenant Mathis, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I do not care what the APB said, we are NOT going to pursue the occupants of that aircraft. They are part of a vital national security mission. Have the remains of the vehicle removed immediately to an impound yard. Do NOT report on this mission to any other agencies. Is that clear?”
“Copy that, Captain.”
Charles leaned back. “You better not be blowin’ smoke up my ass, John.”
Casey had expected Air National Guard units to be all over the Lear as soon as they left Los Angeles airspace, but there was nothing. After a while, he managed to relax a little. Just to be on the safe side, he took the Lear up to its service ceiling of 45,000 feet.
He could tell Chuck was getting bored – and he couldn’t really blame him. After all, Morgan had taken his laptop with him, and the Sony Vaio that they’d gotten from the Buy More that morning had gone along with the Woodcombs – “After all,” Casey had said, “what if they need the secure phone again?”
But Casey didn’t realize just how bored Chuck had gotten until he heard the younger man humming the theme from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Casey laughed. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor… won’t you be mine, won’t you be mine?” he sang softly.
Chuck looked over at him and laughed. “Seriously? Did you actually watch that as a kid?”
“Oh, hell yes,” Casey replied. “I watched that show every morning. In 1975, when I was three years old, and Captain Kangaroo did a crossover show with Mr. Rogers, I just about crapped my pants.”
“I remember that episode of Captain Kangaroo!” Chuck said excitedly. “They re-aired it in the late ‘80s, and I remember that Fred Rogers didn’t look any different!”
“The man didn’t age,” Casey replied. “I could only hope to look as good at the age of 75 as he did when he died.”
“Casey,” Chuck said, “Mr. Rogers’ daily routine wasn’t that dangerous. Change out of a suitcoat into a sweater. Zip the sweater up, zip it halfway back down. Take off his work shoes, put on a pair of blue loafers. Reverse at the end of the episode. He wasn’t running around killing people and blowing shit up.”
“Fair enough,” Casey replied.
Chuck started laughing. “Yet more proof that John Casey is a human being.”
“Yeah, shut up – oh, wait, that reminds me – can you take the wheel for a moment?”
Chuck shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve flown this plane before, why not?”
Casey turned over control of the aircraft to him, then reached into his bag and pulled out his cell phone. Turning it on, he waited till it had reception, then dialed.
When the phone was answered, he smiled. “Hey, Maya,” he said. “Listen, I just wanted to let you know I’m gonna be out of town for a couple days… got some business to take care of… yeah, it kinda sucks.”
As Chuck watched him, an astonished smile growing on his face, Casey said, “I should be back on Monday… you want to join us for poker night again… of course you can stay the night again… hmmm, I definitely like the sounds of that.”
Chuck lost it at that point and started cracking up. Casey shot him a filthy look. “No, that’s just Chuck Bartowski… yeah, he seems to be amazed that I can actually have a life… hey! That’s just uncalled for… okay, maybe you’re right… okay. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, alright? Bye.”
He turned to Chuck, who was sitting there, smiling smugly, but not saying a word. “Shut up, Bartowski.”
1:30 AM, Brasilia Time
February 17th, 2012
Brasilia, Brazil
The flight from Miramar to Brasilia had taken seven hours of mind-numbing supersonic flight. Twice they had dropped below the Mach – once over Guatemala, to refuel from a KC-10 flying out of San Antonio, and a second time about a thousand miles out from Brasilia, to refuel from a Brazilian Ilyushin IL-76 tanker.
“Thank God jet-A fuel and refueling drogues are pretty much universal,” Captain Williamson observed after topping the tank off.
Sarah, who had never actually seen an in-flight refueling up close and personal before, was simultaneously intrigued and terrified by the process – intrigued at the thought of an aircraft being able to stay up for as long as its mechanical parts would let it, and terrified by the thought of two aircraft essentially mating in mid-air.
“There’s something intrinsically erotic about it,” Williamson had observed. “What do you think?”
“I think that I was too terrified to even consider those ramifications,” Sarah replied. “You fighter pilots are a bunch of lunatics, you know that? Think about the eroticism of mid-air refueling? A sane person would be terrified, but not you!”
“Oh, most fighter pilots are pretty petrified of the whole process,” Williamson said. “I’m just a special brand of crazy.”
Sarah couldn’t argue with that. However, now that they were on the ground in Brasilia, Williamson was about to observe HER special brand of crazy.
The F-18F was parked on a remote hardstand – and sure enough, there was a Chevy Impala waiting for them, just like Sarah had asked Senator Graham to arrange. “You’re coming with me,” Sarah had informed Williamson.
“What about the plane?”
“It’ll be fine. Lock it up, and let’s go. I may need a getaway driver.”
Sarah looked around herself as they drove through the streets of Brazil. More than six years since she’d last been here. That horribly disastrous mission. Thousands of people dead, and it still weighed on her conscience.
The streets were deserted, and the Presidential residence was dark when they lit it – except for one room. Sarah knew that to be the President’s personal office – after all, she’d been there before.
Climbing into the backseat of the Impala, she shucked her flight suit, unconcerned if Williamson saw her in her lingerie. After all, he was gay.
That didn’t stop him from commenting. “Wow,” he said, looking in the rear view mirror. “Your husband must be a happy man.”
“For a gay man, you make more comments about women’s bodies,” she muttered.
“Hey, I know a good looking woman when I see one,” he replied. “I’m gay, not blind.”
In response, she threw her flight suit over his head. “Now you’re both.”
She finished pulling on her black “ninja” outfit, as Chuck and Morgan both liked to call it. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” she told Williamson as he pulled the flight suit off of his head.
“Copy that.”
Like a ghost, Sarah disappeared into the night. One minute Williamson saw her, the next he didn’t.
But she was still out there. She silently scaled the fence, avoiding the razor wire and the sensors on top with ease. A thrill filled her as she dropped onto the grounds – she hadn’t gotten to do this type of thing in YEARS, and she had forgotten just how fun it was.
Pulling a small grapple gun from her belt, she fired upward. An incredibly thin wire sped upward, and its hook caught on the lip of the roof. Made of a composite of carbon fiber and titanium, it would hold her weight no problem. Hell, it would probably hold Casey’s weight no problem.
Moving quickly, she scaled the side of the building, until she was next to the window. She looked over – open. “President Da Silva, you’re an idiot sometimes,” she muttered to herself.
Pushing herself away from the building, she swung in through his window, landing on the floor. Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, President of Brazil, looked up in alarm at the sound of her feet hitting the floor.
“Holy shit,” he swore in Portuguese. “The Operative!”
“Good to see you, too, President Da Silva,” Sarah replied. “Agent Sarah Walker Bartowski.”
“Why are you here?” he demanded. “When you left six years ago, you swore there would be no more trouble.”
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” she replied. “I’m here because the President of the United States needs your help.”
