A/N: This is an AU story. It is not a continuation of any other stories, so don't freak out. It is completely its own AU. Trying something a little different to see what people think.

I am not, nor have I ever been, in the military. I am not a military historian or expert in any fashion. This is a work of fiction that I have done a small bit of research on so that it is at least grounded in the real world. It will not be 100% real world accurate and I am OK with that. It is not my intention to write a military documentary here. It's called fiction. Use your 'willing suspension of disbelief' and just go with it. It's really liberating. Trust me. You'll see.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck.

Chapter 1

Out of breath, a man burst through the door, "Mr. President ... we have a ... rather disturbing development. There are preliminary reports that at approximately 15:30 hours, the plane transporting Secretary Whitacre and his entourage has taken some unknown damage and was forced to make an emergency landing approximately 6 km east of Las Claritas, Venezuela. Sir, that region is heavily forested and any safe landing there would be nearly impossible. We can only assume that they were forced to crash land in the jungle."

"Jesus Christ. Do we have any idea if there are survivors? Can we get the Venezuelans to search the area, or offer any assistance?" the President inquired, clearly taken aback by the events.

"Sir, we have reached out to the Venezuelan President's staff, Foreign Affairs Minister's office and even been in touch with the Venezuelan ambassador. Given our strained relationship, they do not seem to be in any hurry to offer aid or make any acknowledgement that the event even happened, Sir," his aide offered with no small degree of apprehension.

"Dammit. Get Cavanagh on the line, now. I wanna talk to him five minutes ago! Go!", he shouted. As his aide rushed from the room, the President sat back in his chair, letting out a long sigh, running is hands through his hair. About two minutes later the intercom on the phone came to life.

"Sir, I have Director Cavanagh on line one," the voice of his assistant chirped.

"Thank you." Clearing his throat and taking a breath to center himself he answered, "Cavanagh! I need details on this situation with Whitacre. What can you tell me?"

"Mr. President, we do not have much in the way of details at this time. We did however receive some distress calls after the landing, so there were at least some survivors, Sir. Our people and those in the State Department have tried to make contact with the Venezuelan government but they seem rather uncooperative at this time," Cavanagh replied, frustration clear in his voice.

"Jim, I don't want this to turn into an international issue, but do you have anyone in the area that can get eyes in there and extract any survivors? Ben was the best man at Maggie and I's wedding for God sake. I need you to find them and bring them home….quietly. Understood?" he asked with finality.

"Understood Mr. President. I will put my very best on it. We will bring them home, one way or another," Cavanagh declared.

"Thanks Jim. Give Mary our best, huh? Maggie'd love to have you two over for dinner soon. Keep me up-to-date Jim," the President requested before ending the call.

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"General, I have Director Cavanagh for you. It seems rather urgent," Beckman's assistant announced.

The older woman sighed as she prepared herself. These calls were never good. "Beckman" she declared as she picked up the line.

"General. Cavanagh here. I just got off the horn with POTUS. It seems Secretary of State Whitacre's plane went down in Venezuela. The locals aren't too keen on lending a hand. I need to pull out all the stops here. Between you and Graham, I need to get eyes in there and extract all survivors. We don't need some militant getting hold of them and making some political example on Youtube, for God sake. I need something, anything within the hour. This needs to be kept quiet. If word hits the press, there will definitely be sharks in the water. General?" Cavanagh paused allowing Beckman to respond.

"Sir, I will get my people on it. We'll see if our contacts can find any assets in the area that can get us any intel. I'll have a report within the hour Sir," she replied confidently.

"Excellent, I'll let you get to it Diane." Cavanagh hung up with not even a goodbye. Beckman pondered for a moment as she read over the encrypted email she received with the details they have on the situation so far. She initiated a secure video conference call and after a few moments a gruff voice responded.

"Casey Secure. Evening General. What can I do for you?" the man inquired sitting up at attention.

"Major, we have a situation. Secretary of State Whitacre was visiting Brazil earlier today and on his return trip, the plane took some sort a damage and went down in the jungles of southeast Venezuela. Looks like last location was 6 clicks east of Las Claritas, Venezuela. They did receive a distress call shortly after the landing but that is all we have. I don't think I need to remind you , Major, of the situation in Venezuela and how paramount it is that any survivors be retrieved ASAP. The DNI himself has asked us to make this top priority. He wants any intell we can get on the area, the crash ... anything. He wants this done quietly obviously. Might I also add that he is calling on Graham to do likewise," she informed him with a raised eyebrow. The large, chiseled man on the other side of the call only grunted as his brow furrowed. "Precisely. Do you have any contacts or assets in the area to leverage?"

After contemplating for a moment, the Major replied," General, I may know someone. We worked a few ops together in southeast Asia. I talked with him a few days ago. Said he was doing some training exercises in western Guyana. That's just a helo ride away. I can try to get him on the Sat-phone, see if he is still there."

"Who is this person Major? Do you trust him? Obviously, this is a highly sensitive situation," she questioned.

"General, his name is Sergeant Charles Bartowski USMC Force Reconnaissance, Deep Recon platoon. They're stationed out of Pendleton, but I called him for his birthday a few days ago and that's when he said he and his team were training in Guyana. General, he's as good a man as they come," Casey straightened even more if it were possible.

"Very well. If you trust him that is saying something. See if you can get hold of him. I'm sure DoD will authorize this little detour, but let's ask for forgiveness instead of permission on this one. I have my suspicions on the cause of this crash and would like to make sure we are the only cooks in the kitchen for right now. Understood, Major?"

"Yes Ma'am. I'll get on it immediately. Casey out," clicking the button to end the call. He quickly grabbed for his Sat-phone and called his friend. While he was waiting, he was on his computer working on getting some transport lined up.

"Miss my dulcet tones already, Big Guy?" the voice on the other end answered.

"Suck it Bartowski. You still in the trees down south?" he asked with urgency in his voice.

"Yeah. Yeah we're in Kaieteur National Park, roasting marshmallows. Why? What's up, Casey?" Bartowski asked with curiosity.

"You secure?" Casey asked.

"Yeah, Major. Secure." he replied, his concern mounting.

"At approximately 15:30, one of our birds went down in east Venezuela. That bird has some precious cargo. Whitacre was on that plane. Venezuelan government is offering little to no help, which worries me. That's the kind of person militants make home videos about. If any of them are still alive and they release some snuff film, shit is gonna hit the fan. You copy?" Casey grunted

"Yeah, Major. I copy. Is this quiet extraction or we going all 'Jackson Pollock' on the place?" he inquired.

"Sergeant, you are to get in, retrieve all survivors and extract them ASAP. Nobody can breathe a word that you were there. Whatever that looks like, I leave to your discretion. Ping me your coordinates and I will get a helo to your location. How are your guys sittin' for gear?" asked Casey as he was typing furiously at the keyboard.

"Not knowing what sort of company we may get, it wouldn't hurt to get some extra ammo. M4, M110A1 and another belt or so for the M240 should do it. Also, an additional med kit as I suspect whoever we find will be in rough shape. Say, you know how many friendlies we're looking at? Normal compliment I would guess, 12-15 including flight crew. Sound right?" Bartowski questioned the Major.

"Chuck, I don't have exact numbers, but that was my guess too. Given they crash landed in the sticks, I suspect that number to be lower. I just don't know how much lower. And Chuck, Whitacre and POTUS … they go way back, so this ain't just business." Casey left it at that. "I've got a NH90 out of Cheddi coming your way. Should be there in about 90 minutes. They'll drop you just east of the crash sight and you'll have to hoof it in. Don't want locals getting too nosy. The chopper will try to hang nearby for emergency pickup. If it's hot, throw smoke and they'll come in heavy. If shit goes really sideways, there is a piece a shit airstrip in Las Claritas. Swipe some winged bathtub outta there and get back over the border. Wish I was there with ya. All you guys watch your six, huh?" Casey went quiet.

"Roger. Thanks Casey. I'll text you a selfie with Whitacre. Bartowski out." Chuck hung up and informed his team of the details beyond what they could overhear of the conversation. They were all on-board, even if it wasn't an order, they would still be all in.

"Alright guys. By the time we get there, they will have been down for several hours. Given they crashed, that does not bode well for those seriously injured. Worse yet, local colectivos may have gotten to them first. That will make things infinitely worse for them. They could be ransomed off, executed on camera or worse... " he trailed off trying not to think of the fate worse than death any female crew may face. That caused an increased sense of urgency to boil in his stomach. "Let's check gear and grab some food before our ride gets here." Chuck took a seat under a tree, checked all his gear and pulled out an MRE. It was cold but cold stroganoff was better than the alternatives he could dig out of the rotting logs and under rocks nearby. It brought new meaning to the term 'grub'. He'd consider himself fortunate.

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The NH90 picked the team up in a nearby clearing where the crew exchanged greetings. Without much pleasantry they made haste toward their drop sight about 100 clicks northwest. The team collected the gear they requested and stowed it in packs and pockets. The chopper crew knew very little about the details but were debriefed on what they needed to know of the situation. They knew it could be an active hostile zone and were ready for direct action if necessary. Chuck pulled out his cellphone and powered it on. There was no cell service out here in BF...V, but he took some pictures of the mountains and vast spans of forest. From up here it looked so beautiful, but he knew the secrets that lay beneath that emerald canopy. He and his team had been trudging through this unforgiving jungle and mountains for almost a week. They were dirty and a little tired but the prospect of ditching their little 'camping trip' to do some actual good had lifted their spirits and given them purpose. As he looked over his team he could see the focus on their faces as the drop sight neared.

"Sarg? You hear anything from Ellie?" the shorter, bearded man inquired as he pointed to the cellphone Chuck was holding.

"Nah. Haven't had any service in days, Morg. Just grabbed some pics as a momento," he replied waggling the phone. Corporal Morgan Grimes is his second for the team and serving as his marksman. Morgan is like a monkey. He could climb anything, hang precariously and still give a gnat a vasectomy at 500 yards. He was also one of Chuck's oldest friends. He and Chuck were like brothers from another mother. They had been friends since childhood, so when Chuck decided to join the Marines, Morgan was not about to be left behind, despite Chuck's protests. They had been through basic together and while separated for a couple of years with other duties and training, were brought back together in Recon. Next to Morgan was PFC Steven Cho, hailing from the 'great state of Alabama' (according to Cho). Who was he to argue with Cho, or Lynyrd Skynyrd for that matter? Cho was first generation Korean-American and the juxtaposition of his face and his southern drawl were both humorous and a little unsettling at first. He was a tough, stoic man but I suppose as a Korean kid growing up outside of Mobile you learned to grow a tough exterior. Cho was talking with PFC Tyrel "Sugar" Thomas and LCpl Jeremy Baldwin. Thomas was their heavy gunner, lugging around the M240 like it was only some sort of Nerf gun. He was a very large, black man from Cleveland. As tough and menacing as he looked, he was a kind and gentle giant of a man. Perhaps that is what garnered him the nickname "Sugar", though nobody knew for certain and were too afraid to ask. Baldwin was their point man out of Kearney, Nebraska. He was 'the' stereotype for a good ole Nebraska farm boy. The same height as Chuck, standing at six foot three, Baldwin had another forty pounds of bulk making him a formidable looking man in his own right. Much like Thomas, Baldwin was a kind, respectful man; always polite and courteous. When he was running point however, he seemed to switch that off, replacing it with a cool, controlled focus. Rounding out their team was their slack man, Private Jesus Ramirez from San Antonio. The self-professed Don Juan of the team (which was not saying much) was a cocky, arrogant kid when off the clock. When they were out in the suck and things got serious, he put a lid on his arrogance and was all business. His overt personality seemed like a coping mechanism or some means by which to hide the uncertainty or perhaps fear associated with this line of work. It also managed to get them in more than their fair share of bar fights. The team never really complained as it helped to let off some steam. Plus it was a safer alternative than Putt-Putt golf which they are now banned from in Oceanside, Ca.

"Sergeant, we're approaching the drop point, just on the east side of that ridge. That will mask our rotor noise from the valley to the west. Your target is 1.5 clicks north-northwest. We will find a safe nesting spot nearby to wait for your signal," the co-pilot relayed to Chuck.

"Copy Corporal. Thanks for the lift. We'll call for our Uber when we're ready for pickup," Chuck yelled over the rotor noise, tipping the rim of his boonie hat. Once the chopper was in place, the six-man team repelled down to the forest floor and released their lines. Using GPS coordinates, they made haste over the ridge and toward the crash site. Baldwin and Ramirez took point as they tried to find the easiest yet quietest path through the jungle. As they approached, the smell of smoke was still in the air and tendrils could be seen rising from the wreckage. Large pieces of the plane were lodged in the canopy but the main fuselage of the plane had made it to the forest floor, the descent likely slowed by the trees. Grimes got to a better vantage point but saw no movement through his high-power scope. They spread out and while the rest of the team searched the site and surrounding area. There was so much carnage that identifying the source of the crash was virtually impossible, at least with the limited time they had. There were signs of foot traffic and spots of blood outside the plane, so clearly someone had been here.

The inside of the plane was a mess but largely intact. Chuck could immediately see three bodies that looked like they had been tossed around like rag dolls. They were all men, wearing suits, with no signs that they had been strapped in during the crash, which could account for their current situation. Moving up the aisle, he spotted a fourth man on the ground between the seats. He had several red stains on his shirt and a hole above his right eyebrow, clearly not crash related. None of the dead men were Whitacre and by the ear pieces they must be his security detail. With added caution, he made his way to the cockpit where the door was ajar. Slowly pushing open the door with the muzzle of his rifle, he could see that the pilot and co-pilot had perished in the crash as large tree branches had invaded the cockpit, likely on their initial impact. That brought the total to six casualties so far. The last update he got from Casey via Sat-phone before their pickup was fourteen total with passengers and crew. He scoured the plane for any signs of briefcases or documents that could be considered classified in nature that should be reclaimed or destroyed. If there were any on-board they were not here now. Chuck however did notice a women's purse that had slid under one of the seats. That brought back that knot in his stomach. This is not the first time he has been involved in a female hostage situation. Typically the outcome was a fate worse than death. The last such incident, the abductors had fortunately ended that poor woman's suffering. He couldn't help but feel some guilt for not reaching them in time. Always playing the 'what if' game. Chuck still had nightmares about that from time to time. He pushed those thoughts down as he opened the purse and examined the contents. Inside was some makeup, odds and ends, keys and a wallet. He opened the wallet to look for identification. When he saw the photo his heart sank to the floor as he let out a gasp. The name, "Walker, Sarah L.", and though it had been nearly 6 years the picture staring back at him was the face he still saw when he went to sleep many nights. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.

"Sarg, what is it?" Grimes inquired from behind, concern apparent in his voice over the look that had taken over their leader. Chuck choked down the lump in his throat and merely handed the wallet to Morgan without a word. "Holy Shit! Is that...are you fucking kidding me? Oh, SHIT, dude. She looks just the same!" Morgan shook his head in disbelief. "Look man, she's not here, so that's a good sign, right? " He knew the history there and could sense the heartache Chuck was going through. He grabbed Chuck's shoulder with a firm hand, shaking the man out of his thoughts. Chuck just nodded and re-focused himself. He grabbed the purse and wallet, along with any identification from the dead on the plane. It would allow them to notify next of kin and hopefully prevent their names from being used by the local colectivos to further their cause. They left the plane to meet up with the rest of the team.

"Sarg, we have two men down about fifty yards west. Definitely not natural causes. Looks like they were executed. Either they were causing trouble or they were just slowing them down. One of them looks like his leg was severely broken," reported Baldwin.

"That means that they have six hostages and at least one of them is female. Do we have a direction of travel?" Chuck questioned his men, a hard tone in his voice.

"Yes Sir. They are heading due west. With that many people in tow they are making one helluva path to follow. If we double time it, we should be able to catch up to them before nightfall, Sir," Baldwin concluded, standing at attention awaiting the order.

"Lead us out then soldier. You set the pace," Chuck commanded. Out of Chuck's view, Grimes walked up to Baldwin and whispered to him under the guise of securing his pack. Baldwin shot a look of shock toward his Sergeant and then back to Grimes. Grimes just nodded solemnly. With that Baldwin set out with Ramirez right behind him followed by the remainder of the team. With this new sense of urgency, Baldwin set a hard pace to close the distance on their targets. They had to reach them ASAP.

A/N2: Reviews, comments and criticisms are always welcome as long as they are constructive. I appreciate honesty, so if you dislike something you can tell me. I have my big boy pants on. Thanks for reading.