Sam's Terrible, Horrible, No-Good Week

"CJ! Hi. You have no idea how happy I am too see you, everyone's so upset with me and I don't know why, I am so desperate for a friendly face. Uh..." Sam eyed CJ cautiously. "Are... Are you okay? I... You look a little... puffy."

CJ glared at Sam through two extremely swollen eyes, and, speaking through extremely swollen lips while gently scratching one extremely swollen cheek, she said, "I have to do the briefing like this. I spent four hours in the emergency room last night."

Sam swallowed, sensing another incensed being in his very near future. "Uh, well, yes."

"I may have, Sam. The thing is, I don't really know what oysters taste like. Know why? Because I never eat them. Know why?"

Sam faltered, looked around. "Ha. Imagine, immm, im, uh, imagine that. I, uh, uh, I need, I have to go, I have a thing."

Sam sat in his office with his head on his desk, one fisted hand thumping his chair in time to his soft singing: "Nobody loves (thump) me, everybody hates (thump) me, think I'm gonna eat (thump) some (thump) worms (thump)..."

"Big ones, little ones, fat ones, squishy ones... Think I'm gonna eat some worms," Sam continued sadly. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

"You're wanted in the Oval Office, Sam." Charlie gave him a friendly smile and left.

Sam looked at his watch. "Damn! I'm late!" He leapt up and caught up with Charlie in the corridor, falling into step beside him. "So, Charlie," he said, breathing deeply to stop himself panicking. He'd been late before, no big deal. "Why'd they send you to get me?"

"I'm the only one that's not mad at you," Charlie explained apologetically. "Except for the President, and he's not too happy that you're late."

Sam winced, then laughed. "I'm surprised you're not angry with me too, Charlie. You could probably have blamed your fight with Zoey on me, if you tried hard enough."

Charlie's expression hardened. "You're the one that told her I said that? Jeez, Sam!" He shook his head disgustedly and sped up, leaving Sam trailing after him, bewildered.

"No, that was Josh," Sam said weakly, and groaned. "Ohhhhhhh, thank God it's Friday."

"Sorry I'm late," Sam muttered, acutely aware of everyone watching at him as he crossed the room to an empty chair and sat down next to Josh, who pointedly moved away slightly. He glanced around, then stared fixedly at his hands when CJ glared at him.

"If you had been on time," the President said emphatically, "you would have known that we were discussing a candidate for the Finland thing."

"Sir, I've said this before, they should come to us. I don't see why we have to send one of our staff to Finland to discuss something as trivial as them wondering whether to broadcast American baseball. Why do they even need our input, anyway? It's a complete waste of time!" Sam abruptly stopped talking, feeling a definite sinking sensation at the President's expression.

"I happen to like Finland," said POTUS, "and if they want one of us over there, I'm inclined to co-operate."

"But... why?" Sam had to ask. This was quite a turnaround from the President's view the previous day.

"Because I'm the President, and I say so." There was a definite hint of sulkiness to his reply. "Anyway, we were in the process of nominating you."

"And from what I hear, it might be better if you left for a bit, Sam," POTUS pointed out kindly.

Four hours later, in the first-class section of a plane to Finland, Sam found himself in the middle seat, a beautiful woman on one side, and a nun on the other. Unfortunately, the nun was the one that chose to speak to him.

"Excuse me, young man," she said, as though she were reading from a script, "Have you found God?"

Helpless in the face of possible humour, no matter how bad, Sam delivered the punchline to a joke he'd heard hundreds of times before. "Why – is he lost?"

The nun gave him a shocked look, and with a huffy, "Well, I never!" she turned her attention to the in-flight movie, muttering about sinners and patience and prayer and eternal damnation.

"I couldn't help myself," Sam said truthfully. "What's a nun doing in first class, anyway?"

"Yeah," replied Sam, idly watching a weird-looking guy as he paced back and forth for no ascertainable reason. For some reason, Sam found himself thinking of him as 'Skippy'. "How about you?"

"Oh, I'm a minor character that's only here to entertain you on your flight, and as such I do not require character development such as a career."

The only thing Sam could think of to say was an eloquent, "Oh." His attention wandered back to Skippy, who was holding a hand to his head.

"Voices, I don't hear the voices," said Skippy. Sam frowned. Suddenly Skippy produced a gun and yelled, "This is a hijack!"

Naturally, this caused everyone to start screaming and waving their arms around.

Jennifer shut up long enough to give him a hurt look. "How rude," she sniffed, adding another "eek" for good measure.

Toby rubbed his eyes wearily. Sam had been busier than he'd thought; it was proving rather difficult to cover for him and still get all his own work done. And, there, he thought as his phone rang. How typical. Just as he was getting into the groove...

"What?" he snapped into the receiver, hoping to make whoever was on the other end tremble with fear and that sort of thing.

Toby waited a moment, then repeated, "What?" The only response forthcoming was a large number of people doing a great deal of screaming.

Sam gave his phone an astonished look. Toby had hung up! The bastard! That wasn't how it was supposed to work! He was supposed to realize that something was drastically wrong, figure out that his deputy was in trouble, and arrange a daring rescue by the best swat team in the country! Failing that, he mused, there was probably a hero of some sort on board that would – His train of thought was interrupted by another man with a gun – Sam couldn't help thinking of him as Bubba - joining Skippy and whispering something. Skippy whispered back. The man whispered again, louder. Skippy said, "Screw you, you son of a bitch!" Bubba whispered emphatically for a minute or so, Skippy nodded, Bubba left.

Sam watched this exchange in interested silence, then surreptitiously picked up his phone again and hit speed dial.

"Joshua Lyman." Josh cradled the phone on his shoulder, using his hands to gently place a Jack of Diamonds on the house of cards he was building.

He heard a slightly muffled voice saying, "...and I represent the Golf Ball Liberation front! My comrades and I will be holding this plane hostage for as long as it takes for your government to realize that what people do to golf balls is just plain wrong, and outlaw the use of golf balls in the sadistic game of golf."

"So I repeat, stay calm and shut the fuck up, and no one will be hurt." This was followed by screaming, most notably a woman's, and, to his astonishment, Sam's voice saying: "Would you be quiet?!"

"I said shut up!" screamed the golf ball guy, and then there was a sharp report that sounded like-

Josh held the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment before shaking his head. "Whatever, Sam. This is the worst practical joke you've ever come up with." With that, he slammed his phone down as hard as he could, hoping he'd made enough noise to give Sam a headache for trying to pull off a joke that lame. He snickered as he picked up a two of clubs.

*****

Sam was too busy writhing in agony and clutching at his arm to observe that Josh, too, had hung up on him, and even if he hadn't just been shot, the phone was in his pocket, so he wouldn't have noticed anyway. Bubba came storming back in, clearly furious. "Tell me I didn't just hear a gunshot," he said, scanning the passengers for the, er, shootee.

"You moron! I leave you alone for five minutes – you realize business class hasn't been secured yet?" Bubba's eyes fell on Sam, and he shook his head, turning to Skippy. "If this cabin depressurizes the plane could crash, and that's all well and good, but I'd sort of like to get off the damn thing first, okay? You're just lucky you hit a person and not the wall!" Looking at Sam, he added, "No offense or anything."

"None taken," Sam managed to get out through gritted teeth. "But I think it's the seat behind me that actually stopped the bullet..."

The terrified look on the face of the person behind him, who was staring in horror at the tip of a bullet peeking through the back of the chair, seemed to verify that remark.

"Loud? Well, I mmf mmf mmmmf." She subsided into annoyed silence, and Sam carefully removed his hand from her mouth.

Bubba, meanwhile, slapped Skippy upside the head. "Idiot! You're a terrible shot. Next time get right up close and make sure there's something behind them in case the bullet goes right through. And ask me first!" He then turned back to Sam, who was once again holding his arm, and said, "I'm terribly sorry, sir. Please come with me and we'll get that looked at."

"Sure, and isn't it just a little scratch?" Bubba said soothingly, eyeing the wound.

"Of course it does, you've been shot. I'd like to apologize again for my brother. He can be rather trigger-happy sometimes." Bubba sighed as he produced a first-aid kit and began rummaging for a bandage. "He's not really that bright, you know. Okay, so he's a moron. Whatever."

Sam took advantage of Bubba's lack of attention to glance at the phone in his pocket, biting his lip to avoid making a nasty comment when he saw that Josh had hung up. Smartest people in the world, my ass, he thought, hitting speed-dial one more time and returning the phone to his pocket.

"...so, your brother said something about the, uh, Golf Ball Liberation Front?" Sam's voice sounded somewhat distant.

"Sam? What're you talking about?" Cathy instantly assumed her angry tone, to let Sam know that she hadn't forgiven him yet. Honestly, he should know by now that she need a morning sugar fix...!

"Oh, he just likes to say that to confuse people." That voice, she didn't know at all. "All we actually want is a whole lot of money. Admittedly not as political as most hijackings these days, but I do so like money."

Cathy shrugged. "Okay, Sam, I'm hanging up now." She hung up thoughtfully, paused, and put a shocked hand to her mouth, finally grasping what her boss had hoped she would. "Oh, my God!" She jumped up and ran around in a frantic circle, then reached out and grabbed the nearest person, which happened to be Toby.

"Cathy... What have I told you about touching me?" Toby promptly disengaged her hands from his jacket and smoothed his suit with quick, irritable strokes.

"It's what?!" Toby threw his hands in the air, frustrated. "He couldn't have waited an hour? I have a really important meeting!"

"They'll come around. I'm not asking for much. A measly ten million. Or, of course, I could keep this plane circling until it runs out of fuel."

Sam swallowed. "Well, this is certainly making my week a whole lot better. Have you even contacted anyone yet?"

Bubba smiled good-naturedly and patted him on the head. "We called CNN first thing," he said reassuringly. "I'm going to the cockpit to arrange a chat with someone important right now, if you care to accompany me?"

Bubba laughed jovially and slapped him on the shoulder. "Well, of course you don't."

"Toby, I wanted to talk to you about-" Josh stopped short at Toby's expression. "What? What's going on?"

"Sam's plane's been hijacked," Toby said, gesturing helplessly at the Secret Service agents swarming around Cathy, demanding details.

Donna gave him a puzzled look. "I've known for half an hour. Don't you watch CNN?"

"Are you two going to stop bickering or do I have to give you each a time out?" Toby interrupted nastily, adding, "Go talk to Leo. And the President."

"See if I agree to get on a plane on a Friday ever again," Sam said to himself, standing in the cockpit staring at two frightened pilots. Okay, one pilot and one co-pilot, same thing.

"I could, uh, put you through to air traffic control..." the co-pilot was saying.

Bubba motioned an unnamed henchman aside, raising his gun. "Would it be possible for me to shoot you without causing the plane to crash?"

"If you can get hold of a cellphone, I could put you through to the President," Sam put in hurriedly, seeing Bubba's finger tighten on the trigger, mentally calling the co-pilot all sorts of nasty names.

Sam frowned. "Well, you take the phone and press some buttons, and then I'm pretty sure there are satellites involved..."

Bubba turned to Unnamed Henchman #1. "Go find a cellphone or something," he ordered. The henchman gave an odd sort of bow thing and left, returning in short order with a nifty little cellphone.

The senior staff, and Donna, stood uncomfortably in the Oval Office, waiting for the Secret Service to do something. The agents present in the room seemed uninterested in moving, let alone arranging a rescue operation of some sort.

"So, I hung up on him second." Josh lowered his head miserably, shuffling his feet.

"It'll be okay," said Donna, before quite unexpectedly pouncing on Josh and tickling him. "Cheer up. Go on, smile. Smile."

"Let's not do that anymore." Josh ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "What are you even doing here, anyway?"

The President walked in, Leo by his side, and looked around. "Anything interesting happen yet?"

"Josh, if you hang up on me again, I will kill you. I will arrange for this plane to crash right into your office."

"Trying to avert a media crisis?" Sam asked cheerfully. This was followed by a muffled, "Ow, that's my arm... I'm making small talk! Lightening the atmosphere! Okay, fine." Sam's voice got clearer again. "Look, there's this guy here that wants to talk to the President. If that's not possible, I guess you'll do. And tell Toby that the file he's probably been looking for is on my desk, under the other one."

"I can't, it's... What – Did Cathy..." There was a decidedly annoyed silence, then Sam said, "Hang on, okay."

Sam handed the phone to Bubba. "You talk to him," he said, retreating to a corner of the cockpit to sulk. Smartest people in the world. Didn't say much about the world, then.

Bubba gave him a bright, slightly manic smile and a polite "thank you" before turning to the phone. "Who am I speaking to?"

"You can call me... hmm..." Sam mumbled something in the background. "Bubba," finished Bubba, smugly.

Josh obeyed, then sauntered over to Toby. "Sam says the file you're looking for is on his desk."

CJ looked vaguely guilty. "Am I allowed to be as worried as I am, and still be hungry?"

Charlie looked over at them. "I'm not your waiter, Josh," he said warningly, recognizing the look in his eyes. Josh gave a predatory grin.

*****
Bubba stared at his phone in disbelief. "He hung up on me!" he said. "The President of the United States just hung up on me!" Sam swallowed. "Why?"

"Well... he said he'd call back. Still, I'm so mad I could just -" Bubba waved his gun petulantly.

"Get some food?" Sam interrupted, apprehensively eyeing the weapon. "Yeah, I'm starving too. Let's go to the kitchen.... thing... and grab a sandwich or something, and I'll call Josh again."

"So... What's next?" Donna wondered, feeling that she wanted to add something to the conversation.

"I don't know," replied POTUS. "Maybe... maybe some of you should head down to the airport."

Charlie staggered in, weighed down by parcels of food. "Okay," he said, "We have a burned burger, a Caesar salad, a – Hey! Where are you going?!"

"We'll have it later, Charlie," CJ assured him as she, Josh and Toby pushed past. Charlie stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and fell on his butt. Donna moved to help him up.

The President looked him over thoughtfully, glanced at the door, which was swinging shut, and at Leo, who was gazing absently out of the window.

"Charlie," he whispered, ensuring that Mrs Landingham couldn't hear him, "Give me that burger."

Sam smiled modestly, causing the only stewardess that Bubba had allowed to remain in the area to faint dead away, a blissful expression on her face.

Sam gave her a distractedly concerned look as he fished his cellphone out of his pocket. Bubba noticed.

"If you had a shell-" he paused, swallowed, and continued. "A cellphone, why'd you make us go find one?"

Sam looked at the phone in his hand. "Uh. Well, I thought... I thought the battery had run out, but look! I was wrong!"

Bubba narrowed his eyes suspiciously. His hunger outweighed his suspicion, however, and he tore another bite out of his sandwich. It didn't matter, anyway – how could anyone reach him up here?

To phone, or not to phone? Sam wondered. Not to phone, he decided, slipping the cellphone back in his pocket. He doubted that his friends would have come up with a rescue scenario in under five minutes. If they wanted to rescue him at all, he added morosely. Maybe they were trying to convince the President to shoot the plane down. And to top it all off, his arm really damn well hurt. And it was bleeding again.

Sam idly picked up a tray and fiddled with it, waiting for his phone to ring, knowing he probably had a long wait ahead of him. His wait was interrupted by muffled shouting, a few thumps, and what sounded like a gunshot, followed by a man dressed all in black flinging the door open.Bubba was on his feet, gun pointed at the door.

"Drop your weapon," the man in black suggested in a perfectly relaxed manner, gesturing with a gun of his own.

Sam whacked him on the head with his tray, as hard as he possibly could. Bubba dropped like a stone.

The man in black gave him a surprised look, then shrugged. "Thanks," he said, shoving his gun into a shoulder holster. "I hate having to shoot people on airplanes. Makes life much more complicated." He shook his head.

"Just once, just *once*, I would like it if my team could go on vacation without encountering criminals of one kind or another. Chris Larabee, ATF," he added, noting Sam's expression of utter confusion. "I assume from your actions that you're one of the good guys."

"That's you? You look a bit young for... Oh, hell, who am I to talk?" Larabee grinned. "My youngest team member looks like he's just finished high school."

"From what I heard, there are a lot of them..." Sam persisted.

"I did mention that I'm a government agent, and that my team is here with me?" Larabee waited for Sam's nod before continuing. "We've got it under control. We're *very* good at what we do."

"Indeed, Mr Larabee." This came from a man in an expensive-looking suit that was a far cry from Larabee's black jeans and T-shirt.

This guy can't be ATF, Sam thought. He's an insurance salesman.

"Mr Seabourn," Larabee said, "This is Ezra Standish. And no, he's not an insurance salesman or a stockbroker or anything like that."

Standish grinned, displaying a slightly disconcerting gold tooth. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he drawled, before turning back to Larabee. "Perhaps we should place this villain with his reprobate friends."

"And they would be..."

"Oh..." Standish airily waved a hand. "I think Mr Tanner put them a closet somewhere..."

Larabee smiled faintly, gave Sam a nod. "My work is never done. The plane should be landing soon. Maybe there's someone you want to call?"

Larabee stalked out, followed by Standish, who gave Sam a mocking two-fingered salute as he left.

"Someone to call?" Sam muttered. "Oh. Right."

CJ, Josh and Toby waited anxiously as the plane landed and was promptly surrounded by ambulances, cops and firemen as near-hysterical passengers flooded out.

"Why firemen?" Josh wondered.

"Who cares?" Toby retorted.

They watched in confusion as what looked like a stewardess was carried off on a stretcher, babbling.

"It was an angel... An angel, I tell you! And he said his name was Sam..." she raved as the paramedics carried her past them. "And he smiled... I need a priest! I want to repent!"

"Was that woman talking about... Sam?" CJ asked. "Our Sam?"

"You called?"

"Sam!" CJ cried, near tears, throwing her arms around the haggard-looking man. "We were so worried! I'm sorry I yelled. You had no way of knowing I was allergic to oysters."

Sam reached up and patted CJ on the head. "There, there," he said uncertainly.

She pulled back and looked at him, and panicked. "You're bleeding! Oh my God! MEDIC!"

"Wha- CJ, calm down! If it was that bad I'd be dead already."

"It's a good thing you're not," Toby said. "You have a lot of work to do on that speech."

"Oh, shut up, Toby!" Sam snapped disgustedly. "That speech is fine and you know it."

"Sam-"

"You shut up too, Josh. I'm not talking to either of you. You hung up on me! You're supposed to be the smartest people in the world! What's wrong with you?"

A paramedic arrived and gently tried to lead Sam away. "Come on, sir, let's get that arm looked at." Sam held up a finger, which the medic ignored, continuing to try and pull Sam along by the (uninjured) arm.

"I thought it was a prank call..." Josh protested weakly.

"Just a damn minute!" Sam hissed at the medic, who retreated a few steps, holding up his hands placatingly, looking alarmed. Sam turned to Josh. "Are you telling me you're stupid enough to think I'd do something that childish? Or were you just so angry with me you thought you'd let me suffer?"

"Uh-"

"Oh, you can all just shove it!" Sam turned smartly on his heel and took two quick steps toward the medic, before turning back. Josh, Toby and CJ all winced, expecting another yelling spree. Instead, Sam laughed. "I'm just kidding! You guys look like your dog just died. Lighten up!"

"Kidding?" Toby repeated disbelievingly.

"Yeah. Jerking your chains. Messin' with your heads." The relieved expressions on their faces made Sam laugh harder. "I really had you going, didn't I?" CJ and Josh nodded emphatically. Toby glowered.

"You shyster," Josh said. "If you hadn't just been hijacked I'd be mad at you."

Sam shook his head, grinning. "Listen, there's this guy around here somewhere, he's the one I told Leo about on the phone. Chris Larabee. Can we get him and his team a medal or something?"

"Something can be arranged," Toby murmured.

"Arrange it," Sam ordered, ignoring Toby's annoyed look, and finally went with the medic.

"I'm just saying, shouldn't you be home or something?"

Sam blinked. "Why?"

"Well..." Josh gestured at Sam's blood-stained shirt, which he hadn't had a chance to take off. "Maybe you want to go home, get changed? And anyway, it's almost 6 o'clock."

"Toby was right when he said the speech needed work."

"It's fine," Toby interjected.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You want the President giving a "fine" speech?"

"It's just that people are likely to notice you walking around with blood on your shirt..." CJ put in helpfully. "They're already staring."

To prove her right, Cathy saw them approaching and gave a horrified shriek. "You're bleeding!" she cried, rushing over.

"It's fine," Sam assured her hurriedly. "Although," he added, "if there's an aspirin around, I wouldn't say no."

"Coming right up," said Cathy, who was anxious to make up for hanging up on her boss. "And I'll see if I can find you a clean shirt."

"Thanks." Sam entered his office, collapsing into his chair with relief. His eyes fell on the three anxious looking people huddled in his door, and he sighed. "Why are you still here?"

"Look," Josh said, carefully, "We really are sorry for getting angry with you over nothing like that."

"It wasn't nothing in my case!" CJ objected, quickly adding, "But, I'm sorry too."

"It's fine," Sam assured them.

"Really?"

"Get out of my office."

"Okay, we're going. But if you need anything –"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Sam reveled in the silence for a few minutes, his peace only briefly interrupted by Cathy dropping off a cup of coffee, aspirin and a too-large clean shirt.

Finally, he turned on his laptop and started working on the speech, only to be interrupted by... Danny.

"Anybody home?"

"Oh, no, not the press," Sam said jokingly.

Danny grinned. "You're lucky so few people knew you were on that plane, or you'd be swamped with reporters right now."

"One is bad enough."

Danny made himself comfortable on a clean spot on Sam's desk. "You want to talk about it?"

"Depends. Would I be talking to Reporter Danny or Friend Danny?"

"Which one would get me a story?"

Sam smiled slightly and turned back to his computer. "Bye, Danny, thanks for stopping by."

"Friend Danny," Danny relented. "Off the record. Really."

Sam leaned back in his chair. "What's to talk about? It was scary, but the crazy unbalanced psycho guy was nice enough most of the time."

"I hear you got shot."

"Just a scratch. Couple of stitches. Are you sure you're not being Reporter Danny?"

"Well, I don't think I can ever entirely switch off the reporter side of me. So, are you angry that Josh and Toby and Cathy hung up on you? And that everyone was so pissed at you that they made you get on that plane?"

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"CJ needed someone to talk to," Danny explained calmly.

Sam sucked in a deep breath. "Truth? Off the record? I'm mad as hell. But they were worried enough, and at least now they're not upset with me anymore."

"So you're just going to stay mad as hell and not let them know?"

"It's not really their fault, and I'll get over it. I'm already in the process of doing just that, in fact. I never could stay angry very long."

There was a brief, awkward silence.

"You're just dying to find CJ right now, aren't you?" Sam said, finally.

"Yes," Danny admitted.

"Go away, then."

"I'm going. You know, normal people are at home by now."

"That's okay," Sam said idly, "I have no life anyway."

"Leo said that Mallory is looking for you," Danny called over his shoulder as he left in search of a certain tall press secretary.

Sam brightened. "Thanks." That must mean she's not ignoring me anymore, he thought happily. Maybe I can even get some sympathy from her! And the icing on the cake: his friends weren't mad at him either! On the contrary; they were going out of their way to be nice.

It had, indeed, been a terrible, horrible, no-good week, but he had to admit that overall, the weekend was looking up.

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