Chapter Fifteen.

A month later, and she was still in the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The body cast and the damned catheter had been removed; so at least she could now go to the john, but she was now obliged to wear an orthopaedic back support which resembled a 1940's girdle. When they had fitted her with it her first resigned thought was... "Yeah; real sexy!" Most of her daytime was spent in the physical therapy sessions to build up her upper body strength and augment whatever strength was left in her legs; but, Stacey being Stacey... she organised wheelchair races in the hallways with some other patients, much to the annoyance of the hospital staff. She was frequently wheeled into the presence of the Commanding officer, Major General Philip W. Mallory, who then proceeded to half-heartedly admonish her for unmilitary conduct. He then always spoiled the effect by adding that seeing as how she was with the Agency, and wasn't under military jurisdiction; his disciplinary sessions with her were a goddamned waste of his, and her time anyway.

Other than Alicia Burgess and the rest of the medical staff, she'd had only one other visitor in all the time she had been there. One morning, she heard the unmistakeable sound of a chopper coming in to the landing pad. It didn't sound like a medevac Huey... more like a Hughes OH-6 Cayuse that everyone in Vietnam and Laos knew by its nickname... "Loach."

Ten minutes later, she was surprised by Major General Mallory knocking on her door and asking her permission to enter. He was followed by Richard M. Helms; Director of Central Intelligence, himself; who had taken time out of his busy schedule to fly across from Langley and visit her at the hospital.

'Hello Stacey,'

He said, after Mallory had left the room.

'Director Helms,'

She said formally.

He smiled.

'The doctors tell me you are doing better.'

She forced a wry grin.

'Yeah, right.'

Richard Helms smiled sympathetically.

'Still, I'm sorry to see you like...'

She sighed.

'Save it Sir. I've heard it all before. Anyway, it's great seeing you again.'

He nodded.

'Stacey, you are one of my best "Other" Theatre chopper pilots...'

She gave him an ironic smile

'Was, period...'

She motioned to the wheelchair in the corner of her room.

'I was one of your best chopper pilots, period. By the way, is there any news of Lieutenant Shepard, Sir?

He shook his head.

'Nothing so far. But, knowing Alex Shepard I don't see him appearing in Langley's Book of Honor any time soon. As soon as anything is known, I'll let you know; seeing as you two were close; but I'm also here to make you an offer.'

She studied him.

'What kind of offer, Sir?'

'A job offer. Obviously, you can't be a field agent for quite some time, yet a'whiles; but you can easily become an instructor at The Farm; or maybe, a senior high level analyst back at Langley. We need analysts with field experience, Stacey.'

She nodded.

'Is that all?'

Richard Helms paused. He had half-expected this sort of reaction. Damn! She was certainly her mother's daughter. OK. Cards on the table time.

He continued...

'If you accept the offer, yes. Then you will be transferred to a medical facility in DC for the remainder of your convalescence and rehabilitation period. But you also have the option of retiring. In that case your file will be redacted and you'll get a substantial severance package and a decent pension. Think it over and call me with your answer.'

She shrugged... a tiny, painful shrug.

'I don't need to think about it sir. I'll take the retirement option. I don't think I can go back to Langley, and certainly not down to The Farm; not like this.'

Richard Helms studied her intently.

'Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?'

She nodded.

'Yes, I'm sure.'

He stood up.

'All right. The Agency will take care of all the medical bills for your treatment, rehabilitation, and counselling.'

She flared;

'I don't need any goddamned rehabilitation or counselling. I just want to get the hell out of here.'

Richard Helms walked to the side of her bed and squeezed her hand.

'OK, Stacey; as you wish. Just give me a call if you change your mind. I have to be going now. Goodbye.'

She looked up into his eyes. They betrayed nothing. Richard Helms was an elusive man, laconic and reserved. She smiled faintly.

'Goodbye Sir.'

Stacey's road to recovery was slow and frustrating. Re-learning how to walk on her pinned pelvis was more difficult than she had anticipated. Her fractured left femur had knitted together, more or less; but walking around on crutches was awkward, even though they helped to keep her weight from off her pelvis and made moving around faster and less painful than trying to walk without them. She occasionally experienced pain in her right knee due to constantly leaning her weight on her left side; but other than that; it really wasn't too bad at all. She would not have to stay in the hospital for much longer. Her retirement documents had been prepared; but Helms had not expedited them, on a hunch that Stacey would eventually change her mind once the trauma of her previous two months had worked its way out of her system. He ensured that she remained on the Agency's payroll and that she was classified as being on extended leave; thus ensuring that her salary was deposited as usual into her checking account. He also arranged that she was provided with residence in the Agency's apartment in Riggs Street NW; four blocks north of Dupont Circle, in Washington DC.

On her last day in the hospital, Stacey thanked Alicia Burgess and the other doctors and nurses who had taken such good care of her. She packed her few possessions in a bag and left. It actually felt good to finally breathe air that was not suffused with the cloying, antiseptic smell of the hospital. Director Helms had provided a car which took her to the apartment. Her rooms were on the second floor; but the apartment block had a vintage Birdcage-type elevator with outer and inner doors. The second-storey apartment was fully furnished, and comprised a bedroom with a double bed, a good-sized lounge; a fully equipped, eat-in kitchen, and one bathroom which included a generously sized shower/bath tub.

The Concierge... a middle-aged, athletic-looking woman with a military bearing, who was obviously a retained "Gatekeeper" supplied by the Department; introduced herself as Ella Beringer. She explained that she held the mail of the residents when they were away; was entrusted with the apartment keys to deal with emergencies when the residents were on assignment, and provided any necessary information the residents might need. She also provided access control, and lived in the ground-floor apartment from where she could monitor all comings and goings, both in the building and out on the street. Stacey would not be disturbed here; and if she needed assistance of any kind in view of her injuries; all she needed to do was telephone down.

The apartment retained a janitor who looked after maintenance and cleaning, and also provided the muscle for security. He was ex-Jeds; and therefore the residents were perfectly secure. "Jeds" was short for "The Jedburghs." These were three-member teams composed of American O.S.S, British S.O.E, and Free French operatives who were dropped into Europe behind German lines prior to D-Day during World War II. Their mission was a combination of sabotage, intelligence gathering, and arranging air drops of arms and supplies for the French Resistance. The janitor had been badly wounded on ops and invalided out upon his return to Zone of Interior. Now, he was retained as primary security for the Agency residence on Riggs Street.

Three months after being discharged from the hospital Stacey was getting bored. She exercised as much as she could, following her doctors' advice, but it was just not enough. She was withdrawing into herself more and more every day. She never left her room unless she absolutely had to. Sometimes, she just lay in bed, wondering if by some miracle or twist of fate, Sandman was still alive. One morning, she heard a knock on the door of her apartment.

She called out,

'Who is it?'

'Lieutenant Mckenna, it's me, Ella Beringer. You have a visitor.'

Stacey sighed.

'Come in, the door's not locked.'

Ella Beringer opened the door and stepped back, to let Richard Helms into the room. He smiled.

'Good morning Stacey...'

She blurted out,

'Director! What do you want?'

Helms studied her. She looked awful; she was pale and drawn, and her eyes had dark circles under them.

He smiled again; but it was a cautious smile.

'I came to check up on you. You are still one of mine, after all.'

She glanced at him.

'I'm fine. You needn't have come all the way out here.'

His smile faded; his jaw line tightened; and he raised an eyebrow.

'Well, you don't look fine.... in point of fact, you look like shit; but that's not why I am here. I've got a firm offer for you... if you've still got the balls to take it on.'

She snorted.

'Well; seeing as I'm still half-crippled; what sort of Mickey Mouse number did you have in mind for me, Director?... Stenographer?... Dining room assistant?'

Richard Helms grinned.

'Still your mother's daughter, I see. She had that same sort of spirit. No. what I had in mind for you was something completely different... and not at Langley.'

Stacey studied him.

'So; what exactly did you have in mind?'

Helms sat down

'I had your 201 file pulled. I see that you are fluent in several languages, including Russian. I've got a need for someone like you down at "The Farm" in the role of instructor and also, a translator on our team that debriefs foreign assets who have chosen to defect.'

Stacey was quiet for a moment.

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'What will I be instructing in?'

Helms gave a quiet smile.

'Tradecraft - the methods and techniques of Intelligence agents; and considering how you, and Lieutenant Shepard managed to successfully evade the North Vietnamese Army and negotiate nearly seventy kilometres of the Laotian countryside after you'd been shot down; Field craft and survival tactics kinda spring to mind.'

Stacey gave him a wry grin.

'Thanks, Director… but I can't somehow see myself prancing around the countryside in my condition.'

Helms grinned.

'There won't be any call for you to do any such thing. It'll all be classroom stuff… baby spooks who couldn't find their butts if they were using both hands. Your function will be to shape them up so that they won't screw up on their first assignments… and, to debrief any foreign assets we might get from time to time.'

10.50am. Monday. 19th May, 1969.

CIA Directorate of Operations.

Special Training Center.

Camp Peary. Williamsburg.

York County. Virginia. USA.

Stacey had been flown down to Langley Air Force Base, Virginia in one of the Agency's Gulfstream II jets, and had been met by two of the Agency's resident officers, who would drive her to Camp Peary; some twenty-five miles north up Interstate 64. Back at Langley, she had been briefed by the Director on exactly what her duties would entail and what actually went on at the facility. It was used to conduct the second phase training of the Agency's recruits after they had completed their first phase in Washington D.C. The second phase comprised an eighteen-week course in "operational intelligence" or tradecraft… how to bug telephones, use hideaway places to pass and receive information, use weapons; write reports read maps, and trail suspects. They also engaged in paramilitary training… light weapon training demolitions infiltration, and parachute jumping. The CT's… the Agency's acronym for "Career Trainees"… as the recruits were called; were housed in draughty Quonset huts located deep in the scruffy pine woods. Instructors were quartered in a number of single-family houses near the two small inlets between the central administrative area and the camp airstrip. There were also one or more "safe'' houses within the camp's vast forest in which one or more Soviet defectors could be kept for months whilst being debriefed of their secrets. This debriefing was undertaken by fluent multi-linguists… and Stacey… because of her linguistic skills; was attached to this section in addition to her responsibilities as an instructor in Field craft and survival tactics.

Her companions were silent for the journey. As the driver pulled off the Interstate onto the winding road that led to Camp Peary. She noticed that it was narrower than the Interstate and cut through a forested area. Signs on this road bore ominous warning messages designed to warn off drivers who had taken this exit by mistake whilst trying to get to the historic Colonial Williamsburg tourist area... even though the overhead sign out on Interstate 64 actually directed them on to this slip road. The signs all bore the name of the Department of Defense and warned that the only thing up this road was a military base to which access was restricted. Closer to the facility the signs began to proclaim that the security guards had the right to use deadly force. The paramilitary guard wearing black fatigues, and toting an M16, stood by the guard booth at the point where the slip road leading off Interstate 64 at exit 238 and signposted "SR 143 east to US 60 - Camp Peary. Colonial Williamsburg. 1 Mile"; dead-ended at the entrance to Camp Peary.

Emery Stockwell watched as the black Oldsmobile Delta Custom, four-door sedan swept around the curve and approached him. So far, this morning he had turned around at least six lost drivers; taking great delight in making them reverse back out onto the highway instead of allowing them to make a U-turn, after he, and his buddies had made them go through their wallets to produce some sort of identification. They were then told… none too politely… to haul ass outta there and not come back. Jeez! If these dumb, redneck hicks couldn't read the goddamned great signs declaring:

"Restricted U.S. Government Installation." "Armed Forces Experimental Training Activity"… and "Entering this Facility signifies your consent to the search of your person and personal property"… Not to mention the big sign mounted on the median strip one hundred yards from the entrance which notified anyone who was half awake that to continue straight on was restricted to "Base Traffic Only"…then they deserved nothing less than a top-notch ass-chewing. It never ceased to amaze him just how dumb-ass the average American tourist really was. All traffic not specifically heading towards the facility was required to turn left half-way up the approach road onto the return slip road that was the start of Virginia State Route 143 which routed back over Interstate 64; and then headed south through a forested area to provide access to Colonial Williamsburg. This Oldsmobile though, was different. It carried yellow US Government license plates.

He stepped back into the guard booth and retrieved a clipboard with today's list of expected visitors. Glancing down the list; he noted that a car was expected from Langley, and its passenger would be a new instructor. He placed his M-16 on the table in the booth; loosed the strap on his holster, and drew his Colt. Chambering a round, he selected the "cocked and locked" position and slipped the big weapon back into its holster. Picking up the clipboard, he then stepped out into the roadway.

The roadway came to an end at a set of guard booths and a large chain-link gate adorned with razor sharp barbed wire. A second gate was located several hundred feet beyond the first gate. This place was certainly designed to keep people out. The driver braked to a halt as the mean-looking guard walked over to the driver’s side window. Another guard stepped out of the booth and walked to the passenger window with an M-16 in his hands; checking out the inside of the car while his partner found out what business the car's occupants had here.

'Can I help you sir?'

Said the mean-looking guard. His buddy said nothing; Stacey saw his ice-pick eyes scrutinising her. The driver produced an ID card. The guard looked at the list on his clipboard and found the appropriate name.

'Alright, Sir;'

He handed him a visitor’s pass.

'Display that in your windshield at all times whilst you're on the facility. I'll go open the gate.'

He walked over to his booth. The other guard also returned to the booth. The first guard threw a switch inside the booth and the gate slid open. The driver moved slowly forward and stopped again in front of inner gate. They waiting for what felt like at least a couple of minutes, having driven over a set of gratings set into the roadway that probably housed cameras and instruments which were sited to examine the underside of the car. Satisfied, the second gate slid open and allowed them to proceed toward their destination. In about another mile or so, they came upon what looked to be a standard military base. The driver pulled into the visitor’s parking area and parked. He got out; pulled the seat-back forwards for Stacey to get out; and, with his companion following slightly behind; accompanied her to the main building.

Ostensibly, this main building was like any other military base headquarters… lots of people in uniform moving around, as would be expected of any normal military base. What was different here though, was the presence of a disproportionate amount of people in civilian clothing. The inside of the main building looked like a regular office. What appeared to be a receptionist… a blonde girl in her late twenties-early thirties; wearing civilian clothing… sat a desk off to the left of the main hallway. The driver produced his ID and asked if she could direct him to the Director's office.

'One moment please,'

She said, whilst picking up her phone. She pressed a button on the phone's base unit and spoke into the handset.

'Hello sir, the party from Langley is here to see you. Yes sir.'

She hung up the phone and turned to the driver.

'Down that corridor, second office to your left. G10.'

At the door of the second office on the left-hand side of the long corridor; the driver rapped sharply on the stained-wood panel which bore an engraved plastic plate numbered "G10." Stacey heard a quiet "Come in" and the three of them stepped into the office. The Director sat behind his desk, smoking a cigarette. His salt-and-pepper buzz cut; short-sleeved, khaki shirt and rimless spectacles completed the look. He had Marine Corps written all over him. Next to the ashtray was a slender Agency file. He glanced at the two men, and smiled faintly at Stacey.

'Please take a seat, Miss Mckenna...'

He glanced again at the two escorts.

'You two can go.'

Tapping the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray that had been fashioned from the brass nose-cap of an artillery shell, he reached for the file as the two men left; closing the office door behind them; then flipped it open. He studied the file for a few minutes, took another drag on his cigarette, and then crushed it out in the ashtray. He studied Stacey over the top of his glasses, and nodded.

'This, as you might have figured out, is your 201 file. The DCI had it sent down from the Directorate of Operations by courier, and it makes fascinating reading. So, you're a washed-up, ex-Air America chopper jock?'

Stacey stared at him, and her eyes went cold.

'I was a chopper pilot in "The Other Theatre," Sir; but I didn't wash up. Our R and R transport out of Cam Rahn was hit by hostile ground fire on take-off and crashed into The South China Sea just off the end of the runway. I was hospitalised for five months due to injuries sustained, and then, Director Helms decided that he could use me down here at Camp Peary.'

The Director closed the file and smiled.

'Damn me, but Dick wasn't kidding when he said that you had your mother's temperament! I knew her, years ago in Berlin, when I was just another snot-nosed, smart-ass young case officer.'

He became serious again.

'I've checked out the new intake files, and, as usual, several of these CTs are Fort Bragg Special Forces Group, as well as various hot-shots from The Rangers and the like. They all figure they're "The Right Stuff," and it's our job to weed out those that aren't. In view of that; we've decided to give you a military rank again… it'll stand you in better stead with these guys, than some "Young chick from Langley" ever would. Consequently, you will now be officially known as Major Karen Andersen… no one uses real names here; and it's a combination of two very common names in North America.'

Stacey nodded. He continued.

'The new CTs all underwent the Myers-Briggs psychological profile test during the interview process. Most of this intake of CT's scored varying high degrees of the "ENTJ" profile. The letters stand for .Extraversion (E), Intuition (N), Thinking (T), and Judgment (J). Now; ENTJ personality types tend to be strong leaders and feel the need to take command of a situation.'

He sighed;

'The Myers-Briggs description of an ENTJ says that although ENTJs are tolerant of established procedures, they can abandon any procedure when it can be shown to be indifferent to the goal it seemingly serves… they are tireless in the devotion to their jobs and can easily block out other areas of life for the sake of work. The ENTJ females may find it difficult to select a mate who is not overwhelmed by her strong will and personality. ENTJs appear in approximately five percent of the American population; and that's exactly what Langley is looking for in its future operations officers. In short, these guys and gals will expect to be taught by the best; they've spent the last few weeks on an interim at the Agency assigned the most dumb-ass tasks, and spending lots of time walking cables and memos to distant parts of the Headquarters building or waiting for a dossier in that vast underground shit-hole of a file room that we all we know and love. They're champing at the bit for some action, and it's our job to give it to them. D'you think that you're up for this?'

Stacey smiled.

'I'm well used to hot-shots… you’ve gotta remember I worked with the Forward Air Controllers up at Long Tieng… and they're the craziest of the crazy. If they figured that I was "The Right Stuff"… then these guys are gonna be no problem at all!'

The Director nodded.

'OK; I notice that the Director has specifically stated that, whilst taking Survival instruction classes, you are not to accompany the CTs out on exercises. Why is that?'

Stacey sighed.

'I guess it's because I broke my pelvis and leg in the airplane crash… and there's still a slight problem with my spine.'

He nodded.

'OK. I'll give the M.O. orders to check you out on a weekly basis. You do need to go out there with them; but I don't want you to aggravate any previous injury just because you feel it's expected of you. With that in mind; your accommodation is over on the main housing site by the river. That's only a few hundred yards from here; but the instructional complex is across from the airstrip. That's close to four miles through the roads of the facility. I've allocated you a car… I figured a compact would probably suit you just fine. We'll get you settled in and I'll have one of the guys cut one out from the transportation motor pool and get it round to you.'

'Stacey nodded.

'Thank you Sir; that'll be fine.'

The Director stood up and extended his hand.

'OK, Major; that's it. Go back and see Paula at reception, and she'll arrange for you to be taken out to your cabin. You'll be operational in a couple of days once you’ve had the guided tour and gotten yourself settled in and familiarised with the routine.'

The receptionist, Paula, was much friendlier when Stacey returned to her desk. She smiled, and handed Stacey a security pass. Half of the transparent, plastic-covered, rectangular card bore the seal of the Department of Defense; the remainder bore the title,

"INSTRUCTOR"

In large type; beneath which, was printed her name:

"ANDERSEN. K"

Beneath which, were the printed facsimiles of a Major's Golden Oak-leaf insignia and the wings and propeller Aviation (Officer) Branch Insignia. The receptionist also said that Stacey's uniform, black Instructor fatigues, and equipment... boots, side arms, etc; were already placed in her cabin. As she passed a form across her desk for Stacey to sign as receipt for her equipment; a young man in combat fatigues came into the building. The receptionist motioned towards him with her hand.

'Your ride, Ma'am.'

Stacey nodded, and pushed the signed form back across the surface of the desk. Turning, she followed the young man outside to where an anonymous black Ford station wagon with Department of Defense license plates was parked up with its motor quietly ticking over. He opened the passenger door for Stacey, and walked around to the driver side. Getting in; he slipped the column gearshift into first and drove out of the parking area. Turning right he drove through an un-wooded area for about half a mile, and turned right into an area dotted with white-painted clapboard, domestic buildings... typical single-family homes. He continued though this community site for perhaps, a quarter-mile, and came into another site of identical homes clustered around the periphery of a circular road layout. Pointing to a house in the south-east corner at the end of a spur road on the left of the main circle, with a turn-round area at its far end; he glanced at Stacey.

'That's you place, Ma'am.'

The house was backed by a wooded area. He said that the woods led down to Biglar Millpond. She glanced at him.

'Millpond?'

He nodded.

'Yes, Ma'am. It's named after Bigler's Mill. There was a small town here once. During World War II, the U.S. Navy took over a large area in the north western portion of York County which is where we are now. All the folk of the entire towns of Bigler's Mill and nearby Magruder... which is pretty much in the area of the south domestic site and the firing range; were removed, and resettled in places like Grove; south of Williamsburg, or across the river in Gloucester County.'

He pulled into the house drive behind a white Ford Falcon two-door coupé. Stopping the station wagon, he smiled.

'Nice ride they've given you, Ma'am. Same six-cylinder motor as the Mustang.'

The house was comfortably equipped; comprising a living/dining area; a reasonably sized kitchen; two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, and a small back yard bounded by a low wall. The main hallway was dominated by a large, framed topographic map of the facility. Much of Camp Peary's ten thousand acres training area nestled between two water inlets about five miles northeast of historical Williamsburg, which, as she had noted on her drive from the Headquarters building, was, for the most part, covered by thick Virginia pine and oak which would effectively protect it from overhead surveillance; thus making it an ideal covert instructional site.

A network of dirt roads and firebreaks threaded through the thick wooded terrain. The extensive assortment of hills, valleys, and streams draining into the nearby mud flats edging the River York gave a distinct promise that the terrain was designed to make travel on foot exhausting. She had just settled in when the telephone rang. It was the headquarters receptionist, Paula asking her to report to the Headquarters building to meet the new CT intake whose arrival was imminent.