by Todd Turner
Craig laughed. “So where’s the opportunity part of this? You make it sound horrible. You’re not much of a recruiter.”
“It actually gets worse. You’ll risk your life. You’ll wallow in mud. You’ll get beat up and maybe even tortured. You’ll have to live with the guilt of killing people, and no one but a key few will ever have any idea what you’ve done. It’s not likely anyone will ever thank you. In fact, most of the people you work for will disavow ever even knowing you, especially if the shit hits the fan.”
With a private chuckle that somehow escaped, Craig said, “Sounds like the job mucking the stalls I was sold on as a kid, but I’m not a kid anymore. I know there isn’t a pony in all that shit.”
“I’m banking on it. I’m also counting on your deeply seated need to prove a point, accomplish things that are said to be impossible, and show the world just how narrow-minded their prejudices are.”
“Not really! I don’t give a rat’s ass what the world thinks of me.”
“Christ, boy, I hadn’t realized you’d taken up lying to yourself, too! That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve heard in a long while,” said Pecone in a huff. “If you didn’t give a damn, you would have never bothered even trying to stay in the closet. Discretion wouldn’t even have been a remote concern of yours.”
“Maybe I just don’t see myself as a raving queen, flitting about like a caricature from a BBC dramedy.”
“Look, I’m not here to debate, I’m here to find talent. I see it in you, and when you have a chance to think it through, I hope to hear from you.”
Craig slipped the offered card in his coat pocket with barely a glance. His intentions were to forget he’d ever met this whack job, get home and hit the weights and treadmill hard enough so he would be too exhausted to even think about this day, his parents’ death, or this last taxation on his mind, Pecone.
November 12, 2006
Denver, Colorado
Craig accepted the invitation from the Bartons to stay at the governor’s mansion without much thought given to the prospect of reconnecting with Scott. While he thought he would be less likely to want that—given the circumstances of his being in Colorado—the truth was quite the opposite.
He didn’t even know what drew him to Scott’s door, but there he was gently knocking. Scott opened it, hoping to see Craig, and as he went to invite Craig into an embrace, he found Craig coming to him, nearly knocking him down, wrapping his arms around him. He felt steadied once again with the strength of Craig’s body holding him in a tight embrace.
It all happened so quickly, and as Scott began to wrap his arms around his friend, he felt Craig’s head drop—and then deep, deep sobbing. This had never been their dynamic. Craig was always stoic and firm; at times Scott wondered if he had any emotions at all. This was a moment that bonded the two men. They knew they were more than just friends, and now it was obvious that their needs went far beyond sex as well.
As Craig’s sobs weakened, Scott gently guided him into bed, where for the first time they truly made love. It was tender, slow, longing, and deeply satisfying, leaving them both spent and yet too excited to sleep.
As they lay in bed they began to talk. They made plans for how they would define their relationship, how they would maneuver the coming separation they would face. Craig told Scott about his meeting with Pecone. Scott, of course, knew of the offer and hoped more than ever that Craig would accept it. The CIA training camp was only a short drive from Scott’s chosen university.
“So, what do you think of the idea of becoming an operative for the CIA”? asked Scott with both honest curiosity and—notably—newfound concern for his safety.
Craig was still slow on picking up the subtle cues, but this one he got. “Well, honestly, I was a little pissed off at having this dude throw this at me at the time he did. But as I thought more, something about it made sense, and even seemed exciting.”
Scott murmured, “Um hum.”
Craig pulled Scott’s body closer. “You didn’t let me finish. I also now feel it’s not just my decision but one I would want to hear your opinion about too, understanding this will affect you too.”
Scott was moved to tears, “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me, that you’d already consider my feelings on this.”
“I guess I’ve had to do a lot of growing up this past week, and if events tonight told me anything, it was that I’ve been lying to myself about my feelings for you and, well, for guys in general.”
“Yeah, there’s been a lot of that going around the past few days; as to the job, I know how dangerous it would be, and the worst part is, often I’d not even be able to know what you’re doing—but I trust you, and I know I love you, so in the end I’d want to support anything you feel strongly about doing.”
Craig heard the words, and as strongly as he felt for Scott in this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to say I love you—it scared him still, but also it felt too early.
Quantico, VA March 2017
Camaraderie
A decade later, in the spring of 2017, Craig found himself at a lectern at the FBI’s training farm in Quantico, VA, giving an assessment of the cadets’ latest training exercise, one he was brought in to conduct as an expert in the field. While there may or may not be a “gay mafia” subculture in America, gay people tend to favor someone from the “tribe” if all else is just about equal. Any group considered or believes itself to be an outlier from the mainstream will find like others and build connections, trusting one another more easily, whether that trust is well-founded or not.
When those in the community are closeted, sometimes these connections are never acknowledged; rather they are assumed, with this wildly inaccurate sense known as gaydar. This was the situation with Craig and Derrick Porter.
Craig had impressed so many of the instructors at the farm that he was frequently invited back, and, on occasion, was also a guest lecturer at Quantico. Derrick attended one such lecture and felt that familiar vibe. He suspected, or maybe hoped, that Craig might be “one of his kind.” He’d taken a chance, introduced himself, and asked if he could keep in touch with Craig. “You know, just maybe get some pointers or something,” was his nervously flustered explanation. Craig, of course, being an instructor (and also being Craig) wouldn’t outwardly confirm or deny Derrick’s suspicions. That connection is frequently unspoken, like the lift of an eyebrow.
Such as it was, Craig thus had given Derrick his CIA card. Whether either realized it, the subtle smile or even upward turn of the corners of their eyes was enough to signal they were on the right track. Craig listed no title on his card, no mention he was with the CIA, just the name Craig Stout with a handwritten phone number. That number rang only to a communications center where a message could be left, but he wrote out his personal email address on the card. Without saying a word, Derrick understood this was extraordinary.
If he only understood how that number soon would be used!
There had been another reason Derrick asked for Craig’s card: he found him incredibly attractive, and at the end of training he made his move, sending Craig an email with an invitation to a celebratory drink the following Saturday evening.
Craig read the email suspiciously. Hi Craig, I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to use your first name. I wanted to see if you’d be interested in getting together for a drink tomorrow night. The last weeks of training have been intensely brutal, and I would very much enjoy the chance to celebrate the occasion of making it through this hell hole. It was signed, thanks much, Derrick.
Had Derrick been in the class one year ago, Craig might have been much more tempted. He and Scott had been going through a rough time, the years of Craig’s secretiveness taking their toll. The turning point was when Scott, now at the NSA, gained security clearance even above Craig’s. Now they could talk, and while it was now Scott couldn’t tell him certain things, Craig was far more accommodating to such secrets—as long as they related to work. He could compartmentalize
that.
Craig decided he’d meet with Derrick, and though tempted, was very committed to Scott and planned to let Derrick down easy.
Derrick had chosen a bar near the farm that was not at all gay but was known to be discreet, with booths that afforded some level of privacy. Craig arrived and Derrick waved him over to his booth. Before Craig could even offer his hand to shake, Derrick embraced him with both arms.
“Thanks for coming, I’m sure glad to see you.”
Trying to keep it casual, Craig said, “Yeah sure, let’s have a seat,” wanting to put some table distance between them.
Derrick didn’t sense the rebuffing, too excited at the prospect of where the evening might lead. They ordered two beers and a specialty appetizer to share. When the beers arrived, Derrick offered a toast. “To new acquaintances.” They clanked glasses and took a sip; but when Craig felt Derrick’s hand cover his own on the table, he knew he’d have to stop this earlier than he hoped.
Pulling back his hand, he looked Derrick in the eyes. “You are an incredibly hot guy, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested, but the fact is I have a partner, who I’ve just been through a rough patch with, but I’m very much in love with him.”
Derrick was embarrassed, telling himself, You idiot, you should have known someone like Craig would be taken. He made some excuse, muttering, “Yeah, that’s what I figured, it’s cool, I just wondered, that’s all.” He wanted to leave at that point but stayed for a few more minutes, asking for the check. Craig insisted on paying, so Derrick wouldn’t feel bad or foolish, telling him, “Look, doesn’t mean we can’t keep in touch.”
Derrick knew that it meant exactly that.
June 25, 15:44 EDT
Washington, D.C.
Luckily, Craig was in the country when his phone popped up an email notice. The panicked message from Derrick read, Hello Craig, Unfortunately, I am writing you because I need something. This is so urgent, I am actually terrified, and know I am in way over my head. I hope you get this message soon. I have to move FAST! Please call on secured lines as soon as you read this message.
Annoyed at first (Why the hell do I only hear from people when they need something?), Craig wasn’t going to let Derrick stew. That he wrote at all said a lot: this was business. He picked up the phone, a secure line. The outgoing caller ID read 999-555-1212, a number reserved by the phone companies to never be assigned.
“Derrick here.”
“Yeah, Derrick, this is Craig, are you on a secure phone?”
Derrick sighed. “As secure as a cell phone can be.”
“Understood. Can you tell me what the situation is?”
“No, sir, not really. Uh, how long would it take you to get out here?”
Craig thought for about one second. There were several hints in Derrick’s response. First, calling him sir, besides being annoying, also told him absolutely how serious this was. Derrick was obviously scared shitless. Second, assuming Craig would drop everything and get there ASAP indicated that Derrick was on to something he knew would cause Craig to do precisely that.
“Exactly where is here?” Craig asked.
“I’m at the port at Benicia, California,” Derrick answered.
Craig was puzzled. “And where the hell is that?”
“It’s in the Bay Area.”
“OK. I’ll call you back in five minutes or less.”
“I’ll be right here, and I hope it’s less,” a very anxious Derrick replied.
Craig didn’t need approvals, nor did he seek them. He jumped in a black CIA Chevrolet Tahoe, popped the light on top and hit the siren. He was at Ballard Air Force Base in less than 11 minutes. Along the way he made two phone calls. He called the chief flight director at Ballard first, requesting an emergency flight to Benicia, California, or the nearest capable airport facility with a helicopter waiting to take him to the Port of Benicia.
“When do you need to go?” the chief flight director asked.
“I am on my way to the base now—ETA T minus nine.”
“Shit, you must have some burr under your saddle today, boy,” said the captain as he hung up.
Then Craig talked to Derrick. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in under three hours. Here is an operations code. This is my operation now. If anyone gives you any trouble, you tell them exactly that. If they have any questions, refer them to the number on my card, give them the code, and someone will explain the situation to them.”
There should have been a third call, but as would happen too often when Craig got into mission mode, he’d forget all about his personal life and how Scott would feel.
Derrick understood, but as he hung up he said out loud, “Yeah, not that they will like the explanation of the situation,” air-quoting the word situation. His fear, and justifiably so, was the shit storm about to fall on him from his director. The FBI hates losing control—and playing second fiddle to the CIA on a domestic case pisses them off like nothing else.
June 25, 16:17 EDT
Flight from Washington, D.C.
The F-16 isn’t exactly a comfortable plane. In fact, it’s not comfortable at all. And a cross-country journey in one is downright torturous, tempered only slightly by its being damn fast. With in-flight fueling capability, you don’t even have to stop, but you must slow down a bit, which is both blessing and curse if you happen to have the world’s smallest bladder. Even that has a remedy. It’s not elegant, since it involves an absorbable seat pad, but it works.
Craig’s 15:44 PDT touchdown at Travis Air Force Base was the best solution, primarily because it’s known as the Air Force gateway to the Pacific. No one plane is given any particular notice. Secondly, it’s a short twenty miles from the Port Benicia facility. So close that Craig barely had time to call Derrick to let him know he soon would be arriving by helicopter.
Craig was confused about this from the outset. Rarely would he go off on such a priority mission with so little information. One thing he knew for sure, though, the fear in Derrick’s voice was unmistakable: the young agent simply had no idea where to turn, whom to trust, or what to do.
From the phone call to shaking Derrick’s hand at Amports’ facility, a little over 3 hours had passed. From Craig’s perspective, that was pretty amazing; from Derrick’s point of view, it had been an eternity.
Derrick had spent the past three hours with the bare bones bomb squad of one and their boss, Charlene Thornton, staring at a car that obviously contained a bomb. Preliminary testing confirmed it was emitting radiation waves consistent with nuclear fuel. This information made it easy for Derrick to convince his boss that Craig should be the officer to lead the investigation, and that it was best the CIA took lead from here. Derrick had been filled with self-doubt. Calling Craig instead of following protocol had been a huge risk, but it was already clear to everyone it had been the right call.
On seeing Craig jump out of the Apache tactical helicopter, Derrick felt a huge weight lift. “Thanks for doing this, Craig. I am probably in a heap of trouble.” Derrick turned to his boss. “This is Charlene Thornton, Special Agent in charge of the San Francisco division, and the one who’s toes I’ve stomped on by calling you in.”
“There’s nothing you can do now about decisions you’ve made. Stick to them. Feel confident you made the right call. Ms. Thornton, it’s a pleasure to meet you, and I hope we can work together despite the blatant disregard for protocol,” Craig said, intentionally throwing Derrick under the bus, knowing that Derrick knew exactly what he was doing.
“Please, call me Charlene. And I’ll be blunt. I’m none too happy, but from what I’ve seen so far, this is something I’m happy to pass on,” then with a smile, added, “Derrick said you were sharp, but my ego is just fine.”
“So, are going to tell me what the hell I pretty near killed myself to get here for?” Craig asked.
“I know one thing for sure: we’re in way over our heads.”
“Come on,” Craig said. “Let’s take a look.”
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Walking into the shop, Craig instantly noted the taped-off car. The simple Home Depot–branded orange construction tape and small area it encompassed around allowed him a sigh of relief. He even snorted a chuckle under his breath.
Derrick went around to the other side. Charlene was content to keep her distance. Craig and Derrick both poked their heads into the rear door openings almost simultaneously. Derrick pointed to the cylinder-shaped device and began to tell the story of how it had been discovered.
When Derrick reached for the cylinder, Craig stopped his hand cold, slowly shook his head and mouthed the word no as if even talking might set the thing off. He motioned for them both to leave. Once outside, he instructed Derrick to clear the building and seal it up. “Close every door and window, any opening to the outside. Who knows about this?”
“Two technicians and their supervisor, me, the bomb guy, my boss, and you. I don’t think the supervisor knows much, to be honest, but both technicians are pretty suspicious.”
Craig wasn’t too pleased with the already long list. Though, it was clear Charlene had attempted to keep the circle small, hence the lack of FBI tape or full on bomb squad. “OK, they need to be isolated. I want them in isolation at the nearest hospital capable of treating radiation poisoning ASAP. Use the military chopper and keep it quiet. Maybe the VA is the best bet. Use the ops code I gave you. Admit them there as prisoners.”
Derrick was shocked. “Prisoners!”
“Yes, there doesn’t need to be a charge with that code, but they won’t be able to leave or speak to anyone or have any visitors and they will be under twenty-four-by-seven guard.”
The still-shocked Derrick just shook his head, saying, “Shit! The bomb guy too? Don’t we need him?”
