by Linda Hawley
After three months at Keesler, I was ordered to Langley, Virginia. That’s when I learned that I was being assigned to the CIA.
Chapter 13
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The Year 1988
I landed at Dulles International Airport and took the CIA shuttle to Langley. It dropped me at the Air Force in-processing station at the CIA, where I signed in. The next day, I reported for duty directly to my Commanding Officer. His assistant sent me into his office.
“Sir, Airman Torgeson reporting for duty,” I reported in with a salute.
He returned my salute from his seat and then held out his hand for me to deposit my orders. I gave them to him, then moved to stand at attention, looking straight over his head to the wall behind him.
“At ease, Airman.”
I moved to Parade Rest, tucking my hands behind me, and looked at him. He was a lean forty-something, with an angular face, black hair, and very small eyes.
“You’re the sharpshooter,” he exclaimed, looking at the papers.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re going into intelligence?” he asked, looking at me, more of a statement of fact than a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“We could use you better in other places, you know. But the CIA’s got our kahunas in a vice on this one. Apparently you tested pretty high on the CIA’s tests, and they’re insisting upon getting you. I’d rather we use you as a sniper, but Congress won’t allow us to put girls on the front line of combat.”
What do I say to that? I thought, deciding that saying nothing was a good plan.
“What do ya think of that, Airman?”
Oh, crap.
“Sir, I’ll serve wherever you want,” I said, thinking on my feet.
“Right answer, Airman, right answer,” he responded with a smile. “You could go far in the Air Force with that kind of answer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Airman, the CIA’s gonna have to wait a while before they get you, ’cause your security clearance isn’t in yet. Until then, I’m assigning you to the Nuclear War Special Duty Team. That’s the closest you’ll get to combat for now. My admin will tell you where to report tomorrow. Welcome to the Air Force, Airman Torgeson,” he said, standing.
I threw him a crisp salute, and he responded in kind. I turned sharply, leaving his office. Stopping by his assistant, she gave me a paper showing where I would report for duty the next day.
What the heck is the Nuclear War Special Duty Team? I thought as I strode down the hall, looking at the paper that she’d given me.
The next morning at seven o’clock, I reported for duty, then was sent over to the CIA for my polygraph, an essential element to obtain my security clearance.
I was intrigued about working at the CIA, especially since they seemed to want me so badly. I was patriotic and liked the thought that I could be useful. Having just turned eighteen years old, I hadn’t had much time to get into any real trouble, but I was still scared that I would somehow fail the polygraph. I reported to the personnel department of the Agency and soon found myself in a little room, being hooked up to a dozen wires by a skinny guy in a black suit and a forgettable tie. Despite the tie, I was still intimidated, and I told myself not to freak out. The polygrapher had a personality as interesting as a cardboard cutout; he was so detached.
The polygraph seemed to be going along fine until about halfway through, when someone down the hall slammed a door.
Someone slammed a door, I thought in reflex.
At the same time as the door slam, the polygrapher asked me, “Are you secretly involved with foreign nationals?”
“No,” I answered, but I could see that the machine’s needles had registered my startled reaction to the slammed door, and the examiner wrote something on the output paper, appearing eager.
Cardboard man then began pummeling me with detailed questions about foreign nationals.
“Do you know anyone who lives in a communist country?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone who is plotting terrorism in the USA?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone who is involved in sabotage against the United States?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met in secret with a foreign individual?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen classified information from a foreign national?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been asked to provide classified information to a foreign national?”
“No.”
The questions continued and then were repeated for sixty minutes. Instead of panicking, I became hyperfocused, as though my life depended upon the success of the polygraph. After two long hours, the examiner shut down the machine and finally asked me the question that he should have asked long before.
“What was going on when I first asked you the question about any involvement with foreign nationals?” he inquired intensely.
“Someone slammed a door down the hall,” I explained. “I was startled.”
“It’s important during a polygraph that you focus on the questions and not exterior things,” he exclaimed, exasperation seeping into his façade.
Right, I thought, because I take polygraph tests all the time, and I should have known better. I didn’t respond out loud, but I watched as he unhooked me from the wires.
“We’re done here,” cardboard man stated. “Your Commanding Officer will get the results after we analyze them and prepare a report,” he stated, apparently dismissing me.
I could swear he isn’t human.
“Thank you,” I said as I turned to leave.
There was no reply from him. I overcame the temptation to slam the door on the bugger on my way out.
That sucked. I hope I never have another one, I thought as I escaped down the hall.
Four weeks later, I was called into my CO’s office and told that my background investigation was complete, my polygraph results were in, and I was cleared to work at the CIA.
By that time, I felt that I was nearly an expert in reacting to a nuclear disaster. I’d worked and drilled with the nuclear team for weeks and was relieved to hear that I’d received my clearance and could be freed from the nuclear-obsessed crew. After all, there were only so many ways to read a Geiger counter.
I was scheduled to attend the CIA’s newcomers briefing the following day. The class was for new CIA employees and all military personnel assigned to the Agency.
A female briefer outlined the Agency’s history and its current organization, then went into an intensely serious explanation of the policies regarding sexual harassment and discrimination. She educated us about each level of security clearance and what each meant, and the whole class was drilled about the importance of gauging the need-to-know of co-workers or superiors. We also received an eye-opening tour of the vast agency facilities, which included the medical clinic, credit union, Ticketmaster, cafeterias, and the fitness center. The tour concluded when the guide took us past a row of at least twenty-five pay phones in sealed cubicles that were collectively called the phone bank. Stopping us, the guide instructed us not to use the phones except in a personal emergency. When I looked at the phone bank, nearly every seat was occupied.
So all the people who are talking in the phone booths right now are having personal emergencies?
I nearly broke out laughing, but I restrained myself. After the phone-restriction lecture ended, signaling the end of our tour and briefing, an Air Force lieutenant approached me and told me to follow him.
He took me into a room marked Visitors. From there, we entered a much smaller room. Lieutenant Smith—I’d seen the nametag on his uniform—closed the door, then handed me a large brown envelope.
“Read it,” he commanded me.
Is Smith really your name? I wondered.
I felt as though I held the secret of UFOs. I obeyed and opened the envelope. Inside the envelope contained one page with
three lines of information:
Room: C4-336
Code: 99136
Report for duty immediately after indoctrination.
Thank goodness I know what indoctrination means.
After observing me open the envelope and read its contents, Smith opened the door and left without another word. I had no chance to ask him a single question.
Is this a test? How am I supposed to know where this room is? I thought, dumbfounded, staring at the door of the cubbyhole room.
Okay, let’s break it down, Ann. What’s C4? I coached myself.
I left the cubby room and approached the newcomers’ briefing instructor, who was still in the hall, answering questions from my classmates.
“Excuse me,” I asked during a lull in the questions. “Can I get a map of the offices? I’m supposed to find a room but don’t know my way around yet,” I asked her.
“We don’t have maps of CIA headquarters, but if you’ll tell me the office number, I’ll help direct you,” she replied courteously.
“It’s C4-336,” I replied.
“Okay, the four means it’s the fourth floor. The first number after that is the department—you’re going to department three. The room number is thirty-six. Head over to the elevators. You’ll need to show your badge to the guard there. Once you get up there, the departments will be numbered sequentially. If you see any doors without numbers, skip them,” she patiently explained.
“Thank you,” I sincerely replied.
What’s the C stand for? I wondered but figured I’d better not ask.
Heading to the elevators, I was stopped by a guard who put his hand up, blocking my path.
Stopping, I looked up.
“I haven’t seen you before,” the six-foot-four black guard stated in a deep bass voice.
“Today is my first day,” I replied with a forced smile, looking up at him. I raised my badge from the chain around my neck and held it next to my face—just as the newcomers’ briefing instructor had told us to.
“My name is Ed,” he offered.
“I’m Ann…Ann Torgeson,” I nervously responded.
“No need for last names, Ann. Nice to meet you. Go on ahead,” he vibrated.
Once in the elevator alone, I thought, Welcome to the CIA.
After reaching the fourth floor, I exited the elevator and turned left—that being the only choice—then turned left again. The floor was covered with square tiles from the 1970s and was obviously buffed regularly, though snags of dirt were collecting at the edges of the hall. There were neither art nor posters on the walls, which were all painted a light gray. It looked like a prison.
I scanned the room numbers…51…52…53…I was going the wrong way. I turned back the other way and saw the numbers starting with 01…02…03…
Finally I reached 36. I hoped this was where I was supposed to be. I opened the door. Ahead of me was another door with a cipher lock on the outside, containing a series of five vertical stainless steel buttons just below the silver door handle. Above me in the corner of the ceiling, tilting down, was a large camera. I sighed.
They’re not kidding about this little test.
Once more I removed the letter and entered the code from the second line into the cipher lock, pushing in each button until they clicked. I’d never opened a cipher door before—clearly this was on-the-job training. I hoped I was doing it right. I didn’t want to look stupid on my first day.
They’re probably watching me right now, laughing their butts off, I thought as I tried to turn the doorknob and it refused to move.
Oh man, I thought. I got the number wrong. Now I know they’re laughing. I felt my face flush.
I looked at the paper again and reentered the number, careful to push each button slowly until each clicked. I tried to turn the knob again. It didn’t budge.
Oh, come on.
Then it occurred to me to push the door open, instead of trying to turn the knob.
Bingo. I smiled stupidly at the camera as the door swung open.
I hope that was a pass/fail test.
Chapter 14
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The Year 1988
The cipher door swung heavily shut behind me, nearly catching my large black Air Force-issued handbag.
My elation from having successfully negotiated the cipher test quickly deflated when I realized that I stood in another long prison hall, with a series of doors marked with letters. I stood still.
Hmmm, I thought, I wonder what’s behind door A?
Just as I was about to knock on it, a tall man of medium build emerged from another door farther down the San Quentin hallway. He approached me with a smile.
“Hello, Airman Torgeson. I’m Bob Hadley,” he said pleasantly, extending his hand.
He appeared to be in his midforties, with kind brown eyes, a head full of gray hair, and a bit of a double chin that accompanied his extra fifty pounds. He had a presence of quiet authority.
“Hello,” I responded, shaking the hand he offered me. “Since you know my name, does that mean I’m in the right place?”
“Getting through the cipher lock showed you that you’re in the right place,” he clarified.
So he was watching.
“I direct the project you’ll be a part of here.”
I nodded, but hid my confusion. My Air Force supervisor is a civilian?
“I’m pleased to be here, sir.”
“Instead of you calling me sir or Mr. Hadley, how about we keep this informal, and you call me Bob?” he asked, though it seemed more like instruction.
“Yes, sir. You can call me Ann, if that’s not against any protocol.”
“We’re a pretty tight group here, Ann. You’ll find that we don’t get too wrapped up in formal protocol within our project. You can call all team members by their first names.”
Cool.
I replied with a simple smile.
“Another thing. Because of the sensitivity of our work here, you fall under a special arrangement between the CIA and the Air Force. Starting tomorrow, when you report for duty here, you’ll dress as a civilian. No Air Force uniform, nor anything that identifies you as military. Wear your hair down, not up like Air Force regulations dictate. And don’t bring that Air Force-issued purse on your shoulder,” he cautioned.
Why is that? I wondered.
Answering my silent question, Bob said, “We don’t want to call attention to any military personnel on this project. Foreign governments would like nothing better than to target one of our military personnel for espionage against us. You’ll likely remember learning in basic training about the damage done by the Walkers?”
I nodded grimly.
John Walker was an officer of the U.S. Navy. His initial role in radio communications gave him access to highly classified military secrets. He quickly moved up the ranks as a communications officer. In time, though, Walker became disenchanted with the Navy, and in 1967 he committed his first act of espionage when he sold information about Navy ship movements to the Russian KGB, after walking in the front door of the Soviet embassy in Washington, D.C., to make contact with them.
Walker continued spying, passing thousands of classified documents to the Soviet Union while in the Navy. He involved his wife, Barbara, and then recruited his brother, Arthur, and his son, Michael. The Walker spy ring was active for eighteen years and was one of the most damaging acts of espionage ever committed by U.S. citizens. They aided the Soviets in deciphering more than a million classified naval messages. When asked how he had obtained so much top-secret information, Walker was quoted as saying, “K-Mart has better security than the Navy.”
“In our program,” Bob said, “we mask your military identity as a protective measure against you being targeted by an espionage recruiter. Foreign powers intentionally target our military because you make less money than civilians here. You don’t fit the mold, Almost all military spies have been men—all of them older than you. The good news for you is that y
ou can put aside your uniform for the next few years, except for any official Air Force business that your CO calls you in for—of course that’s all outside the Agency.”
“Got it,” I said. “No uniform, military hair, or other stuff, starting tomorrow.”
“Right. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I want to hear about your sharpshooting,” he inquired, smiling.
Again. News travels fast.
“My dad taught me when I was young,” I offered as an explanation.
“It looks like our group will be in good hands, then,” he said with a chuckle as we stood in the stark hallway.
“Sir…Bob, I mean…can you tell me what the group is?”
“We’re part of the Science and Technology Division, which is one of four overall organizations in the CIA. Science and Technology researches and then develops methods and technology to improve intelligence gathering. Our organization creates all the cool 007 spy technology, like the poison pen that James Bond used.”
I smiled, enjoying his reference.
“We roll into the Clandestine Service. Our organization develops technical programs to gather information from foreign sources. But instead of explaining our little project, let me show you.”
We moved down the long hall and through a doorway, entering a very large room, at least one hundred feet wide and nearly as long. The room was furnished and lit so that it felt like a very comfortable and sizeable living room. Seating was scattered throughout, some of which was occupied. The colors in the room were predominantly soothing shades of green and blue. The room made me want to sit down and put my feet up.
“Welcome to Project Stargate,” Bob offered, with his right hand extended, sweeping outward.
