Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  Hunter laughed out loud. So much detail for so little substance. So much cloak and dagger to guarantee obscurity. It seemed absurd to him, even though he had no disagreement with the purpose of the convolutions.

  “Your pay check—in your real name—will be mailed to the Commercial Federal Bank on 17th and Welton in downtown Denver. I’m sure it’s familiar to you, and it won’t be necessary for you to fill out any papers. If curiosity gets the best of you; and you make the effort to read the documents on file at the bank; you will, no doubt, be surprised to see who you are, where you live, and your place of employment. Except for your name, nothing else will bear the slightest relationship to the truth. You have chosen to forego receiving regular bank statements. You may check your account status by phone or on-line if you are so inclined, but I advise against it. If you really must go in person; go in disguise-a different one every time. Don’t plan on making friends with the folks at the bank or even nodding acquaintanships.

  “The bank has a number of nice services, including a free one to send all of your checks to an obscure post office box located in Rifle, Colorado. I have all of the details in this folder. You can peruse it at your leisure.

  “You’ll have to have an alias, or more accurately, several of them. We will make the first one for you for the training period, and then if you survive that; we will get down to cases. Probably, you will get a new cover for every assignment.”

  “What about my status in the Company?” Hunter asked unwilling to let him talk so long and seductively that Hunter would forget to get that clear.

  “Sorry. CIA brass and the president, himself, would not budge on the question of having you be appointed a full fledged officer or even a contract officer. They are never going to allow you or anyone who searches for you to be able to find anything that traces you to The Company. The navy is willing to take you back at the rank you had when you resigned at the end of the war. Incidentally, on your official records as they currently read, that never happened. You’ll be a commander with hazard pay. For the training period, you will be kept in the reserves. If all goes well, you will go over to regular navy. When you complete a mission satisfactorily, the CIA brass will contact the DOD, and you will be quietly promoted to captain. From time to time, the Company will give an evaluation report, but it will always appear that it came from somewhere within the Pentagon. It is the best of both worlds for you and for the Company. I can’t tell you details, but having the navy connection provides deep cover, so deep that you won’t appear on any CIA records; and the navy will have no knowledge of your mission. Your cover will be layers deep. Very few people care what the USDA does except a few farmers in East Cowlip, Iowa. Even fewer care about the NASS. Nobody cares a whit about the NASS. You will be about as obscure as it is possible to get.

  “Along that line, let me tell you that I will be your only contact in the Company. I can be reached by name at my office here at Langley, or you can get me anytime at the number I’m going to give you. Memorize it and never write it down anywhere. Give the person who answers your code name—Sheep Dog in numerical format 19-8-5-5-16-4-15-7—and add the numbers of today’s date, 01-22.”

  “Sheep Dog?” Hunter asked.

  “The DCIA’s idea. Something William J. Bennett said in a lecture to the United States Naval Academy on November 24, 1997. He related that one Vietnam veteran, an old retired colonel, once said, ‘Most of the people in our society are sheep. They are kind, gentle, productive creatures who can only hurt one another by accident or under extreme provocation—the regular people in society who go about their lives unaware of those who protect them or what they do. ‘Then there are the wolves,’ the old war veteran was quoted as saying, ‘the criminals, foreign enemies, and terrorists; and the wolves feed on the sheep without mercy. There are evil men in this world, and they are capable of evil deeds. The moment you forget that or pretend it is not so, you become a sheep. There is no safety in denial.”

  Oliver continued, “’Then there are sheepdogs,’ Bennett went on, and said, ‘I’m a sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf.’ Bennett told the midshipmen about a sign in one California law enforcement agency, ‘We intimidate those who intimidate others.’ Finally, Hunter, you’ll be one of the sheep dogs—the warriors, doctors, nurses, and cops—the hard men and women who in the night quietly do what needs to be done—including the unpleasant things—to protect the sheep and to get rid of or at least control the wolves. You have had a good turn at being a sheep dog in the past, and I suspect that your time of malcontent at being one of the sheep is about to stop. That’s where it came from.”

  “I’ll try to live up to it.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Hunter’s real orders came by telephone, nothing written. The Navy sent official orders to report to Yukusca, Japan. He ignored that and did as the telephone voice instructed him. He was given two weeks to get his affairs in order; and then, he made his way to The Farnthat void on the map in Virginia where CIA, special ops forces, and various foreign forces train in the latest and best weaponry, tactics, attacks, and defenses. Hunter already knew the way, having spent nearly three months there before he shipped out to Viet Nam. When he entered the gate, his mind was inevitably and unpleasantly drawn back to those hard days. He remembered the toughness of the training and the very real rivalries and betrayals that had occurred then. The men and women with whom he had trained and from whom he learned had—more often than not—come from checkered pasts. It had been best not to ask questions or to become too chummy with anyone. They did not send each other Christmas cards.

  The best man Hunter knew in training was a young giant of a fellow. He knew him by one name in training, but when he encountered him again in Saigon, he was called by another, Karl Isaacson, and later Anders Bergstrom. He was stronger, faster, smarter, and tougher than anyone else during the training. He had gotten into some sort of deadly fight with the Frenchman, Jean-Luc DuParrier who was born a snake, and hopefully had died as one; and the resultant bad blood between the two of them had outlasted even the war. If even half of the things he had heard about what the Giant White Ghost, or Isaacson or Bergstrom—as he was later called—had done were true, Hunter hoped to avoid running into another one like him, but he quietly determined to be as competent as the guy was before he went bonkers and killed some high ranking U.S. officials after it was all over.

  Camp Peary as it is named officially—but better known as The Farm by insiders—is located northeast of the city of Williamsburg, Virginia on the west bank of the York River off Route 5, close to Allmondsville and Croaker. It is an official secret of the CIA, but to no one else apparently. It is enclosed in a twenty-five square mile section of wilderness Virginia running between the highway and the river that serves as a huge training site for CIA agents, infiltrators, covert operators, and for special ops military units as diverse as SEALS, Army Rangers, and Special Forces, Viet Nam war PRU leader trainees, and the Delta Force. Its location is openly discussed by locals and pointed out to tourists. About the only persons unfamiliar with its location are those totally devoid of curiosity, newly arrived, nonpolitical, nonmilitary immigrants, and ardent right-wing religious zealots who accept the fiction of a benign U.S. foreign policy.

  The first day at The Farm was casual. Hunter and the other newcomers got moved into simple one-room college dorm living quarters. Every person had a room to him or herself, and nearly half of the new trainees were female and about a quarter were black, a sea change difference from the first time Hunter had trained there—not much political correctness back then. They met in front of their dorm at 0400 the next morning in their running clothes and started the day with a nerve testing cross country run. Despite his personal opinion about his own level of physical conditioning, Hunter was done in by the time they finished, and started coming to grips with the depressing realization that he was not quite the man he had once been and had a great deal of catch-up t
o do before he could measure up to the extraordinarily fit instructors and young men and women trainees with whom—like it or not—he would have to compete.

  For three months, he joined in the traditional training demanded of all new recruits arriving at Camp Peary: harsh runs; grueling calisthenic workouts; weapons training that was triple the speed and quadruple the mind strain that he remembered from navy boot camp or officer training—in the dark, blindfolded, with one hand, etc., etc.—drills to sharpen memory of things seen and things heard; paramilitary stalking, orienteering, GPS reading; communications and computer readiness classes that were as thorough and impatient as those at MIT, or Cal-Tech; quickie language courses to learn the very basics of twenty languages just in case; and courses in a full dozen martial arts from around the world taught by the best of the best—not just the highest ranking black belts, but the most accomplished killers.

  The only course where Hunter excelled was the advanced mixed martial arts full contact course which led to a quarter of his trainee class either quitting or being sent away. On a sunny afternoon, he was singled out for a full fight wearing helmet and pads by the Israeli Defense Forces unarmed combat instructor in Krav Maqa, the official IDF commando special units/special forces defense and attack system. Lev Moises was a hard mana hard teacherand a man without patience for those who could not hold their own. He had a very impressive personal record in street fights in Palestine.

  Hunter’s opponent was a 280 pound body builder from Houston, who bore scars of his own urban battles and was no stranger to real violence. He laughed at Hunter who had graying and receding hair and was outweighed by 80 pounds. Lev brought them to the center of the mat and gave the men his few instructions: they were prohibited from biting, eye-gouging, testicle kicking or tearing, and techniques designed to break an opponent’s neck. Otherwise, each man was on his own.

  Clinton Ivory rushed at Hunter to terminate his defenses in a blinding explosion of energy and violence. Hunter deftly used Clinton’s mad rush to throw him in a graceful somersault to his back. As Clinton rolled up to a semi-sitting position preparatory to going to his feet, he had his back turned to Hunter. The smaller man had an explosive energy of his own. He flew onto Clinton’s back, put his neck in a powerful mata leão, and applied monkey-feet control of the huge man’s legs. Clinton—for all of his superior strength, youth, and agility—was unconscious in less than ten seconds.

  Lev brought out five more competitors that afternoon. One was rendered unconscious by a front choke; one suffered a broken leg, one suffered two clavicle fractures; one had a fractured nose and knee; and the final opponent, a woman, lasted nearly three minutes with Hunter until she was knocked unconscious by a spinning back kick. In all, Hunter was on the mat for less than ten minutes. Lev discussed his performance with his superiors; and thereafter, Hunter was one of the instructors, until his three month stint as a regular recruit was finished.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  April

  There was no graduation ceremony and no certificate. On his 91st day at Camp Peary, a soft-spoken, elderly, fit man knocked on Hunter’s door, helped him collect his meager belongings, and drove him to a far corner of The Farm to a medium sized rock sided cottage with bars on the windows, terra cotta tile roof which bristled with antennae, and a kennel of the largest, most vicious dogs Hunter had ever seen. Guards patrolled the perimeter regularly with one and sometimes two such dogs on leashes. They were very effective dissuaders for the curious.

  His guide opened the door to the cottage and waited for Hunter to enter.

  The guide stood in the doorway and said, “Goodbye, agent. You will be joined shortly,” turned and left.

  Hunter looked around. The front room was rustic but comfortable with hand quilted throws on the furniture, a few white-tail deer shoulder mounts on the log walls, and shiny pale gold stone tiles on the floor. In front of the overstuffed chairs and a divan were two bear skins and a cougar skin. Hunter walked into the kitchen. The cabinet tops and work areas were covered with expensive appearing granite; sinks were pewter colored steel with Grohe faucets. The floor was tiled with sealed and polished blond limestone. Everything was neat and in its place with a proverbial place for everything. The refrigerator was full of fruits, fresh vegetables, lean meats, whole grain breads, European cheese, milk, and orange juice. All health food, Hunter observed—no sweets, no cans, and no packaged foods. The cabinets contained a full stock of cooking utensils, pots, pans, grill ware, cutting and table utensils, glass tumblers, and ceramic cups. Canisters of flour, salt, sugar, brown sugar, coffee and brewable tea stood in neat order against the splash boards on the walls of the cabinet tops. Everything in the room was what was required with no waste and no frills.

  The four small bedrooms each had a twin bed that appeared comfortable but was made up with militarily Spartan correct spit and polish. The tables, lamps, and chests of drawers were alike in each room—simple and adequate, but no sense of hominess. The bathrooms likewise had nothing fancy, but were spick-and-span neat and clean as if no one had ever lived there after the house was built in the 1930s.

  As he was checking out the pantry, a gruff male voice behind him said quietly, “You John Smith II?”

  “I must be,” Hunter said, laughing, “but no one told me so.”

  “Everybody here is John Smith, including me. That would make you really John Smith the 55th, or thereabouts.”

  Both men laughed. Hunter turned and shook the man’s hand. He was tall, very fit appearing, and had a ramrod stiff military bearing. His hair was steel-grey; his skin leathery, and wrinkled. Hunter estimated his age to be about sixty, but it was hard to tell. He had what appeared to be a dueling scar on his cheek, not unlike the one on Hunter’s. His eyes were a striking silver-grey with flecks of luminescent green, and he focused them to good intimidative use. He was dressed in olive drab heavy canvas pants and shirt and a regulation army belt and buckle. His shoes were regulation army brown—from a bygone era.

  The two men studied each other for a few moments before the other John Smith spoke. “I am your trainer. You and I will live here alone. Hope you’re okay with that. I’m not queer; and I hope you aren’t either; but if you are, we’ll keep our distance.”

  “Nothing queer about me,” Hunter said.

  “I will be your mentor, teacher, trainer, confidant, and god father for the next few months. You and I will be pretty much on our own most of the time, but occasionally we will have guest teachers like the marine sniper who will arrive here for lunch with us. He doesn’t need to know who you are, what you do, why you do it, or who for; and he won’t ask. He will expect you to be a qualified expert marksman already—which you are—then this afternoon he will teach you to really shoot. We will drill on every aspect of being a sniper every day from here on out.”

  “Sounds good,” Hunter ventured.

  “He is good—the best. Although you and I will do a lot of physical training together and a lot of martial arts stuff, from time to time we will have other guests who are experts with killing and maiming with bare hands, fingers, feet, knives, little guns, you name it. I know you have had a considerable amount of experience, at least, I presume so; but don’t underestimate what these guys will have to teach you. When you leave here in three months, you will be genuinely surprised and pleased at the skill set you have garnered and how much more effective you have become. You would not be one to meet in a dark alley any night after you graduate from the John Smith academy. There have been very few people in the history of this country or any other who have had such in depth training in so many areas related to doing harm to your fellow men and avoiding such harm being done to ones self as you will. You up for it? It’ll be a tough course for mind, spirit, and body.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, John.”

  “Good, let’s eat. You are going to need lots of protein during this three months. We’ll have steak, eggs, a veggie, and milk for lunch. Suit your fancy?”

  “Ye
ah, I’m starved.”

  John and John worked side be side quickly and efficiently to serve up a heavy duty meal.

  As they ate, John—the teacher—said, “Oh, there’s a rule you need to know and obey. I don’t know or care what you did in your former life; but here with me, there’s no tobacco, recreational drugs, or alcohol. Can you live with that?”

  “Sure. You sound like a Mormon. My son lived like that for twenty years after he converted to their church. I guess I can do that much.”

  “That was more than I needed to know, but I know their ethic. I’ve worked with a few of them and liked their lifestyle. Especially the part about having as many wives as you want,” he smiled wryly.

  Hunter laughed and sighed, “That’s history. Too bad for you and me.”

  At 1300 sharp, a rap came on the door. John opened the door for a twenty to twenty-two-year-old Hispanic man dressed in camo from his hat to his boots. He was barely five-seven, dark and wiry, with a two millimeter haircut. He had dark, intelligent eyes, the high cheek bones of a Mayan, and strong, sinewy arms and hands. He was carrying a rifle case and had two different style gillie suits draped over his arm. In his other hand he had a small brief case. He did not venture a smile.