Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel

by Vikki Kestell

  Hours passed. Their jailers tossed other trainees into the cell—and followed up with more sprinklers and more soaking. The small room was soon crowded. Laynie counted sixteen trainees, Nora and her partner, too. Four to go, including Black and Stephanie.

  Laynie’s teeth chattered; she and Tay and others huddled to conserve warmth, but they were all stiff, cold, and crowded. Many were dispirited, and tempers flared; one trainee in particular, began shouting expletives and vile obscenities at their keepers . . . and then at Marstead. By name.

  Taylor kicked him. Hard. “Shut up, man. These guys aren’t us; get your head right. Remember your *bleeping* NDA and maintain proper OPSEC.”

  The doors opened. The last four trainees were shoved inside, only to fall over those closest to the doors. Steph moaned; Black might have been unconscious.

  Then came the interrogations.

  Two men in ski masks appeared at the doors holding clipboards. “Magda! Taylor!”

  Armed with foot-long stun sticks, they waded through the crush of bodies, hauled Laynie and Taylor to their feet, and dragged them away.

  Laynie heard someone shout, “Stay strong, Mags!”

  Black.

  What followed were hours—or maybe it was days?—of Laynie’s arms lifted above her head, her flex cuffs caught on a hook in the ceiling, while she stood on a pile of concrete blocks—the pile not quite high enough to take the strain off her arms.

  “Magda. Tell us about Mary. Tell us about Mary, and we’ll let you go. C’mon, Magda.”

  Laynie kept her mouth shut—until her masked captors turned a high-pressure hose on her. The water beat her, stinging, pummeling, pounding, freezing.

  “Tell us about Mary, Magda. Tell us what you know.”

  She shook her head.

  It went on and on, the same questions, unrelenting pain in her shoulders, arms that she could no longer feel.

  “Tell us about Mary and the guy with her! Tell us! Tell us where he went.”

  At some point, Laynie either slept or passed out. When they took her down, the blood flowed back into her arms in the shape of fiery needles. She screamed and moaned, then wept from the pain.

  “Tell us about Mary, Magda. Who was with her? What color was his hair?”

  Laynie sobbed once more and bit her lip to keep from moaning aloud. When she couldn’t keep quiet, she cursed them.

  “Okay, boys. Next step.”

  Three men grabbed her arms and legs and laid her on a plank, strapped her down, balanced the center of the plank on a chair. They lifted the plank and her feet, tipping her head toward a tin tub on the floor. Someone covered her face with a towel. Water poured through the towel, into her nose, her mouth. Then they tilted the plank upright and removed the towel.

  Laynie couldn’t catch her breath; she choked and coughed and spat water and phlegm.

  “Tell us about Mary, Magda. Tell us about her little friend. What color was he, Magda? Where did he go?”

  “I’ll tell, I’ll tell!” Laynie choked out.

  “Good. That’s good. Tell us, Magda, tell us all about Mary. One little verse, and this all stops. Just one. You can do that, can’t you?”

  Laynie grit her teeth and screamed. “Her name wasn’t Mary, you *bleeping* idiots! Her name was BO PEEP, and she had a large, purple GOAT that found your shoes and ATE THEM!”

  One of her captors at least had the decency to laugh, but the others cursed her—and recommenced her interrogation. She lost track of how many times they poured water through the towel onto her face. When she had passed out twice, they dumped her in a corner for a while to work on someone else. When they started up on her again, Laynie didn’t have the strength to keep coughing up water. When she quit, they yanked her to a sitting position while someone stood behind her and performed abdominal thrusts to bring up the fluids.

  Laynie was semiconscious, in a dreamlike state.

  Hey, I know that procedure—I’m a lifeguard. Who’s drowning?

  When she woke up, she was back in the holding tank. Around her, her fellow trainees were coughing and spitting; the room was rank with sweat and urine and vomit. More than one trainee wept, although they tried to keep it quiet.

  Laynie leaned against someone—she didn’t know or care who—and slept.

  They came for her two more times, and she endured. She was only able to because, I know what they will and won’t do. I outlasted them once; I can do it again.

  And then Rafe stood in the doorway. His masked goons walked among the trainees’ sprawled bodies, cutting flex cuffs.

  “Course is over. Get on the bus.”

  LAYNIE WAS SO TIRED, she could barely move. Then she saw Black waiting for her, leaning heavily against the bus.

  “C’mon, Mags. Sit with me.”

  “Okay.”

  They found seats together, and she pressed into his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to sleep. However, before the bus pulled out, two men, strangers as far as they knew, boarded the bus. They began handing out burgers, fries, and root beer.

  “Ohhhh . . .” Laynie moaned, sinking her teeth into the hot burger.

  Chapter 9

  IT WAS FRIDAY AFTERNOON when they returned to the Marstead compound. The doctors were on hand to check the trainees for injuries; they prescribed pain killers, muscle relaxers, and sleeping pills for whomever wanted them. They placed a finger splint on a trainee who’d resisted on his third water boarding. After medical exams, the class was down five trainees.

  Laynie exhaled a long, resigned breath. I’m surprised it isn’t more.

  The doctors also prescribed a day of complete rest to include three hearty meals. That was Saturday.

  The next day, Trammel even arranged for a special 10 a.m. “Sunday brunch” so the trainees could sleep in and relax as they woke up. After the trainees had slept in, then eaten brunch, Trammel commended them—those who had endured through the course.

  “The SERE course is a test of commitment and intestinal fortitude. You now know yourself and your limits better, and I will repeat my words from our first day together: If you decide now that you are not suited to this work, please come to me personally, and we’ll see you home. There’s no shame in knowing oneself.”

  Not a trainee budged.

  THEN IT WAS MONDAY again, the start of another week.

  This week and four more, Laynie told herself as she plodded into the classroom.

  Chin stood before his class. “Welcome to Week 10—all fifteen of you.”

  “Wahoo,” Taylor snarked and twirled a finger.

  Laynie half smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

  “Beginning today,” Chin said, “your daily classroom and firearms training will come together in what we call scenario-based learning. For your introduction to scenario-based learning, you will spend an hour, every day this week, practicing your firearms skills within Little London.”

  The trainees roused and slid glances around, mouthing, “Little London?”

  “You’ve seen Little London from the road during your morning runs; you’ve wondered what it is and what it is for. Here is the answer to both of those questions: We constructed Little London to resemble an urban city and function as one. Every element required to simulate a real operating environment is authentic, right down to the parking meters on the curbs, the garbage cans in the alleys, the shops and the apartments.

  “We have, furthermore, populated the city with fully dressed mannequins and have designed urban shooting scenarios in situ by adding pop-up, cut-out targets that are either innocent bystanders or real bad guys.”

  Laynie’s pulse quickened. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Black smirking at her.

  Well, that’s because I’m grinning, too! Laynie covered her mouth with her hand and hid her smile behind it.

  “Starting this afternoon, we’ll be pulling you from your daily routine and rotating you through the shooting scenarios one at a time. An hour a day for fifteen trainees means some of you will shoot early and
others late in the day. Also, for safety reasons, you will not use guns or live ammo. Instead, you’ll use specially manufactured ‘bean’ shooters, the guns’ color, LEO (law enforcement officer) blue, signifying that they are training weapons.

  “Check the assignment board daily and report at the foot of the road leading to Little London five minutes before your assigned time slot. Wear full range gear.”

  The trainees, their spirits somewhat elevated, whispered and talked among themselves.

  “Listen up, trainees! I’ve described the initial use of Little London. We’ll run you through a week of urban firearms training, then move on. I think you’ll find the second phase . . . a bit more interesting.”

  Excited to hear more, Laynie leaned forward.

  “In Week 11, you will engage in individual and team scenarios where you must put your tradecraft into practice to complete your assignments. You will have ample opportunity to hone your skills through these realistic exercises. You will also have opportunity to identify your weaknesses and strengthen them.

  “The scenarios will be simple and straightforward to begin with—but they will grow in size, scope, and complexity. The scenarios will, eventually, test every skill you’ve been taught. They will force you to solve problems and innovate in the moment, adapt to changing circumstances, and utilize your SERE training.”

  Utilize our SERE training? Laynie’s excitement boiled away as she allowed herself to consider what it implied.

  Chin, in his signature stance, hands on his slim hips, looked them over and seemed to confirm what Laynie had realized. “Let me be clear: The training scenarios will start off easy, but they will continuously evolve, requiring that you, too, continuously evolve. Set your minds now to roll with the punches because, beginning next week, when all training shifts from classroom to the field, nothing will be off limits.”

  LAYNIE’S FIRST ROTATION through the urban firearms training course was at 3:00 that afternoon. She stationed herself at the bottom of the road leading to Little London five minutes early and waited. A golf cart came for her.

  At the top of the hill, she got out and was greeted by Benelli and de Guerre. They positioned her at the start of the course and familiarized her with a bright blue “bean” shooter.

  “Just because your firearm shoots single plastic pellets, doesn’t mean you ignore firearms safety, eye protection, or any piece of your training. Any projectile fired at high velocity will bruise skin or could put out an eye. Got it, Magda?”

  “Got it.”

  “This is a diagram of Little London. You will traverse this street, turn left at the first corner, turn right at the next two, returning to the top of this street and back to us. As you sweep your way through the course, bad guys and civilians will pop out at you. Shoot the bad guys; don’t shoot the innocent civvies.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it this time out.”

  When Laynie returned, having taken out eleven bad guys and almost killing a school kid who “jumped” out behind her, she was in love.

  “Like it?” Benelli asked.

  “Can’t wait to do it again!”

  He laughed. “Oh, you’ll be doing it again, I promise you. Lots more.”

  THE TRAINEES WORKED through the same course and then more difficult variations of the course all that week. Repetition and practice calmed the trainees’ adrenal responses; soon they were operating on their training and muscle memory without an accompanying rush of adrenaline. Laynie discovered that she was gaining a cool confidence in herself, her marksmanship, and her judgment.

  During the eleventh and twelfth weeks of the program, the instructors pushed the students harder: they formed the trainees into squads of four and put the squads through exercise after exercise, all conducted within the artificial town. The instructors had developed the scenarios to challenge and strengthen the students’ tradecraft, their problem-solving skills, and their tenacity. Each succeeding scenario grew in difficulty and danger.

  The staff often ran overlapping exercises, meaning a trainee from one squad might encounter a trainee from another squad while conducting differing operations. In those instances, trainees had to pretend that the other squad’s member was part of the backdrop. They learned to ignore the other squad—that is until the scenarios suddenly shifted, pitting the squads against each other, adding yet another level of complexity and hazard.

  The trainees’ days now extended well into the night so they might train under cover of darkness. The staff gave their students little time to eat and intentionally denied them adequate sleep; they pressed them, demanding more, making the students confront their weaknesses and defeat them.

  After six days of nonstop scenario-based exercises, Trammel gave the trainees another Sunday as a day to rest and recuperate. He even ordered a second “you’ve earned it” late-morning brunch to go with the day of rest.

  At the brunch buffet, Laynie heaped her plate high with bacon, sausages, hash browns, scrambled eggs, and large, chilled shrimp. She stacked three waffles on another plate and added two tall glasses of orange juice to her tray before she left the buffet line to sit down.

  With fifteen trainees left, the dining hall was down to three tables of five. Laynie joined Black, Steph, Taylor, and Nora. They were the only table to have its original members.

  “Lookin’ mighty ‘cut’ there, Mags,” Taylor purred in his lazy way. “Lean and mean.”

  Laynie was busy stuffing her face. Sure, she’d lost some weight and, in its place, built hard muscle, but she hadn’t given it much thought. She was focused on finishing the course—right after she gorged.

  “Oh? Guess I’ve lost a few pounds.”

  “We all have,” Nora said quietly.

  Something in Nora’s tone snagged Laynie’s attention. She slid her eyes to the British woman. Nora, fork unmoving in her hand, stared at her plate.

  “Right you are, Nora. We’ve been running and gunning from dawn to dusk—and beyond.”

  Laynie looked around to gain the table’s attention, then tipped her head toward Nora. “Of course, we’ve all dropped some fat. In its place, we’ve added muscle mass and gained strength. The harder they’ve pushed us, the harder we’ve had to lean on our training, right?” She looked directly at Black, who nodded once to show he understood.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Whatever comes our way next, we have only two weeks of it left. Every one of us at this table has what it takes to finish.”

  Nora lifted her head. Tears stood out in her eyes. “Not sure, guys. Not sure I can do this anymore.”

  Steph and Taylor, on either side of Nora, gripped her shoulders.

  “You will finish,” Taylor murmured, “if you don’t give up. Get those quitting words and ideas out of your head, Nor. Don’t allow yourself to even consider giving up—not now, not after all you’ve accomplished.”

  “You were one of us, Nora, when we pledged,” Steph added. “Whatever the cost—that’s what we vowed: Whatever it costs, we’re going to finish this course—and just look at us! We’re the only intact table left.”

  Laynie could see that Nora appreciated the friendship and comradery extended to her, but a battle raged within, and no amount of support on the outside could fix what she was struggling against inside. Unless Nora herself dug deep and made the determination that she would gut it out and pay the price asked of her, she would either quit . . . or Marstead would scrub her.

  Not me, Laynie told herself. No matter what, not me.

  Nothing mattered more to her than finishing the course.

  Chapter 10

  Crash Week

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the start of the course’s second-to-last week, the trainees discovered why they’d been given a day to “rest up.” To their amazement and dismay, Little London was no longer a faux town: Overnight, it had gone from mock-up to real.

  Sometime during the previous night, while the trainees slept, additional Marstead personnel—so-called “adjunc
t instructors”—had quietly flooded onto the campus and taken up residence in Little London. Overnight, they had replaced the city’s cutout figures and inanimate mannequins with a population of some fifty living, breathing, active humans.

  Little London residents walked the sidewalks, operated vendor carts, drove vehicles (even a short bus!) through the streets, lay in dark corners as homeless drunks, and stepped in and out of shops and apartments. Doors slammed and people talked; music poured from the bar as patrons went in and out, cars revved their engines, drivers honked. The transformation was so complete and believable, it was unsettling. Unnerving.

  The trainees’ first foray into the transformed Little London jolted them.

  “Welcome to Crash Week,” Laynie whispered to herself as an unexpected car sped by, forcing her to jump out of the street and onto the curb, “where we trainees have ample provocation to crash and burn.”

  The regular instructors made no reference to Little London coming alive, as if not a thing had changed. As for the trainees, they knew better than to make mention of or ask about Little London’s transformation; they were expected to adapt to changing circumstances and complete the mission. Period. The agents-in-training were required to succeed—no matter what. Those were their orders.

  While the trainees struggled to adjust to these unpredictable and way-too-authentic mission parameters, Little London’s citizenry did not. The population of the town acted their parts; they even interacted with the trainees—hawking their wares, engaging them in conversation, asking them questions, directions, or favors.

  “Hotdog? Chili dog?”

  “Excuse me, young man. Could you tell me how to get to 521 Swisher Street?”

  The citizenry of Little London had no regard for the scenarios. They asked for money or cigarettes or directions to the library at the most inopportune moments. They lurked around corners and lingered inside doorways, waiting to startle, to bump, to “accidentally” stumble into a trainee—and lift from a pocket the intel the trainee had just recovered.