During night exercises, Little London residents tried to mug or assault trainees. They posed as good cops and crooked cops, as drug dealers, pimps, and whores, even as lost children.
And any citizen, the trainees began to realize, could be the enemy in disguise.
WHEN THEY WERE ALLOWED to eat late that night, Black admitted, “I about messed my pants when some guy came up behind me and asked for a light. Felt like I’d dropped into that movie, Night of the Living Dead, that nearby graves had opened up and the undead had found their way into Little London.”
Nora grimaced. “Ugh. Don’t tell me you watch that bilge.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
ON DAY TWO, TRAINEES were singled out and assigned missions with experienced operatives, complete strangers to them, but whose skills and loyalties the trainees were told to place their faith in. At first, the experienced operatives designed and directed the operations, giving the trainees a view into their expert methods.
Later, the trainees were given their own teams and were issued mission objectives. The scenarios called for the trainees to design the operation, assign their teammates to operational positions, and bear responsibility for the results: either a job well done or a failed exercise.
Now, as the trainees moved within the city, they ran actual SDRs (surveillance detection routes) to identify and lose real “tails.” They avoided detection and fought through very real ambushes. If fired upon, they fired back.
The instructors had added “capture” to the exercises, too, forcing the trainees to rely upon their SERE training. When a student was captured, he found out, to his dismay, that Little London had its own interrogation facilities.
Their captors put a hood over the trainee’s head and dragged him down into a basement dank with moisture—or they drugged the student when she was apprehended, and the student awoke, hours later, on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor of a pitch-black cell, somewhere underground. Either way, the unlucky students who failed to evade apprehension endured hours of “persuasive” interrogations that tested their resolve.
Of course, “luck” had nothing to do with it. No matter what a student did, the deck was stacked against him or her. The trainee was betting against the house, and the house always won: No trainee was allowed to escape the mandatory testing of their resolve.
Adding on to the SERE course, the students’ captors followed the current scenario, questioning their prisoners regarding their identity, their agency, and their mission objectives. When students refused to cooperate, their captors stripped them and poured ice water on them. The trainees sat or laid on the wet cement for hours—or they were strung up by their hands, hanging from the ceiling until their arms and shoulders burned then went numb.
Most important, they had to accomplish their missions: If they “died” during a scenario, they failed, and too many scenario failures would get them scrubbed.
The trainees worked around the clock, with little time to sleep or eat, running op after op, role after role, until Laynie felt as though she were caught up in a dream. When her cognitive functions grew sluggish and faltered, the subconscious, proficient part of her mind—that combination of continual, repeated training and its complementary muscle memory, bordering on near instinct—locked in and took over.
It was then that Laynie began to trust herself; she learned to listen to her gut, plan on the fly, issue clear and succinct orders, hit the enemy hard and fast, demand more from herself than she had left in the tank, survive the loss of teammates, and push her remaining crew to ultimate success. She didn’t notice when her fellow trainees began to rely upon her leadership, to naturally turn to her for direction.
For Laynie, the rush of each fruitful exercise was addictive. Her personal need to succeed drove her forward.
So did her fear.
During “Crash Week,” Laynie’s predictions came true: Three more trainees washed out, folding under the ongoing pressure so completely that the instructors’ consensus was to boot them from the program.
Nora was one of them.
Laynie grieved over Nora’s departure, but the loss of her friend only fueled Laynie’s absolute resolve to pass. Nothing terrified her more than the specter of failure, of Marstead scrubbing her from the selection process.
She went from telling herself, I cannot quit; I must not fail, to I will not quit; I will not fail. When she reached the point where she could hold out no longer, when her exhaustion teased her to surrender, it was that mantra that she repeated. I will not give up. I won’t.
THEN THE WEEK ENDED, and it was Sunday, the trainees’ half-day off. They’d just finished dinner. Ordinarily, they had the cool of a Sunday evening to play basketball, volleyball, or soccer or to sit around, tell jokes, and have a few laughs. Instead, following dinner, the instructors herded them into the briefing room where, six evenings of the week—but never on Sundays—they gathered for the daily AAR.
Something was up.
Trammel stood at the podium and addressed the trainees, only twelve in number.
“Listen up, people. Tomorrow begins the final week of your training. Those of you who are still here, who have gutted out the challenges we’ve presented to you and who have won through to victory? You should be proud. You have learned and grown tremendously. Your lives will never be the same because of all you have gained and proven to yourselves these past thirteen weeks.
“Training will continue through the coming week, but we will cease scenario-based exercises and focus only on perishable skills: physical fitness and firearms proficiency. In the morning, you’ll see a marked adjustment to the schedule—blocks of time carved out for each of you to meet, one on one, with a panel of Marstead staff members.
“During these periods, we will evaluate your overall performance and where, in our estimation, you might fit best in our organization. These sessions will be a glimpse into your possible probationary assignment, your country of operation.”
Laynie could scarcely breathe. Trammel had practically said the remaining trainees would be hired!
His words were not lost on Laynie’s fellow trainees either. They moved with restless energy, the same excitement Laynie felt.
“Your panel will also discuss with you the areas in which your in-country training might focus—certainly additional tradecraft, but also language, the customs and culture of your country of operation, any area of perceived tactical, operational, or personal weakness.”
He paused to consider the wording of his next statements. “During this week, Marstead will extend offers of employment to you. However, not all of you will receive offers to come aboard as probationary field operatives. A few of you will be offered support personnel positions.”
Laynie was thunderstruck. Her heart hammered in her chest.
What if Marstead doesn’t consider me worthy of a field position? What if they offer me a job as support instead?
She held her head still in rigid denial. I don’t want a support position. But what if they decline to make me a field offer?
What will I do then?
Her fellow trainees were similarly disturbed by Trammel’s statement.
“Settle down, trainees!” Trammel’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the agitation and fidgety movement in the room.
“As I was saying . . . you will appear before a panel, and each panel will consist of three staff members who will question you extensively. Your panel will discuss with you any areas of perceived tactical or operational weakness. These weaknesses may be subjective, the observations of a single panel member or the concerns of any member of our staff conveyed to your panel. The panel participants may discuss their personal assessment of your character or a concern they have regarding your willingness to fully embrace the life of an operative.
“I wish to be clear with you: This process is not to be rushed or conducted in a pro forma manner. You will meet with your panel twice this week, and you will have ample opportunity to consider
and address their concerns. However, at the end of the week, if even one panel participant or staff member has reservations regarding your fitness or suitability for field work? Their vote will be considered when determining whether the probationary position offered to you is in the field or in support . . . or if we will release you.”
He gathered his notes. “Word of caution: You are not to discuss your panel experiences or outcomes with other trainees. That is all. See you in the morning.”
Whether the position offered to you is in the field or support . . . or if we will release you?
The trainees stirred and started to get up, but Laynie put her elbows on the table and sank her face onto her hands.
Black tapped her elbow and put his mouth near her ear. “Hey. Hey, Mags. Listen to me. You don’t have a thing to worry about. Honest. It’s just one more test—don’t let them rattle you, okay?”
Laynie lifted her face, took a deep breath, and nodded. “You’re right. They’re still trying to get in our heads.”
“Yeah, well, they got in mine,” Steph whispered.
Taylor moved around to the front of the table and huddled with them. “They got in all our heads, Steph, but only for a moment, right?”
“Right.” Steph put on a bright, strained smile.
The fact was, they were all strained, all weary. They’d endured and pushed through so much.
“I think the best way to handle this newest curve ball is to get a good night’s sleep,” Black declared, “so I’m going to shower, then hit the rack.”
“’Night, Black,” Laynie murmured with the others.
Chapter 11
IMMEDIATELY AFTER PT Monday morning, every trainee made a beeline to the dining hall to check the schedule. Of the trainees still in the program, three had two-hour panel sessions marked for the morning, three in the afternoon; the same was true for Tuesday. Laynie’s first panel session was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon.
The trainees—except those scheduled for panel evaluations—spent the morning running obstacle courses, lifting weights, stretching, and in hand-to-hand matches. Laynie fought to keep her mind on what she was doing—and off the panel evals—but she wasn’t alone in her efforts.
At noon, she and her friends entered the dining hall and watched for the three trainees who had met with their panels that morning. It was Laynie and her friends’ unspoken hope to garner insights from observing the returning trainees. Only two of them showed up.
The class was down to eleven.
“It’s Brett,” Laynie hissed through her teeth. “He’s the missing one.”
Steph, Taylor, Black, and Laynie looked at each other.
“Released, you think?” Steph asked.
“That or he refused a support position,” Taylor thought aloud. “Either way, he’s gone.”
The two trainees who did join them at lunch after their panel evals, smiled tight smiles and said nothing.
“’Cause we’re not supposed to ‘discuss our panel experience or outcomes with other trainees.’” Black repeated what Trammel had told them, what the others were already thinking.
Taylor, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung over the back in his casual manner, said, “I’m wondering about something.”
Black glanced up. “Yeah?”
“Well, I notice that none of us are on the schedule until tomorrow and, face it, we are no slouches, as you Americans put it. I fully expect the four of us to pass and receive assignments. And so, I’m wondering if they are calling in the second-tier trainees first.”
“Second-tier trainees? I like your thinking—if it’s right.” This from Steph.
“I agree with Tay. We’ve scored high on all our tasks and skills. I can’t believe they wouldn’t pass us,” Black said. “But it’s a crying shame we can’t share our panel evals with each other. ‘Anonymity’ and all—said with sarcasm, of course.”
Laynie chewed on the end of her thumb, mulling over their situation. “I, for one, won’t disobey Trammel’s ‘word of caution.’ But . . . but while he did say we were not to discuss our experiences or outcomes, what if . . . what if the four of us were to devise a signal, something only we would recognize, to let the others know we’ve passed our evals? No discussion; nothing more than a sign that we’ve passed and been offered a probationary field assignment.”
She sighed. “You know, after this week, we won’t see each other again, ever. I would really like to know if my mates—” she smiled at their three dear faces, “my friends—made it through.”
“Gutsy move, Mags,” Black said. Then he sniffed. “So, what’s the signal?”
Taylor and Stephanie looked to Laynie and nodded their agreement.
“A simple word, I think. I mean, we’re all beat, right? Due a vacation? And we’ll be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, more than a month. How about something along the lines of, ‘I really need a vacation. I’d spend a month in Hawaii if I could swing it,’ the key word being ‘Hawaii.’”
With a casual glance around to ensure that no one was paying attention, Taylor murmured, “Any phrase with Hawaii in it?”
“Yup.”
“Got it.”
TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Laynie reported to her panel evaluation. It was to take place on the other side of the campus in the lodge, the very classroom where she’d signed her NDAs. A staff member drove her across to the lodge and accompanied her inside.
Laynie knocked on the door and a female voice called, “Enter.”
Laynie walked in and closed the door behind her. A chair sat before a table. At the table were seated Ms. Stridsvagn, Gunny, and Mr. Henry, the rangemaster.
“Take a seat, Magda,” Ms. Stridsvagn told her.
Laynie did so, slipping into her interrogation mode at the same time: Nothing she didn’t want them to see would cross her face. Her expression serene, she faced the panel, her hands folded in her lap.
Gunny began first. “Magda, I first noticed your aptitude for problem-solving on the run during your exam weekend. Your innovative approach at getting you and your mates,” he consulted the paper before him, “your colleagues, Chuck and Stephanie, up the last climbing wall as a team, demonstrated both thinking on the fly and leadership.
“As you’ve progressed during this training program, you have not disappointed. You have earned top marks in every tradecraft scenario, exhibiting growth in leadership and clear thinking under pressure.
“You are physically fit, and your SERE scores are also above average, particularly your cool head and disingenuous responses during interrogations.”
Gunny went on, listing Laynie’s accomplishments and praising her tradecraft. “It is my opinion that you will make a fine agent, perhaps even an exemplary one.”
Mr. Henry spoke next. “Your firearms marks are satisfactory in every respect, and you have demonstrated familiarity and competence with the weapons we’ve provided for training.
“I also have here the reports from your hand-to-hand instructors. You’ve shown the same competence in close-quarters combat as you have in firearms, problem-solving, and leadership.
Ms. Stridsvagn went next. “As Gunny reported, you are in fine shape. Your physical exam tells us that you are in excellent health with no known defects, diseases, or conditions at this time. Your psychiatric exam also revealed nothing of concern: You appear to be a well-adapted individual with a strong sense of self-determination and strength of will.
“It is my opinion, too, that you would make a fine field operative.”
Laynie allowed herself to breathe. To let down. “Thank you. And my assignment?”
Letting down was a mistake. Stridsvagn’s next words would have sent her into a tailspin—three months ago.
But not now. Not anymore. Never again.
“Magda, two of our staff members have expressed a concern that we would like to discuss with you.”
As Ms. Stridsvagn spoke, Laynie kept her facial movements relaxed. She breathed normally, did not lick her lips o
r permit her hands to twitch or move. Neither did she clench them. They remained gracefully posed, one across the other, atop her thighs.
Laynie nodded. “Of course.”
“Marstead is a secular organization. We don’t discourage the religious beliefs or leanings of our agents. That is, unless we sense that the morality of those leanings would pose an insurmountable objection to certain . . . tasks that could be assigned to an agent.”
Laynie knew. Right then, she understood exactly where Stridsvagn was going. Still, she did not react in any way.
“You are twenty-two, is that right?”
The panel knew her age; it was a ploy leading up to the “objection.”
“Yes; twenty-two last April.”
“It is unusual for a young woman of your age to be a virgin.”
Ms. Stridsvagn observed Laynie closely, watched for her reaction. Laynie, on the other hand, watched Gunny and Mr. Henry for theirs. Their expressions did not change, but both of them shifted their gaze away from her.
Not as good at this as I am, are you?
“Is it?” Laynie asked the woman.
Ms. Stridsvagn didn’t answer Laynie’s question. Instead, she cut to the heart of the objection.
“We are not animals here at Marstead, Magda, but we are also not ostriches with our heads buried in the sand. We live in the real world where our enemies are people of unimaginable evil, and we must defeat them with every tool, every advantage at our disposal.
“Your file tells us that you did well in the SERE course and our simulated interrogations; however, we did not threaten you with the sorts of demeaning acts of torture and humiliation an enemy could use on a woman—would use on a woman—acts that would be particularly damaging to a woman who is, shall we say, inexperienced.”
Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel Page 12
