Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel Read online

  It was a code word. Molly Pitcher had been an alias assigned to protect another woman’s identity, a woman said to have fought in battle alongside men during the American Revolution. The alias was to protect the brave woman’s true identify from the British—who would have hanged her. “Molly Pitcher” also became a generalized sobriquet for women who carried water to men on the battlefield during the war.

  Laynie wondered what code name the male trainees had been given to use.

  The man rifled through his sheets on the clipboard, found her photograph, studied it, and compared the likeness to her face.

  He spoke quietly, so that only she heard his orders. “Board the bus and take the available seat closest to the back. We’ll be parked for another hour, until all the flights arrive. No talking, please; the rules of anonymity are in effect.”

  He jerked his chin to another uniformed man loading luggage to take charge of her suitcase and overnight bag.

  Laynie stepped onto the bus, excited to return to Marstead’s campus, excited for what she’d learn in the weeks to come. The bus’s interior was dim, and Laynie couldn’t see far into the back. Light principally came from the narrow, above-the-seat lamps.

  She took an aisle seat next to a woman appearing to be a few years older than her. They nodded, took each other’s measure, but obeyed the rule of silence.

  Like her seatmate, Laynie drew a book she’d been reading on the plane from her handbag and used it to distract herself.

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, they were on their way. An hour after that, the bus ground to a stop, its diesel engine idling. Laynie could see little through the darkened windows—just enough to know they were stopping at the gate to the Marstead compound. Minutes later, they rolled through, taking the left fork up the drive.

  She strained to see the campus unfold before her and was not surprised when the bus pulled into the parking lot in front of the “hotel” Laynie had noted during her exam weekend.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived. Please gather your things, disembark, and collect your luggage.”

  When Laynie stepped from the bus, it was early evening in Maryland. She had lost three hours flying across the country, another hour waiting for the bus to load, another in transit. She was standing to the side, waiting for her luggage, when a brawny arm wrapped itself around her waist and squeezed her.

  She jerked and turned, encountering the smirking face and square chin of Black. She grinned and hugged him back—only to have a third person horn in on them: Red.

  The three of them hugged and thumped each other’s backs, and Laynie laughed softly and whispered a, “Yay us!”

  “Yes, hooray!” Red repeated with the same quiet jubilation.

  Theirs was not the only reunion. Around them a few others found their exam companions and shook hands or hugged as they did.

  Then Trammel appeared and blew his whistle. “I know you’re finding old pals among our ranks, and that is fine—provided you maintain identity anonymity. You have each been issued a training alias that you’ll find in your room, a first name only. Until then, feel free to use your previous color names—keeping in mind the likelihood that more than one trainee will answer to those colors.”

  Twenty-nine trainees laughed at Trammel’s little joke, but Laynie just shook her head.

  Trammel joking? Pretty sure I see pigs flying overhead—and the hot place may have just dropped below freezing.

  “Green, I had no doubt I’d find you here,” Black exclaimed. “Just wasn’t sure I’d be here with you.”

  “Nah. I knew the three of us were a lock.”

  Still happy and exchanging banter, they gathered their bags and headed into the “hotel.”

  The trainees’ barracks operated much like a hotel, too. At the front desk, trainees were identified by their photographs and issued single rooms. Laynie and her friends, once in possession of their keys, separated to find their quarters—and their new names for the next three and a half months.

  Laynie unlocked the door and stepped into her room. She put her suitcase on the bed, wandered in and out of the bathroom, and stood at the window, checking out her “view.” She was on the back side of the hotel. Beyond the asphalt that ran around the building, rugged, forested acreage greeted her and, through the trees, the daunting line of the security fence.

  Laynie unpacked her suitcase into her room’s dresser. She’d brought what her letter had advised her to bring—multiple pairs of shorts and sweatpants, long- and short-sleeved t-shirts, a heavy sweatshirt, a rain slicker. Two pairs of quality running shoes. Lots of durable socks. Mosquito and tick repellent. Her own supply of bandages and antiseptic ointment.

  Must think we’ll have blisters galore.

  On the dresser she spotted a plain, unsealed envelope. Within it was a slip of paper bearing the single word, “Magda.”

  Laynie guffawed. “Magda, huh? Well, all right.”

  She thought a moment. “Maggie. I like Maggie better.”

  A LATE DINNER WAS SCHEDULED for 8:00 in the dining hall across the road from the hotel. Laynie entered and counted ten round tables ranged around the dining hall—including a table of six where Trammel, Gunny, and four other staff members sat and where, at the tables alongside them, additional staff members waited.

  Two staff tables in particular caught Laynie’s eye: a group of men and women—seasoned, hardened, and dressed uniformly in camo pants and dark beige polo shirts.

  Laynie skirted the room when she spied Black and Red waving. They were holding a seat for her. She noticed that the trainee tables seated five.

  Black stood and offered his hand. “Hey there. I’m Chuck. You can call me Chuck. You know, short for Chuck.”

  Laynie raised one brow, pursed her lips, and shook her head in disappointment. “And here I thought sure it’d be Dudley—or should I say, Dud. You know, just Dud, as in short for Dudley.”

  The three other trainees at their table groaned; Laynie bit back a guffaw.

  Chuck’s eyes narrowed. “So, that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?”

  Not to let Laynie’s playful razzing go unchallenged, he stroked his prominent chin. “Well, I guess they didn’t want to do right by me.”

  The table sided with Chuck, hooting and pointing at Laynie.

  “Oh my, that’s terrible, but I did start it,” Laynie admitted, grinning. She added, “They gave me Magda. Please call me Maggie. Please. I’m too young to be a Magda.”

  Chuck patted her back. “You got it, Maggie. I’ll let the rest of the table introduce themselves.”

  Red grinned. “I like it. Maggie beats Green any day. I’m Stephanie, by the way.”

  “Hey, Stephanie. Love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  Stephanie’s glossy black hair was shorter, bluntly cut and slung along her sharp cheekbones. “No muss, no fuss for running obstacle courses on hot, muggy days.”

  Laynie pointed to her long hair. “Yeah. I brought a supply of ponytail ties. This mop on my neck in this heat? No thanks.”

  Laynie’s seatmate from the bus smiled. “I’ve been baptized Nora, and this young stud is the newly minted Taylor. Oh, and yes, I also had my bob trimmed up for this.”

  Nora’s accent was unmistakably British.

  Taylor ran a hand over his blonde, freshly buzzed flattop. “I brought my, er, ponytail holders, too.” His English was excellent, and he managed to keep a straight face while his table mates chuckled.

  Swedish? Norwegian? Not sure. Definitely Scandinavian, though, Laynie thought.

  Chuck couldn’t resist advising Taylor. “Well, don’t sweat it, Taylor. If you break ponytail thingies, Maggie will lend you one of hers. Gotta keep that mop off your neck, bro.”

  His quip elicited further laughs from the table.

  Laynie extended her hand to Nora and Taylor. “Pleased to meet you both; I’m really glad to be here.”

  The sentiment of the others was universal, and they shook hands all around.

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sp; When a strident bell sounded at eight o’clock, those at the staff tables rose to get their dinner.

  “Well, shall we get in line to grab some grub before it’s gone?” Chuck asked.

  Stephanie jumped up. “Starved. Let’s go.”

  Everything was buffet style: lots of salads, fruits, and wholegrain breads, with two entrees to choose from. Tonight’s entrees were baked fish and meatloaf. The buffet had light desserts, too. The five table mates loaded their plates—anticipating the heavy physical activity coming their way—and, between bites, talked about the only topic safe for them to discuss, the upcoming training.

  At precisely 8:30, another bell sounded, and Trammel stood up.

  “I want to congratulate you on your advancement to this phase of the selection process. We screen hundreds of candidates prior to the informal interview and hold exam weekends throughout the year. Since we run only two training sessions of thirty recruits a year, I think you can appreciate that your arrival here today is both an honor and an achievement in itself.

  “That said, not all of you will survive the coming fourteen weeks, and I’ll tell you why some of you won’t. Since we have already examined your physical condition, mental health, language aptitude, and intelligence for this type of work, if you leave this process it will be for one reason only: Someone will have decided that you are not a good fit for the life we are asking you to live.

  “Now, that ‘someone’ could be me or could be the consensus of the training staff, but it could also be you. As we progress through the curriculum, you may be the ‘someone’ who determines that this is not the life you’ve dreamed of. I ask you to be honest with yourself and with us. There’s no shame in knowing yourself; rather, there is strength. If you arrive at the conclusion that this is not the path you choose to take, please come to me directly. We will process you out quietly and see you home. Again, no harm, no foul.

  “Why do I begin your training with what some might consider a ‘downer’ of an introduction? Because, by the end of this week, two or more of you will be gone. That’s the norm. The average ‘graduation’ rate from Alpha Field Training is fifty percent or less. That’s right—at least fifteen out of the thirty of you in this room will not complete the training—generally one or two owing to serious injury, two or more by staff consensus, the remainder by choice.

  “Bear my words in mind: The training will be hard, and it will challenge you, but the life ahead won’t get any easier. Whether you have a sudden, grand epiphany or simply acknowledge that you are not suited for this life—by nature, choice, inclination, or moral scruples—be fair to yourself and to us.”

  He looked to his left. “Ms. Vickers will now detail our daily schedule.”

  The woman who rose to her feet beside Trammel looked to be in her fifties with a cap of short, iron gray hair. Her body language was rigid and formal; she referred to a clipboard that, Laynie decided, may or may not have been surgically attached to her body.

  And the first words from her mouth told Laynie a lot. Why, she’s British.

  In the high, stiff tones of a good upper-crust British education, Vickers said, “Good evening trainees, and welcome. We have fourteen weeks with you to begin the process of molding you, teaching you, and, I believe, imparting to you the skills that may someday save your lives. I say begin the process, because if you propose to become an asset to the Company, you will view your stay here as only the foundation of your training.

  “I cannot stress adequately enough how essential a proper mental attitude is. While I am glad to see you relaxed and socializing with your compatriots on our first evening, that must change. From this point forward, you must will yourselves to approach each day with the serious intent it requires.

  “Mr. Trammel made mention of our fifty-percent dropout rate, that one or two trainees each session suffer serious injury. I would add this: In my thirty years of experience, nine out of ten instances of serious injury or death in the field may be traced to personal presumption, the failure of an agent to maintain the appropriate mindset.”

  As Vickers uttered the words, “death in the field,” the room around Laynie stilled.

  “Proper mental focus will be an ongoing topic; please prepare yourselves tonight to adopt the earnest mental mindset that will guard you and your mates tomorrow.”

  She shifted her gaze to the clipboard. “Now, on to what to expect day-to-day. Elements of your schedule will remain static while you are here: PT, 5:45 to 6:30 a.m.; breakfast, 7 to 7:30; lunch, noon to 1 p.m.; dinner, 6 to 6:30 p.m. We will hold a daily after action review in the briefing room following dinner. The AAR will last as long as is necessary. You will have free time following the AAR until ten o’clock, at which time, lights out.”

  She looked up from her clipboard and pointed at the cork board on the dining hall wall. “Daily activities and assignments will be posted on that board before breakfast each morning. Expect concentrated instruction in firearms, firearms tactics, and hand-to-hand combat. Near the end of this course, you will undergo Marstead’s version of SERE fieldcraft—survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. Our SERE experience will not rise to the level of special operations training, but it will equip you with vital basics.

  “You will learn tradecraft—aspects of surveillance, intelligence gathering, and covert communications. I advise you to learn well if you wish to remain alive in the field. Your day’s tradecraft activities will be a mix of classroom principles and their application, case studies and exercises, physical undertakings that will evolve into combined sorties. These maneuvers will begin simple but graduate to complex activities that will test your skills, endurance, mettle, and loyalties.”

  She turned to the table. “Gunny?”

  Laynie had spent half a day under Gunny’s “tender” direction—four hours that had left her sore for a week. She unconsciously sat up straighter.

  “You will gather for PT at 5:45 a.m. sharp each morning at the flagpole outside these doors. Wear shorts, shirts, good shoes, good socks. My assistants lead PT, and they start on time.

  “You can expect warm weather this time of year, although it will be cooling over the next month; you should expect to also see rain. Rain or shine, you will run two miles before breakfast. If you are late to start, you will run four miles. Sadly, breakfast ends at 7:30, so should you miss PT with the other trainees, I’m certain you’ll wish you’d been on time and won’t repeat your mistake.

  “Two doors down, attached to the gymnasium, is the commissary where you may, during the noon hour or the hour prior to dinner, purchase beverages, snacks, and sundry necessities such as toothpaste, socks, and hygiene products. We grant you two dollars in commissary credit each day; use cash for additional purchases.

  “Next door to the commissary is the logistics shack. After we dismiss this evening, you’ll line up at Logistics to draw boots, hat, and rangewear in your size—fatigue trousers and long-sleeved shirts—from the supply officer. If you need replacements for any of these items during training, see the supply officer during commissary hours.”

  Gunny gestured to the next two tables and the men and women wearing camo pants and polo shirts as uniforms. One of the men stood and surveyed the room.

  “This is our rangemaster, Mr. Henry. Later this week, you’ll become acquainted with our firearms instructors, armorers, and self-defense instructors.

  “When, at range staff instruction, you draw your firearms and ammo, you will do so from the logistics shack, same place you’ll draw your rangewear. You will learn the range rules during your first firearms class, but whenever you enter the range, you will wear your designated rangewear; you will also don eye and ear protection. You will never enter the range dressed otherwise. Understood?”

  “Yes, Gunny,” the trainees answered in unison.

  “Right. Dr. Gupta is next.”

  Laynie remembered Dr. Gupta. She’s the gynecologist. She also recalled the uncomfortable conversation they’d had.

  “I am to
speak on how we will maintain health and wellness during your training session. Injuries are common; most are relatively minor. Report any injury needing more than a bandage and antibiotic ointment to your nearest instructor. A paramedic is always on call and will come to evaluate you.

  “The same goes for any rash or fever: If you have a rash or a fever, report it immediately. Infectious diseases, such as influenza and meningitis, thrive where men and women live and train in close proximity. You all recall where the clinic is from your exam weekend, yes?”

  “Yes,” they replied.

  “Good; however, you are not to go to the clinic unaccompanied by a paramedic or an instructor. In fact, leaving the training grounds unaccompanied—the grounds are clearly delineated by wide yellow lines across the asphalt and grass and by the perimeter fence—will result in your dismissal from the program.

  “If you are promoted to probationary agent status, you will, on the last day of the program, receive a series of vaccinations customized to your area of operation. You may suffer some ill effects as a result of the number of injections—redness and tenderness at the injection sites and flu-like symptoms, such as fever and achiness, that may persist for up to three days.

  “The side effects are why we wait to give the injections until the end of the program—so that we do not lose valuable training time while you recover—but also because immunity is not immediate. Since we do not give those injections now, we have chosen to mitigate the possibility of an infectious disease sweeping the campus by housing you in private rooms with your own showers.

  “One more thing? After we dismiss and you draw your rangewear from the logistics shack, I would ask all female candidates to meet me in our daily briefing room, directly next door.”

  She looked around. “I believe Ms. Stridsvagn is next?”

  Ms. Stridsvagn stood. The Stridsvagn name was Swedish. Perhaps in her late thirties, she was solidly built, blue-eyed, and dark-blonde. If not of Scandinavian heritage, she certainly looked the part.

  Like me, Laynie thought.

  However, when Ms. Stridsvagn opened her mouth to speak, Laynie’s assumptions about her were confirmed: Laynie’s father possessed the same lilting English accent—although much less pronounced, since he grew up speaking both English and Swedish.