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September 2, 2006

Anderson’s Training

[full story is 2,759 words]

Anderson asked the logical question: “Now what?”

“We’ll handle this just like a standard set of permanent orders.” He pulled the desk drawer open and handed Anderson a piece of paper, it was another set of BuPers message orders. When the standard wording was translated, it read that Lt Anderson was to be detached from his current duty station, take 30 days’ leave (known as “delrep” for “delay in reporting”) and report to the military air terminal at McGuire Air Force Base in civilian clothes; he was not to use his own vehicle to get there. His personal effects (known as “household goods” or “HHG”) were to be put in storage at government expense for the duration of the orders. “You won’t be stationed at McGuire,” Col. Hampton explained, “That’s where we’ll be picking you up. Bring three days’ worth of clothes. The Commodore of DesRon 2 has already written a detaching fitness report, you’ll sign it when you get to where you’re going after your leave.

“So go home and get your personal life in order. Make sure you’re parents know that you’re going to be out of touch for a long time, it may be a few years before they get to see you.” He handed Anderson a card. “They can call this number in case of an emergency, but make damn sure they understand that doesn’t include anything less than imminent death. And make sure they know that you may not be able to come back for any kind of emergency. You can use the address on the card as a forwarding address for your mail.”

“Where am I going?”

“You’ll know when you get there, Sherry. The same lady who drove you here will take you back to your transportation. See you in a month.”

Anderson left the room. Hampton watched him go and sighed. He was getting to have too much time in this assignment, he told himself. At first, he thought of the program as a way to gain some use from worthless deviates. But now, he knew that the men he recruited were fine people, they simply had a different orientation. Hampton now knew that tossing them out was a waste; now at least he could do something with some of them.

The woman drove Anderson to a third airport, this one was considerably larger than the other two and had a control tower. This time, he was shown to a Sabrejet bizjet that was painted in USAF colors. The jet took him to Langely AFB. The same man who had taken his car keys at the Norfolk airport handed them back to him. Anderson found his car and went home.

It took four days to arrange for the movers to come and take everything he couldn’t fit into his car. Then he went home. The leave was less than satisfying; neither one of his parents were supportive of his desire to stay on active duty. Anderson visited his brother and left him the car and his personal gear (including a fair number of firearms). He did a little bit of traveling, and presented himself to the military air terminal at McGuire with two weeks’ worth of leave remaining.

The Air Force sergeant who was at the receiving desk read Anderson’s orders and then checked a file. She told Anderson to go check into the transient BOQ and stay there; he’d be notified when his flight was called. Anderson had taken MAC flights before, one normally has to wait at the terminal for one’s name to move up the waiting list. This treatment mystified him, but he just did as she told him to.

The phone in his room rang a day and a half later. Anderson switched on a light, picked it up and muttered his name into the handset.

“Lieutenant Anderson? Master Sergeant Wilkes at the MAC desk. Your flight leaves at 0430. A car will be at the Q at 0410 to pick you up.”

“What time is it now?”

“A little after three, sir.”

“All right, thanks.” Anderson set the handset back into the cradle. Fucking zoomies, scheduling a flight on the rev watch. Oh, well. He rolled out of bed, shaved and showered. The desk was open 24 hours, he was checked out by four and waiting for his ride.

An airman came over to him. “Are you LT Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“May I see your ID, sir?” Anderson handed it to him. The airman looked it over and handed it back. “Come with me, sir.” He led the way to a “blue steelie,” Air Force lingo for an issue sedan. Anderson got into the right-side seat. He was a little surprised when the airman passed by the MAC terminal and drove to a hangar after passing a security check from the APs, who were wearing woodland camo uniforms and carrying M-16A2s. The airman drove out onto the ramp and up to an Air Force C-12, their version of the Beech King Air. This one had seen better days, it was set up as a cargo carrier (or “trash hauler”), complete with a load of cargo. The pilot, a woman in a USAF pilot’s jumpsuit with captain’s bars waved him on board. Anderson stowed his bag between two crates and settled into the right seat.

“You might want to put on that headset,” she said. “This old beast can get pretty loud.”

Anderson did so, adjusting the headset to fit and the boom mike to almost touch his mouth. “Can you hear me?”

“Sure can.” The pilot ran through the starting procedure with the economy of motion born of great amounts of practice. She soon had both PT-6 engines turning. She received her IFR and taxi clearances, then taxied out to the runway. They had to wait for the wake of a departing C-5 to dissipate, then they were on their way.

The flight went to Wisconsin, Anderson guessed. He could recognize Lake Michigan and he did his best to follow along with the air traffic controllers working the airplane. Dawn was breaking when the pilot started her descent. There was nothing but woods, then he saw a small town next to an airport. When they landed, he looked with surprise at the collection of airplanes on the ramp. He hadn’t seen so many tailwheel airplanes in one place; everything from a few J-3s up to three Twin Beeches, a C-46 and two DC-3s. There were a few tricycle-geared airplanes, but damn few — a couple of Cessna 172s, a Mooney, three Bonanzas and a King Air. Everything was painted in civilian schemes, complete with N- numbers.

It looked like a civil airport in Alaska, except the man coming out to greet them had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. He told Anderson to go to the line shack, then he started talking to the pilot about refueling the C-12 and unloading the cargo. Anderson trudged over to the shack. A woman with a no-nonsense demeanor asked for his ID. She compared the card to a list, then handed it over. She stuck out her hand and said: “Welcome to school, Sherry. I’m Doris Stackpole. I’ll be your training coordinator while you’re here at the school. Let’s get you situated. Come with me.” Doris led the way out of the other end of the building.

“What is this place?”

“It’s a training facility for all sorts of students. Some of the students are training for covert ops, some are here above board. First rule is: Don’t talk to anybody about who or what you are or what you are here for. Everything around here runs on a `need-to-know’ basis. Understand?”

“Sure do.” They had walked across the road to a small area of townhouses. Doris led the way to one of them and opened the door with a key, which she gave Anderson.

“This is yours for the duration of your stay.” She showed Anderson around. The townhouse was on two levels; upstairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom, downstairs was a kitchen, dining area, living room, a study (complete with a computer with a 19″ screen) and a half-bath. “You’re getting this place because it’s so close to the field, most of your training is going to be in flying.”

“Which of those planes will I be flying?”

Doris shrugged. “If you complete the course, all of them.”

“Even the DC-3?”

“Yes, but you’ll have a few other things to worry about.” Anderson didn’t like her grin, but he’d do a lot to get a DC-3 type rating. Doris went to the door. “You have an appointment. Bring your stuff, they’ll take it and issue you what you need.”

Anderson followed along. They walked to a building almost a half-mile away. There they went into a room where Doris told him to strip to his underwear. Anderson did, two women came in and started measuring his body; one measured, the other recorded. They traced the outlines of his hands and feet. The real surprise was when they measured penis size, both flaccid and erect. Anderson was embarrassed at that, but the two were just doing their job and did it. Afterwards, Doris gave him a pink terry-cloth robe and told him to take his underwear off. She collected all of his things and marched out of the room.

For the first time, Anderson was scared. He had no idea where he was, had no money, no ID, and all he had was a pink bathrobe.

Doris returned about forty minutes later with some clothes. She handed him a pair of white cotton panties, “I think you know how to wear them,” she said. Next was a yellow and black t-shirt, a pair of white socks, women’s blue jeans and a pair of Reeboks that were white with pink trim. “Other clothes will be sent to your apartment. Now, let’s go to medical.”

“Another physical?”

“Not like one you’ve ever had before.” This time, they drove. Doris had the keys to a jeep-like vehicle that ran on batteries. She drove to a hospital that was a couple of miles away by road, although it was right across the airfield.

Doris was somewhat right. It was a thorough physical; but the difference came when they had Anderson lie down for a whole-body CAT-scan. He almost freaked out; he had to lie on a very small white tunnel while the machine hammered and whirred. He could have sworn the thing was going to grind him up. After the scan, Doris took him to the cafeteria for lunch. The food was about the same as any other hospital, barely edible.

The PA system paged Doris when they had almost finished. She left the table to answer it, then returned. “C’mon, Dr. Trotti will see you now. We’ll find out what he can do for you.”

They finished quickly and left the cafeteria. Anderson wanted to ask what was going to happen, but there were other people around.

Dr. Trotti was in his late 40s. He shook hands and led them into a darkened room. There was a screen on the wall and an overhead projector that could project computer images. “Sherry, my field is reconstructive surgery, though maybe should say constructive surgery. Take a look at this.” He turned the screen on.

Anderson looked closely. The image was of a woman wearing a tank top and a skirt that came to just above the knee. Her breasts swelled the top and showed a little cleavage. The skirt clung to nice hips. Her face was not that of a raving beauty, but she had nice cheekbones and didn’t look bad at all. “Who is she?”

“That’s you.”

“What?”

“Yes.” Dr. Trotti shifted to another screen. “This is your skeletal structure..” He went into a lengthy discussion of how they could modify Anderson’s skeletal structure to make him look like a woman, followed by a discourse of what plastic surgery techniques they could use. Anderson felt the MEGO (for “Mine Eyes Glaze Over”) factor kicking in. Adding pieces here, taking pieces out there. It wasn’t his body, it was a biological erector set.

After Trotti said his piece, Anderson asked the key question: “How much of this is reversible?”

Dr. Trotti considered that. “Most of it is. We can change everything back that required surgical techniques. You are going to need a fair amount of electrolysis for us to be able to accomplish what we need to do. That isn’t reversible.” The doctor just smiled. Almost everyone he had worked on asked that question. He had done the reversal surgery on about five percent of those he had worked on. But he didn’t say anything.

“All right. When does the electrolysis start?”

“Right now,” Doris said. They said goodbye to the doctor and went to another part of the hospital. There a nurse injected a painkiller similar to novocain inside his mouth. She had him lie on a table, then after about 30 minutes, she started to work. Another nurse came in and started on the other side of his face. Anderson could hear the humming of the machines and the occasional `zap’ as a needle vaporized an oil pocket. The nurses would wipe his face with an antiseptic every so often. He was very tired and since he was feeling no pain, he fell asleep.

They woke him up four hours later. His lower face was wrapped in a cold mask, it had tubing through which a chilled solution was circulating. When they took the mask off, one of the nurses closely inspected his face. “Not bad.” She gave him a tube of antiseptic ointment and a small bottle of pain pills. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

Anderson wanted to say something, but his face was numb. Doris took him back to his townhouse. She showed him the clothes hanging in the closet, mostly variations of what he was wearing: jeans, different tops, several pairs of running and aerobics shoes. There was an assortment of unisex-athletic gear.

“You get food by placing an order through your computer, though you’ll have to cook it yourself unless you order the microwavable dinners; I recommend them as you won’t have a lot of time. The instructions are next to it, it’s fairly self-evident. You can order any books, tapes, CDs or videos the same way. The computer also ties into the training database for unclassified material; you’ll be taught how that works starting tomorrow. Anything you order will be placed on the living-room table, except for perishables which will be put into your refrigerator or freezer. There are some tapes by the VCR to start you off. I’ll be by tomorrow at 0730. Any questions?”

Anderson made writing motions. Doris found a tablet and a pen. “Toothbrush? Razor,” he wrote.

“Toothbrush is upstairs in the bathroom. No razor, it’s easier to work with longish hair. See you in the morning.”

Anderson half-heartedly watched a video, then found a chicken dinner in the freezer after his face de-numbed enough to eat it. He took a shower and rubbed the ointment over the areas where the eletrolygists had worked. He soon fell asleep wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Tomorrow brought flight training. Doris took him to a classroom next to the airport. She turned him over to an instructor named Craig, who proceeded to start teaching him how to fly by instruments. Classroom work was in the morning, simulator work in the afternoon.

This routine went on for a solid month: electrolysis one day, flight training the other. As Doris had promised, all the course work was on a computer database, so Anderson was able to work on the rating in the evening. The simulator gave way to an IFR- capable Cessna 180; Anderson became able to fly an approach to minimums and follow up with a good landing. “It’s a lot harder in a taildragger,” Craig explained. The electrolysis was a lengthy affair, Anderson sometimes had several technicians working on his body: they removed all the hair from his face, the back of his neck, his arms, legs, chest, and back. The process was always accompanied by localized painkillers. They thinned his eyebrows to ones that could be either masculine or feminine.

By the end of the month, Anderson had an instrument airplane rating and the body hair of a woman.

–end–

by an anonymous author

1 Comment »

  1. This is the excellent start for a ts spy novel.

    Comment by Joseph Ratliff — January 20, 2007 @ 11:43 am

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