OLDOGS (eBook)

Chapter Seven:
Voluntary Chicken

Camp Peary, Virginia

The bus was large, but most seats would be taken. Barney Stack got on as soon as it showed up, since he had been on one of the earlier flights in. He worked his six foot two frame well to the back, where he could watch the other passengers as they got on. An anonymous baseball cap covered his thick, bright-white hair and shaded his grey eyes. Stack was a heavy man, though far from obese. He carried his two hundred thirty pounds lightly. His smooth, lantern-jawed face belied his seventy-three years. He was dressed casually, in a white knit shirt and khaki slacks with cordovan loafers. A well-worn navy blue blazer hung from his arm, in case dinner proved more formal. He hadn’t really known what to expect, but noticed the other passengers had donned similar outfits. Only a few wore coat and tie. Like Stack, about half wore masks covering their lower faces.

By the time the bus left the small Newport News airport it was late afternoon, and more than fifty people had filed onboard. Most were men—the majority younger than Stack, but not by much he figured. Eight were women, in their fifties and sixties or so he judged. All seemed to be in fairly good shape for their age—no canes, walkers, or breathing machines among them. Everyone packed light, as they’d been instructed: an overnight bag, no more. The terse phone call each had received assured them that any clothing needed for their stay would be provided. They had been told to let any family or friends know they’d be gone for at least two months, on an extended Pacific cruise. Communication would be spotty at best in the primitive areas they’d be visiting. Only a few of those on the bus had to make such excuses. One criteria for selection (one of many) was the lack of immediate family.

Camp Peary proved to be only a short ride up the peninsula, less than an hour through pleasant, lightly wooded country. Stack saw road signs for Williamsburg and vaguely recalled where he was. He’d taken the family there years ago, when the boys were small. How long ago had that been? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It didn’t matter. The bus left a divided highway, then turned sharply off the access road into a wooded area. A big sign warned they were entering a government installation where visitors were not allowed. After turning another corner, the bus glided to a stop by a guard post. The door opened and an angular young man lifted himself on board, grimacing as he leaned on a cane. He counted the heads in the seats, referring to a clipboard he carried.

“Good afternoon everybody,” the man said with a smile. “Welcome to Camp Peary. My name is Jason Flask. I’m an officer with the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA. I’ll be your host during your stay here.”

A susurrus arose among the passengers. Several began to stand. Flask raised his hand to quiet them. “I know you have questions,” he said. “Once we’ve reached your quarters I’ll answer them all. It’s only a short drive, so please bear with me.” He nodded to the driver, who put the bus in gear and proceeded down what was now a two-laned road through dense forest.

The bus stopped fifteen minutes later, in front of a large glass-fronted building. Flask stood. “End of the line, folks,” he announced. “Please leave the bus and follow me into the building. Bring your bags with you. You’ll be assigned to your living quarters here.” He left the bus, climbed the steps, and walked into the building. The passengers trooped after him.

They entered a bright, high-ceilinged room with tables scattered through it, backed by another large window, with what looked to be a cafeteria-style serving line to the rear. Flask stood by the door and ushered them in. “Find a place and sit down quickly, please,” he told them. “After we’re done you’ll be served some food. Then you’ll be directed to your quarters.”

Stack found himself at a table with three other men. He wondered if he should introduce himself, but decided to remain silent. The room was full, and Flask signaled for silence.

“You’re all here because you volunteered,” the agent said as he moved among the tables. “Let me emphasize that. Starting right now, you can leave and go home—any time you like.” He looked around the room. “Anybody got cold feet already?” he asked.

No one stood or raised their hand. The room became quiet. “Good,” Flask said, smiling. “The CIA needs you, every one of you. We’ve got more hotspots around the world than eyes to watch them, and not enough resources right now to find more. Every one of you has training that can make you a valuable observer, either from the military, as an analyst, or as an intel professional. We’re passing out sheets to each of you. Once you sign the sheet you’re given, you will formally become a CIA trainee.”

Stack looked at the sheet that was passed to him and the others at his table. It wasn’t complicated or hard to read. It obligated him to follow the instructions and legal orders of those appointed to train and supervise him, and informed him that he’d be paid at the level of an Army Sergeant (E5) until further notice. Upon his decision to withdraw from the program, or in case of injury that would prevent the continuation of training, he would be removed, given any medical treatment necessary, and returned to his home of record. Finally, Stack was notified that his participation in this program was classified, and that any public communication of the program’s description or participants without prior clearance from his supervisors would be considered a breach of national security—for which he would be subject to fines as well as imprisonment. Stack sighed, shrugged, and signed the form. Three men in other parts of the room took exception to some part of its verbiage. They were quickly ushered out the door. He never saw them again.

Flask called for everyone’s attention once again. “Now that we’ve taken care of that, I can tell you what’s in store for you,” he said, signaling another man to join him. “This is Hal Blender. He’s in charge of training at Camp Peary. You’re all going to get to know him and his crew much better. Hal?”

“Good to see all of you,” Blender said as he walked next to Flask and looked around the room. “Welcome to what we call ‘The Farm.’ I wish it weren’t true, but I will be surprised if I see half of you sitting here in eight weeks.” He paused, to let his words sink in. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Look around your table, right now. Within a month or so, two of the people you see won’t be there.”

“That’s not because we’re going to try to turn you into Olympic athletes or marathoners,” Flask said, “even though there will be running every day. It’s because you’re all old for this kind of training, very old. Some would say too old. Even so, we can’t put you in the field for any purpose if you don’t meet certain minimum standards.”

“Your training is going to be tough,” Blender agreed. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll run a mile every morning, and another mile before evening chow. By the end of next week, you’ll be running twice that. You’re going to train with communication equipment, weapons, some computer technology, and—most important—some fieldcraft as well. We’re going to try to give you all the tools you’ll need to go to your assignments and come back. If the training weren’t hard, the world out there could kill you—remember that! Now, we want you all to sit down and have a nice dinner. After that, anybody who wants out can see me or Mr. Flask here. We’ll be glad to get you home. One last suggestion, take it for what it’s worth. Before you fill up too heavy on chow, remember that running starts in the morning.” Blender smiled a wolf’s grin. “See y’all tomorrow.”

“Listen to the man,” Flask agreed. “Once you’re done with dinner, we’ll assign you to your quarters. The men will be housed in four ten-person barracks. The ladies will share quarters of their own. Mr. Blender’s assistants will guide you to your training and take you on your runs. They’re all young, so treat them gently. One of them will live with you in each of your barracks. You’ll all be just a short walk from this dining hall. We’ll meet here every morning. There’s a bulletin board behind me. Your daily schedule will be posted on it when you come to breakfast. It will tell you how to dress and where to go. We’ve set aside clothing for you by your bunks. You can put it away in your lockers before you go to bed. For those of you who used to be in the service, we won’t be conducting any ‘chicken-shit’ inspections—but you will be expected to keep your beds made and your areas neat and clean. There are brooms, dust rags, mops, and other cleaning equipment in your barracks. How you arrange caring for your quarters is up to you—but we will expect them to be in order.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s 1730 hours now. That’s half past five in the evening, for those of you who don’t know military time yet. The rest of the evening is yours. Get to know each other. Enjoy yourselves. Get organized. The dining hall is open for coffee and soft drinks until lights out, which comes at 2100 hours. Wake-up call is at 0500. See you in the morning.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Before I go, does anyone have questions?”

A large, florid man jumped to his feet. “Yeah, I got one,” he said in a loud, braying voice. “Just how can you expect to push us around like a bunch of fucking recruits? We all had real experience before you...