Dreams Unleashed (16 page)

So all the people who are talking in the phone booths right now are all having personal emergencies
?

I nearly broke out laughing---but restrained myself. After the phone restriction lecture ended, signaling the end of our tour and briefing, an Air Force lieutenant approached me and told me to follow him.

He took me in a room marked
Visitors
. From there we entered a much smaller room. Lieutenant Smith---I'd seen the nametag on his uniform---closed the door, then handed me a large brown envelope.

"Read it," he commanded me.

Is Smith really your name
? I wondered.

I felt like I held the secret of UFO's. I obeyed and opened the envelope. Inside the envelope contained one page with three lines of information:

Room: C4-336

Code: 99136

Report for duty immediately after indoctrination.

Thank goodness I know what indoctrination means
.

After observing me open the envelope and read its contents, Smith opened the door and left without another word to me. I had no chance to ask him a single question.

Is this a test
?
How am I supposed to know where this room is
? I thought, dumbfounded, staring at the door of the cubbyhole room.

Okay, let's break it down, Ann
.
What's C4
? I coached myself.

I left the cubby-room and approached the newcomers' briefing instructor, who was still in the hall, answering questions from my classmates.

"Excuse me," I asked during a lull in the questions. "Can I get a map of offices? I'm suppose to find a room but don't know my way around yet," I asked her.

"We don't have maps of CIA headquarters, but if you'll tell me the office number, I'll help direct you," she replied courteously.

"It's C4-336," I replied.

"Okay, the four means it's the fourth floor. The first number after that is the department; you're going to department three. The room number is thirty-six. Head up to the fourth floor elevators---you'll need to show your badge to the guard there. Once you get up there, the departments will be numbered sequentially. If you see any doors without numbers, skip them," she patiently explained.

"Thank you," I sincerely replied.

What's the C stand for
? I wondered, but figured I'd better not ask.

Heading to the elevators, I was stopped by a guard who put his hand up, blocking my path.

Stopping, I looked up.

"I haven't seen you before," the six-foot-four black guard stated in a deep bass voice.

"Today is my first day," I replied with a forced smile, looking up at him. I raised my badge from the chain around my neck and held it next to my face---just like the newcomer briefing instructor told us to.

"My name is Ed," he offered.

"I'm Ann...Ann Torgeson," I nervously responded.

"No need for last names, Ann. Nice to meet you; go on ahead," he vibrated.

Once in the elevator alone, I thought,
Welcome to the CIA
.

After reaching the fourth floor, I exited the elevator and turned left---that being the only choice---then turned left again. The floor was covered with square tiles from the 1970's and was obviously buffed regularly, though snags of dirt were collecting at the edges of the hall. There was neither art nor posters on the walls, which were all painted a light gray. It looked like a prison.

I scanned the room numbers...51...52...53...I was going the wrong way. I turned back the other way and saw the numbers starting with 01...02...03...

Finally I reached 36. I hoped this was where I was supposed to be. I opened the door. Ahead of me was another door with a cipher lock on the outside, containing a series of five vertical stainless steel buttons just below the silver door handle. Above me in the corner of the ceiling, tilting down, was a large camera. I sighed.

They're not kidding about this little test
.

I removed the letter from the envelope once more and, hastily opening it, entered the code from the second line into the cipher lock, pushing in each button until they clicked. I'd never opened a cipher door before; clearly this was on-the-job training. I hoped I was doing it right. I didn't want to look stupid on my first day.

They're probably watching me right now, laughing their butts off
, I thought as I tried to turn the doorknob and it refused to move.

Oh man
, I thought.
I got the number wrong
.
Now I know they're laughing
. I felt my face flush.

I looked at the paper again and reentered the number, careful to push each button slowly until each clicked. I tried to turn the knob again. It didn't budge.

Oh come on
.

Then it occurred to me to push the door open, instead of trying to turn the knob.

Bingo
. I smiled stupidly at the camera as the door swung open.

I hope that was a pass/fail test
.

Chapter 14

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

The Year 1988

The cipher door swung heavily shut behind me, nearly catching my large black Air Force-issued handbag.

My elation from having successfully negotiated the cipher test quickly deflated when I realized that I stood in another long prison-hall, with a series of doors marked with letters. I stood still.

Hmmm
, I thought,
I wonder what's behind door A
?

Just as I was about to knock on it, a tall man of medium build emerged from another door further down the San Quentin hallway. He approached me with a smile.

"Hello Airman Torgeson. I'm Bob Hadley," he said pleasantly, extending his hand.

He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with kind brown eyes, a head full of gray hair, and a bit of a double chin that accompanied his extra fifty pounds. He had a presence of quiet authority.

"Hello," I responded, shaking the hand he offered me.

"Since you know my name, does that mean I'm in the right place?" I asked.

"Getting through the cipher lock showed you that you're in the right place," he clarified.

So he was watching
.

"I direct the project you'll be a part of here."

I nodded, but hid my confusion.
My Air Force supervisor is a civilian
?

"I'm pleased to be here, sir."

"Instead of you calling me sir or Mr. Hadley, how about we keep this informal, and you call me Bob?" he asked, though it seemed more like instruction.

"Yes, sir. You can call me Ann, if that's not against any protocol."

"We're a pretty tight group here, Ann. You'll find that we don't get too wrapped up in formal protocol within our project. You can call all team members by their first names."

Cool
.

I replied with a simple smile.

"Another thing. Because of the sensitivity of our work here, you fall under a special arrangement between the CIA and the Air Force. Starting tomorrow, when you report for duty here, you'll dress as a civilian. No Air Force uniform, nor anything that identifies you with the military. Wear your hair down, not up like Air Force regulations dictate. And don't bring that Air Force-issued purse on your shoulder," he cautioned.

Why is that
? I wondered.

Answering my silent question, Bob said, "We don't want to call attention to any military personnel on this project. Foreign governments would like nothing better than to target one of our military personnel for espionage against us. You'll likely remember learning in basic training about the damage done by the Walkers?"

I nodded grimly.

John Walker was an officer of the U.S. Navy. His initial role in radio communications gave him access to highly-classified military secrets. He quickly moved up the ranks as a communications officer. In time though, Walker became disenchanted with the Navy, and in 1967 he committed his first act of espionage when he sold information about Navy ship movements to the Russian KGB, after walking in the front door of the Soviet embassy in Washington D.C. to make contact with them.

Walker continued spying, passing thousands of classified documents to the Soviet Union while in the Navy. He involved his wife, Barbara, and then recruited his brother, Arthur, and his son, Michael. The Walker spy ring was active for eighteen years and was one of the most damaging acts of espionage ever committed by U.S. citizens. They aided the Soviets in deciphering more than a million classified naval messages. When asked how he had obtained so much top-secret information, Walker was quoted as saying, "K-Mart has better security than the Navy."

"In our program," Bob said, "we mask your military identity as a protective measure against you being targeted for espionage recruitment. Foreign powers intentionally target our military because you make less money than civilians here. You don't really fit the mold, Ann; almost all military spies have been men---all of them older than you. The good news for you is that you can put aside your uniform for the next few years, except for any official Air Force business that your CO calls you in for---of course that's all outside the Agency."

"Got it," I said. "No uniform, military hair, or other stuff, starting tomorrow."

"Right. Now that we've got that out of the way, I want to hear about your sharpshooting," he inquired, smiling.

Again. News travels fast.

"My dad taught me when I was young," I offered as an explanation.

"It looks like our group will be in good hands then," he said with a chuckle as we stood in the stark hallway.

"Sir...Bob...I mean...can you tell me what the group is?"

"We're part of the Science and Technology Division, which is one of four overall organizations in the CIA. Science and Technology researches and then develops methods and technology to improve intelligence gathering. Our organization creates all the cool 007 spy technology, like the poison pen that James Bond used."

I smiled, enjoying his reference.

"We roll into the Clandestine Service. Our organization develops technical programs to gather information from foreign sources. But instead of explaining our little project, let me show you."

We moved down the long hall and through a doorway, entering a very large room, at least one hundred feet wide and nearly as long. The room was furnished and lit so that it felt like a very comfortable and sizeable living room. Seating was scattered throughout, some of which was occupied. The colors in the room were predominantly soothing shades of green and blue. The room made me want to sit down and put my feet up.

"Welcome to Project Stargate," Bob offered, with his right hand extended, sweeping outward.

I smiled in reply.

"Let's go over to one of the training pairs and watch, then I'll explain after."

We sat down near a woman in her thirties and a man about ten years older. We were close enough to observe them without interfering. The woman had long blond curly hair, very fair skin, piercing hazel eyes, and an oval face. She was tall and thin, a natural beauty. She was deeply focused on what was in front of her; it was obvious that she was a trainee. Her instructor was Hispanic, of medium build and height, and quite ordinary looking. He kept working with the woman, paying us no attention.

In his hands were numbered envelopes. The woman selected the number four envelope, then sat back in the sofa with her clipboard, pen, and paper. She was clearly calming herself with her eyes closed for about a minute. She then opened her eyes, wrote down the date and time and TARGET 4. I noticed that the number corresponded to the number on the envelope she had chosen. After a short while, she began to sketch lines and shapes. She also wrote down sensory information---some colors, textures, and tastes. It was like watching someone observe something that I could not see; it was intriguing. After about ten minutes, she wrote END at the bottom of her paper, along with the current time. She then removed her paper from the clipboard and handed it and the unopened envelope to her instructor.

The man then put the paper on the table and opened the envelope to reveal its contents. He displayed three distinct pictures: a skyscraper in the sun, a red apple, and a man with a cowboy hat. Clearly, the woman had sketched the skyscraper and the cowboy hat, and she had written down "sweet," which must have referred to the taste of the apple.