He spoke again after his set-up was complete, “You are about to take a polygraph or lie detector test. I direct you to tell the truth to every question asked since the polygraph equipment will detect every lie by showing even the slightest stress. You cannot alter your responses in any way to trick the machine since your responses are automatic. The machine is sensitive to all of the fight, flight, and freeze mechanisms of human physiology. I will ask a series of questions—some of which may be repetitive—in order to verify any responses that indicate falsification on your part. I am a trained and qualified expert and have done thousands of these tests. I will be aware of any effort on your part to lie or to evade the truth.
“You have the right to refuse to take the polygraph test; but if you do, you will not be hired. The polygraph test is not the sole determiner of whether you are hired or not. If you elect to proceed, you will be given questions that deal with your life’s experience, any criminal record, your employment record, medical information, and your intentions. By agreeing to proceed, you are agreeing to allow the information from the test and from the forms you filled out to be passed on to any agency the CIA deems necessary. Have you any questions?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to proceed?”
“Yes.”
“Hereafter, answer only yes or no. Answer truthfully, and keep your mouth open and your hands on the table at all times between answers.”
Hunter nodded his understanding and agreement.
“Did you sleep more than six hours last night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you eat breakfast this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Have you had corrective eye surgery?”
“No.”
His numerous questions dealt with known truths, facts about Hunter’s life that he had placed on the forms, his general honesty, suitability, and integrity. He asked about Hunter’s criminal record—nonexistent—his general propensity to lie, whether he had ever lied for any reason, any drug use, whether he had ever committed and gotten away with arson, murder, assault, sexual exposure, sex with a minor as an adult, forgery, or had any weapons violations not recorded. Did Hunter cheat, take credit for work done by others, cheat at cards, ever do anything he was ashamed of, withhold necessary information in an investigation, or had he ever done anything for which he could have been fired? Hunter paused on a few of them, but did try and tell the truth as best he could knowing that some of his answers required more than a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
Then the technician got to the nitty-gritty questions.
“Do you know anyone who is involved in espionage or sabotage against the United States?”
“No.”
“Have you ever copied or removed classified material without permission?”
“No.”
“Have you ever made unreported visits to foreign countries or embassies?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been approached, trained by, made plans with, or been compensated by any person involved in espionage or sabotage against the United States?”
“No.”
He went through a long list of closely related questions about Hunter’s possible contacts with organized criminals who associated with terrorists, any unauthorized contacts that could pose a threat to the country, any compromising sexual and pornographic proclivities, and did Hunter have any belief in a religion or philosophy or group that espoused injury to the country.
The test took three hours. Hunter was very tired at its conclusion.
“That is all,” the technician said and dismantled the equipment from Hunter.
Before he could stand up, the young agent who had been with Oliver during the introductory interrogation stepped back into the room and said, “Come with me please.”
He had obviously been watching from behind the one-way mirror. That had to be one of the world’s most boring jobs, Hunter thought. They returned to the conference room where lunch was served.
CHAPTER NINE
White House Oval Office-Noon
PRESENT: POTUS, CHAIRMAN JCS, ATTORNEY GENERAL, SECRETARY OF HOMELAND SECURITY, DFBI
President Storebridge sat at his desk facing The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, The attorney general, The secretary of Homeland Security, and the director of the FBI. After coffee, small scones, and brief small talk, the president turned to the subject that had been gnawing away at him ever since he had given the order to proceed to the intelligence officers the previous afternoon.
“Give me a plan for dealing with these wretched attacks on our soil that does not involve mobilizing for a major war, covert assassinations, or public diplomatic confrontations. President Obama got the Nobel Peace Prize without changing a thing except some aggressive terminology used by his predecessor. I see us in a bind that won’t be solved by such innocuous measures.”
General Simons wriggled in his chair and grimaced before giving his answer, “Mr. President, the Joint Chiefs Planning Division has been on this since the Disney World attack. Here’s our folder.”
The president thumbed through the sections as General Simons gave a brief summary: “Our options include, first, watching and waiting. That’s what Europe wants. They are scared to death that what we do will change a sad disaster into a war that they will inevitably be dragged into. Second, as we were immediately following the 9/11 attack, we would be entirely within our rights to launch a crushing attack on the Saudis, the Iranians, and the Syrians which would be an actual war from the get go. The political consequences would be disastrous, but the great appeasers across the pond would get over it so long as they could claim a complete arms-length distance between them and us and the war. Those are the two extremes. Third, we can leave it to Secretary Southem and the diplomats. Speaking as an old soldier, it seems to me that we have been trying that since Obama was president, and we have had no positive results other than the French think we are nice again. Fourthly, as a military plan, we could launch many—say something on the order of several dozen—small surgical strikes by the Seals or the rangers which would be a sort of low level lex talionus approach. It would be readily evident that we were launching the attacks; but the moderates around the globe except the Muslims would come to see such responses as just—even conservative—and we could stand to garner a few grudging kudos. It is the most sensible and the most limited assertive response we could make, but our critics would have a field day with the fact that we would once again be acting as the bully. After some debate, the Joint Chiefs have decided that that is the preferred approach. However there is one more option, sir:”
“And what could that be, General. I’m hungry for a palatable solution.”
“Establish a kind of fifth column in the aggressor nations—saboteurs, covert assassins, very careful and covert drone attacks—any kind of nonpublic, deniable, highly secretive, small disruptive actions that would wear the enemies of the U.S. down over time.”
“I don’t know if our country is much good at that sort of thing, General; and it is a bit late in the day to start a major and top secret training program, no?”
“Well, sir, we do have the precedents—the Revolutionary War and Civil War intelligence operations from both sides, the OSS during World War II, the Phoenix Program during the Viet Nam offensive—all of which were quite successful.”
“But not secret enough, I’d say, General. I have to admit that I have only the vaguest recollection of the Phoenix Program. You say it was a success? How so? If I recall correctly, we lost that war, big time.”
“With respect, sir. The Phoenix program was extremely successful; and until our press and left leaning politicians—and here I mean no reflection on you personally—Mr. President, but until they lost the war for us. We had all but obliterated the Viet Cong, and the NVA would not have advanced had we bombed Hanoi and Haiphong Harbor and sent the message that we were done with the one-arm-tied-behind-the-military’s-back policy imposed by the public opinion slash media
consciousness that dominated our political establishment. Militarily, that war was won. I admit that the secrets were not well enough kept, and anything done by units like the PRUCs in the Phoenix Program were obviously instigated and carried out by the U.S. military and intelligence establishments. Secrecy was considerably less than was needed; it is obvious in retrospect. In my opinion the worst that could have come out of us capitalizing on our Tet Offensive victories is that the Europeans would not have liked us. That would not have been a big change, nor would it have been one we could not have weathered if only the nonmilitary elements of our government had had the spines to persist.”
“Probably some truth in what you say, General; but that was a missed historical opportunity; and we can’t go back in time to change anything. One thing you mentioned was an organization called the PRUCs. What was that, exactly?”
“That is just the designation of the officers of the Phoenix Program who saw to it that the actual work got done. It is an acronym like everything in the military—Provincial Reconnaissance Unit Cadres—some pretty rough customers. Like Harry Truman said of Patton, ‘he’s a son-of-bitch, but he’s our son-of-a-bitch’. Or what George Orwell—I think it was—said, ‘men sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf’.”
“The concept is all well and good, General,” The president said thoughtfully, “but the problem seems to me always to have jammed up on the secrecy issue. I have every respect and confidence in our young and superbly trained military people and in the tough paramilitary elements of the CIA, but to me they always look the part. They look and act like Americans, and we cannot afford for anything to look like our country was involved.”
“Well, sir, all I can say is that our Delta Force, the Navy Seals, and Force Recon Marines have done a lot of those ‘in the night operations’ without their activities coming to the light of day. I tender the offer that we are ready, willing, and able to come up with the personnel and the wherewithal to get the job done whenever you give us the go-ahead. In fact, as you have been reading, we have fairly well worked out plans for any one or all of the options we have discussed.”
“And it’s good work, too, General. I’ll mull it all over pretty thoroughly before giving any final okay to a plan of action. Thank you for coming by.”
“My pleasure, sir. We work at your orders and await them.”
General Simons recognized that he had been dismissed, stood up and gave a polite nod of his head to the president and exited the Oval Office.
CHAPTER TEN
“Not too hard on you, I hope,” Oliver said after Hunter returned from the lie detector vetting. “We’ll have the results in about an hour, and we can discuss them together.”
“No complaints,” Hunter said between mouthfuls of chicken salad sandwich.
“Good. In the meantime, let me tell you a little about the training program we have in mind for you if all goes well in the vetting process, as I’m sure it will. Actually, the polygraph is the last step. We have already had the FBI investigate your every move since you got out of the service. You are clean as a whistle, incidentally.”
“You are nothing if not efficient,” Hunter said, genuinely impressed if a bit uneasy at the ability to keep the investigative activities a secret from himself until now.
Oliver nodded.
“The standard training these days at the Farm is even more vigorous than when you and I were young, my friend. The physical stuff is about the same, but the sophisticated technological training has advanced by geometric progression. Given your age, no one is going to expect you to keep up with the kids, although you will have to put in a vigorous effort to get back in top shape. You will also have to train with both new and old weapons and in the martial arts, and there you will have to measure up along with everyone else. That will occupy the first month of your stay, and then we will concentrate on mission specific training for a couple of months. The trainers are good, specific, and pretty patient. You’ll get the hang of it. I’d like you to stay here in an apartment in the building until you are either approved or disapproved. Then you can either let your business people know that you are off on an extended vacation; or you get to go home; and none of us ever speaks of the events of today again.”
“Okay,” Hunter said, although he had not come prepared to be incarcerated for any extended period of time, and mused that he did not even have a toothbrush.
Oliver smiled. As they finished lunch, he explained some of the mundane realities of getting into and working for the Central Intelligence Agency. His main emphasis was on the nondisclosure requirements. Despite the straightforward and direct absolutes of the CIA, it took Oliver half an hour to detail the obligations of agents. He told Hunter that he would be given a contract. That alerted Hunter because he remembered the fundamental differences between contract agents and fully commissioned agents of the agency.
“Hold up, Oliver. I very well recall the difference between contract agents and regular agents. And—at your house—you and the director gave me a promise. I don’t think I would be all that interested in having the contract status. I recall from the Phoenix Program that the contractors got hung out to dry when we all went home in April of ’75. I won’t soon forget that poor smuck, Anders Bergstrom—you know, the one everyone called the white giant ghost—con ma da trang khong-lo. Not only did he get screwed royally, but he escaped and did a number on several high officials, according to the scuttlebutt I heard.”
Oliver spoke with reluctance, “Hunter. It’s the best we can offer. Especially early on. Sorry.”
Hunter ignored Oliver’s apologetic tone, “Oliver, you can offer what you want. I saw that much today. I’m not some kid just waking up. Try again.”
There was a significant pause. Oliver steepled his fingers under his chin and appeared to be in deep thought.
“Maybe I could arrange a probation period, say a year, for you to prove your worth to the higher-ups. Then we could talk full agent status.”
“How about three months after training. I either perform, or I’m out. If I perform, I get full benefits of membership—as they say—at the country club.”
“You haven’t lost your business negotiator’s edge, I see, Hunter. I think I can swing that, but there is a problem. The work we have in mind for you will have to be off ledger. So far off that you will never be officially listed in the regular accountings as an employee of any stripe. You will have to be on the books at the Department of Agriculture or some other safe place. That complicates the arrangements.”
“I have every confidence in your abilities to arrange, to delegate, and to overcome obstacles, Oliver. Why don’t you work on that sort of thing while I languish in your comfortable jail here in the mother-ship building.”
Hunter did not like the back-sliding on the deal he had been promised verbally. He looked directly into Oliver’s eyes to let him know that that was the final bargain so far as he was concerned. Oliver took note of the fact that his old friend did not mention pay or retirement, or perks. He was making only one demand, and that had to rate well when he took Hunter’s proposal back to Homeland Security.
Hunter thought that so long as he was going to take great risks, as all of the indications were that he would, then he wanted to have at least that much status and the very real protection it afforded as opposed to being only a contract agent. His focused eye-to-eye demand somewhat unnerved Oliver, as if he were being threatened.
The ADCIA looked away first.
When the two men parted the next morning, both of them made promises of continuing friendship and strong interest in each others’ families, Oliver by expressing his condolences once again, and Hunter by asking after the Prentiss’s only daughter, Heather.
“She’s the smartest kid in her class, and her class is the sophomore one at Yale. But to say more would be boasting, and that would be unseemly.”
That small confession of jingoistic fatherly pride sig
nified the depth of the bond between the two men. Hunter was glad that he had a friend who would watch his back.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hunter was bored to tears for three days. On the evening of the third day a sharp knock came on the locked door to his room.
“Enter.”
A uniformed marine gunnery sergeant entered and said stiffly, “You are requested to come with me, sir.”
Hunter put on the clothes that he had entered the building with the first day and walked to the elevator with the gunny. They descended four floors, and GySgt MacKay led the way into a medium sized office which was well appointed and comfortable.
“Take a seat, sir. The officer will be along shortly.”
He turned and left—another man of few words in an organization of tight lipped minions. Oliver Prentiss walked into the office less than a minute later and sat down with familiarity in the desk chair.
“Your office, I presume, Oliver,” Hunter said. “Nice.”
“Don’t get any ideas about taking my office, Hunter. I’ll fight for this space…I already did, come to think of it.”
Both of the men laughed.
“All right,” he said. “Here’s what I worked out. You were in the navy and a little note can be slipped into your jacket that says you were in the reserves all the time and have been called up for active duty as a consultant. That is good and nebulous, and it keeps everything strictly on the up and up for paper trailers. It will get a bit more difficult when they try and figure out what it is you do, should they ever take a notion to do that. All of your pay and perks can come through the navy via the Department of Agriculture. Specifically, you will be on assignment in the NASS; that’s the USDA’s National Agricultural Statistics Service working on RSS—Rich Site Summary feeds—which means that you will ostensibly be doing research and sending in reports from Web sites that contain article headlines, summaries, and links back to full-text articles on the Web. Your specific interest will be the FAS—Foreign Agricultural Service—searching for anything that can benefit U.S. agricultural markets abroad. Your office—or more accurately, your cubicle—will be a chair, a computer table, and a computer in some large room filled with similar cubicles in the Albert R. Mann Library at Cornell University. In case you don’t have a clue—and particularly if you should have some weird hankering to know—that building is located at 260 Tower Road, Cornell University, in Ithaca, New York. If you can’t remember any of this you can always look it up on-line. I assure you that there is no need for you ever to see the place or to be seen there.”
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