“A usual SERE course might offer the basics of outdoor survival such as woodcraft, how to build fires, purify water, improvise shelter, set snares, etc. As your theater of operation will normally be urban, we will forego fieldcraft; our evasion exercise will be conducted in an urban environment.
“You will learn interrogation resistance—how to survive and resist the enemy in the event of capture. You will learn how to withstand demands for information—to prevaricate, to deflect, and to provide disinformation.
“A word about interrogation in general: Because you will not be lawful combatants, if you are captured and interrogated, it is highly likely that your interrogation will include torture. This course will test your determination to protect your operation and network under adverse circumstances.”
The quiet room grew quieter still.
“The course will work like this: You will pair up, ten teams of two. Each team will be given an intelligence package. You would do well to memorize that intelligence and then destroy it.
“Your team will be dropped in an urban location with a map to a safe destination and a ten-minute lead. Your task is to deliver the intelligence to your superiors at the destination on your map. You will be pursued by two armed operatives. Their task is to capture you and the intelligence package: You will not allow them to capture the package.”
He held up a black, rectangular, palm-sized device. “You will each be issued a weapon. These are your weapons—stun guns. They do not fire projectiles; they require direct contact. If you stun a pursuer, he or she is considered dead and will break off pursuit and return to enemy HQ. If you are stunned, your pursuers will take you captive and convey you to their headquarters to extract the intelligence from you.
“For every team captured and conveyed to the enemy HQ, that team’s pursuers are freed up to assist in the capture of teams still at large, meaning the last team at large may have a sizable number of pursuers after them. When you are captured—and you will be—you will be interrogated.”
Rafe looked around. “Let me be clear: We are not your friends; we are here to provide a realistic experience. You may well hate us when this exercise is finished—which is why none of your instructors are participating. Any questions?”
A female trainee said, “Since we were yanked from our beds, some of us are without proper clothing, especially shoes. What—”
“I suggest you improvise—as you would in the field.”
“What about the police?” a trainee asked. “What if they see us and think our behavior is suspicious?”
“The police have been notified that a military SERE exercise is in process. If they pull you aside, you are to ask, ‘Do you know Engelbert Humperdinck’s song, Release Me?’”
Normally, that corny line would have generated a spate of groans. Not today. The trainees took in the information without comment.
Amid the silence that followed, someone dared to ask, “Sir, what is the duration of this exercise? When is it over?”
Rafe’s chuckle was laden with unpleasant, hidden meaning—and the hair on Laynie’s arms prickled and stood up. “The exercise is over when all teams have been captured and interrogated.”
A number of curses floated through the trainee group.
“Get up,” Rafe ordered. “Choose your teammates now. You will draw your weapons, maps, intel packages, and ten dollars in cash in the next room and be taken, team by team, to a drop-off location. Your pursuers are already in place. As you are dropped off, your driver will radio your pursuers and your ten-minute lead will commence.”
Laynie jumped to her feet with the other trainees. She wanted to pair up with Black; instead, Taylor grabbed her arm.
“Team up with me, Mags,” he whispered. “We can do this.”
She nodded. “Agreed.”
In the next room, the teams collected their intel packages, maps, cash, and stun guns. Black and Stephanie had paired up; Nora was with another female trainee. They nodded a sober and silent “good luck” to each other, then gave themselves to the tasks at hand.
The drop-offs were staggered, three vans, one team to a van, taking about forty-five minutes to deploy each team. That gave the waiting teams time to strategize. Laynie and Taylor were no different. They examined their stun guns, familiarizing themselves with their action. They read and memorized their intel packets and studied their maps.
Laynie put on her boots—one foot minus a sock. Taylor was barefoot, clad in only a t-shirt and shorts.
“More than one person got caught sleeping naked. They let them cover themselves with the minimum, but no footwear. How did you manage to get your boots?”
“Heard the guys coming; threw on my pants, grabbed the boots, and held on for dear life.”
“I need shoes. We’ll have to hit a store as soon as we find an open one.”
“Won’t our pursuers know the location of every store near our drop-off?”
“Ah. Good point.”
WHEN LAYNIE AND TAYLOR’S drop time came, they climbed into a van and were blindfolded. The van then drove for about twenty minutes. During the drive, Taylor shed his t-shirt and tore it into strips and pieces that he tied on his feet. When the van stopped, the driver pulled off their blindfolds and said, “Get out. The ten-minute clock starts in five seconds.”
Laynie and Taylor had already strategized. They took a few seconds to scan their surroundings before picking a direction. Their first thought had been to run. It didn’t matter in which direction, really: Distance from the drop point was what counted.
But, while planning, they’d reconsidered.
From what they saw around them, they figured themselves to be somewhere north of D.C.—and not anywhere upscale, either. The storefronts around them were ill-kept and rundown, many closed; trash had piled up in the gutters; and the only person on the street this early in the morning stared at them with thinly veiled hostility.
“Let’s get away from prying eyes,” Taylor suggested.
They crossed the street, ran two blocks, took a left at the next intersection, ran half a block, then ducked between two buildings. The length of the “between” contained two dumpsters overflowing with garbage. The “between” also had doors leading into the adjacent buildings—but they were both solid and locked tight. The long alleyway also dead-ended at a high, discolored cyclone fence topped with nasty-looking, rusted barbed wire.
“That there is a tetanus convention just waiting for roll call,” Taylor muttered.
They peered out from between the buildings, scouring the street. Two cars were parked along their side of the street; a rusty pickup sat across the street, several yards farther from the intersection at which they’d turned.
“I think this is as good a place as any we’ll find.” Laynie pointed to the two cars parked along the curb a few feet away. She indicated the vehicle that had a flat tire, the driver’s window cracked and crazed. “That one.”
Taylor picked up a rock, hammered a fist-sized hole through the cracked glass, reached in, and unlocked the door. Laynie handed Taylor her stun gun and scooted behind the wheel, then over to the passenger seat. She stared up the street, to the intersection where they’d turned.
“Five or six minutes gone, you think?”
“Sounds about right. Another five before they come after us, not more than five minutes more before they sweep this street.”
Laynie took a deep breath. “Yeah. Ten minutes total, give or take. Okay. Good luck, Tay.”
“You, too, Mags.”
Taylor strode between the buildings and stationed himself at the corner of the wall where he could watch for the pursuers.
Ten minutes passed, then five more, before they heard the slow idle of a muscle car approaching. They exchanged glances and nodded. Taylor ducked back into the short “alley”; Laynie stretched herself out on the car’s musty front seat.
She listened closely, focusing on the car’s growling engine. It paused in the intersection. A car door opened and
closed quietly, before the car turned left and cruised slowly toward them.
Laynie waited until the car had passed; she had to time it “just right” before she showed herself. She counted to ten, gauging how far down the street the car was, how close she believed the pursuer who’d gotten out would be.
She sat up, head turned, staring after the car. She immediately opened the passenger door and crept out.
A shout and the pounding of boots signaled that the on-foot pursuer had seen her. With a glance over her shoulder, she jetted in the direction of the passing pursuit car—but the driver had heard his partner. Tires squealed as he stomped the brakes; the driver threw the transmission into park, jumped out, and headed for Laynie.
With pursuers ahead and behind, Laynie shot across the street and up the sidewalk. She rounded the rusted-out truck at the curb, but her pursuers had flanked her again and were closing in. Laynie vaulted onto the hood of the truck, tumbled over it, and again headed across the street, this time aiming for the “alley” between the two buildings. She slid between the parked cars and, putting on a burst of speed, raced down the alley between the buildings—only to fly up against the cyclone fence. She whirled, thinking to return to the sidewalk before her pursuers arrived, but when she turned, they already stood at the top of the alley.
Laynie was trapped. She turned and began a mad scramble up the rusted fencing.
“Won’t do you any good, missy. See that barbed wire up there? You’re not getting over that.”
Laynie, about five feet off the ground, stared up at the top of the fence.
That there is a tetanus convention just waiting for roll call.
Clinging to the fence and edging higher, she began to shriek. Her panicked screams, echoing between the high brick buildings, were terrifying even to her—and loud enough to raise the dead.
“Stick her, Dirk! Shut her the *blank* up!”
Metal jabbed the back of Laynie’s leg, and her calf muscle became the entry point for a bolt of pure pain. Her screams fused to her throat; every muscle in her body spasmed and locked up. When they unlocked seconds later, her fingers were lifeless. She fell backward, off the fence.
Her pursuers caught and flipped her over in one move and expertly pinned her, pressing her face into the alley’s filth. One grabbed Laynie’s wrists; the other pulled flex cuffs from his belt.
“Her partner has to be close by,” he said.
“Actually, I’m right here, dirtbags.”
As he spoke, Taylor, a stun gun in each hand, stuck the men and depressed both buttons at once. Their pursuers convulsed, moaned, thrashed, and collapsed.
Taylor helped Laynie to her feet. She was shaking, but recovering.
“Thanks, Tay.”
“Nice diversion, Mags.”
Taylor turned to the two men sprawled on their faces. “Well, since you guys are both dead, guess you won’t be needing your car.”
“H-hey, no. You can’t do that.”
“Rafe said, ‘All rules are off the table.’ Just playin’ it like he said.” Taylor sketched a laughing salute. “See ya ’round, chumps!”
He dragged Laynie from the alley to the car idling in the street, and they drove off.
“G-good job, Tay.”
“You, too, Mags. Sorry they zapped you.”
“No matter. Listen, if we’ve got the intel packet memorized, let’s dump it now.”
“If we have it memorized?”
“I know; I had it down at age two and you probably did, too, but we can’t be caught with the package.”
Taylor pulled over to a gutter grate. Laynie opened her door and tossed the package down the grate.
“Okay, that’s done. Now, let’s get to our safe house.”
Their map, which they had also studied and committed to memory, had only a single reference somewhere near the drop-off location and a compass to indicate the map’s orientation. It listed no street names or other markers, only a street grid with their destination marked by the initials, “TT.” Ordinarily, in order for the map to make sense, they would have had to find the starting reference point and work their way from there to their destination.
Instead, they drove due north until they spotted a gas station. Taylor pulled in; Laynie jumped out, taking the map and Taylor’s ten bucks with her.
“Hi there,” she smiled to the clerk. “Do you have any maps of this area?”
“Sure, the regular D.C. city and outlying areas maps.”
“Well, my friend and I are on this treasure hunt of sorts—I know, fun, right? We’re having a blast so far.”
The clerk, looking barely out of high school, got excited. “Really? That’s cool. You need any help?”
“We sure do. Thanks for offering. See, here’s the map we’ve been given. Other than our destination, indicated as TT, the map has no street names or identifying landmarks, just this one building with the initials BSL. We need to know what and where BSL is so that the map will make sense and we can find our way to the treasure.”
He frowned as he thought. “Suppose it could be Barrett Savings and Loan. Does that sound right?”
“Could you show me on a city map where it is?”
He pulled a city map from the rack and unfolded it. “Look. We’re here. Barrett Savings and Loans is down Georgia Avenue, couple miles south.”
Laynie turned her map to orient it to the city map. “You might be right. Could I borrow a pen?”
“Yup. Here.”
She wrote “Georgia Avenue” in the margin of her map and drew a line to the street alongside their reference point, which she then labeled “Barrett Savings and Loan.” From there, comparing her map to the city map, she slowly found her way to the intersection of 4th Street NW and Butternut Street NW. She placed her finger there.
“I’m looking for a building with the initials TT at this intersection. Any ideas?”
He pulled the map closer to him, made funny noises in his throat while thinking, then said, “Oh! I’ve got it. It’s Takoma Theatre. Has to be. It’s old. Used to be a real theatre—you know, for plays? Kind of a shabby movie house now. I hope somebody buys it and fixes it up someday.”
Laynie drew a line from “TT” to the margin and printed, “Takoma Theatre.”
“You’ve been great, man. Thanks. Say, you have any t-shirts?”
“Just the usual tourist trash.”
Laynie walked back to the waiting car and slid inside. “Here. Got you a shirt. Hope you’re a fan of George Washington University’s Colonials. They’re a basketball team.”
“What’s basketball?”
“Huh? Don’t play much b-ball where you’re from, huh?” She snickered, “No, forget it. Don’t say a word. I know, I know: anonymity. Anyway, I’ve identified our destination—it’s an old movie house, Takoma Theatre. We can probably be there in half an hour if the traffic is decent.”
“Way to go, Mags!”
TAYLOR PULLED THE CAR around to the back of the theater where the parking lot was. They got out. Two men saw them, exited their van, grinned and waved to them.
From yards away, one called, “Shoot—you guys are the first to hit your safe destination. Good job!” As they came up to Laynie and Taylor, the same guy squinted. “Wait—you hijacked Nelson and Dirk’s ride? That’s a first gen Camaro, man. Dirk’s baby. Ballsy move, you two.”
“You want us to drive it back?” Taylor asked.
“Naw, you can ride with us. We’ll send someone for it—besides, I don’t think you want to deliver it to Dirk in person. That would be like rubbing salt in the wound and, trust me, you don’t want to do that.”
Laynie had hung back a foot or so, but the second guy approached her, hand outstretched. “Congrats. It’s Magda, right?”
“Call me Maggie,” she said, shaking his hand.
That’s when he hit her with the stun gun palmed in his other hand.
Laynie toppled like a pine in a hurricane.
“Whoa, little lady!” The man cau
ght her and laid her down before she faceplanted on the pavement.
Seconds later, Taylor was twitching on the asphalt next to her.
In short order, the men had Laynie and Taylor in flex cuffs; two minutes after that, the men were marching/dragging them to the van. They pushed Laynie and Taylor into the back through the rear doors. There were no seats in the back; Laynie and Taylor fell awkwardly onto the van’s floor, and Laynie caught her shin on something that stung her pretty good. The men then grabbed their ankles and flex cuffed them, too, before slamming the doors closed.
She recovered her voice before Taylor did. “You can’t do this!” she croaked. “We won! We beat the exercise fair and square!”
“That’s what they all say,” the driver laughed. “They forget the part where Rafe says, ‘The exercise is over when all teams have been captured and interrogated,’ and my personal fav, ‘When you are captured—and you will be—you will be interrogated.’”
Laynie squirmed around to face Taylor. “I can’t believe we fell for it.”
He didn’t answer.
AFTERWARD, LAYNIE TRIED to remember the whole of the incarceration and interrogation, but the memories blurred in her mind or came back in horrid flashes of bits and pieces. She and Taylor were offloaded into a warehouse, tossed without ceremony, still cuffed, into a small, cold room. Laynie landed on her left elbow and hip.
Bruises upon bruises.
Then came the sprinklers, soaking them to the bone. Laynie managed to roll to a sitting position. She butt-walked to a wall, and leaned against it, but the wall was cold, too, and she was already shivering.
“B-back-to-back, Tay? M-might keep us warm.”
They squirmed until their backs were together. It helped, a little—until the sprinklers came on again. Laynie sputtered and spit out water that dripped from her hairline into her eyes and mouth. With her hands bound behind her, she couldn’t wipe her face.
Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel Page 10