Dreams Unleashed (15 page)

Six days after graduation from high school, I was flown to Lackland Air Force Base, Texas, for basic training. It was June and one of the hottest summers in history. As my group of enlisted Airmen traveled by bus from the commercial airport to the base, the sweat poured off me, my body shocked by the San Antonio humidity. Besides the heat, I didn't find basic training too difficult, except for the fact that I was taller than most of the women in my squadron, which gave the Air Force Training Instructors visibility of me that I would rather have opted out of. I quickly got used to hearing, "Torgeson! What's wrong with you?" screamed in my face by a giant with a Texas drawl. There was one occasion in basic training with my lead TI that I will never forget.

It was my squadron's day to learn to shoot M16 semi-automatic rifles; I was excited. We marched over to the shooting range and were given instructions and a demonstration by the TIs. My father and I had regularly practiced shooting pistols and shotguns starting when I was twelve years old, so I didn't expect to have any difficulty shooting the M16.

After the sergeant finished his instructions, the lead TI gave us one last warning, "Do not...I repeat...
do not
even consider shooting any of your fellow Airmen. Gonzalez---don't even
think
of pointing that weapon at any of your compatriots from Harlem. Is that understood?" the Texas-TI bellowed.

"Yes,
sir
," we responded in unison.

Gonzalez wants to shoot someone
? I was grateful to have heard Gonzalez affirm the TI's instructions.

The senior TI reluctantly gave us our M16s, with an evil look towards Gonzalez. The junior TI, Sergeant Pick, worked with us hands-on while we loaded our weapons. Then we practiced. Once the TIs were confident we wouldn't shoot each other, they moved on to describe our target practice. We would be shooting at the target fifty feet away. Sergeant Pick gave us the go ahead, and we started to shoot.

No big deal
, I thought as I began to fire.

I calmly unloaded my magazine into the target with practiced hyperfocus. Before I knew what was happening, I was yanked up by my collar, and my weapon was seized by the Texas terror while he screamed his now familiar line.

"Torgeson! What's wrong with you?" he raged, a few inches from my face.

"Nothing, sir," I replied, dumbfounded at what could have enraged him.

"Why did you fire all your rounds?" he stormed. The expression on his face started to scare me a bit.

"Sir, I thought that's what we were instructed to do," I timidly replied.

"Stand over there at attention," he snapped, pointing to the wall behind us, "and if you move one little muscle, you'll find yourself repeating basic training like all the other washouts."

"Yes sir," I obediently replied, perplexed about my error.

I stood at attention as commanded, my back against the wall, facing the rest of my squadron. Sergeant Pick pushed the electric button moving all targets forward, to assess the squadron's shooting accuracy.

As the targets came closer, Texas-terror hollered, "Well I'll be a son of a gun. We've got a sharpshooter," he hollered, staring at one target.

I could see that everyone else had fired one bullet, while I had unloaded my entire magazine.
So that's why he's angry
. But the target the Texas-terror held was mine. My bullets had all penetrated either the bull's-eye or the ring next to it. Suddenly, I felt a bit smug.

Then I heard, "Torgeson, get over here, pronto."

I stepped forward to the TI immediately, then resumed standing at attention.

"Torgeson, how did you do that?" he spoke in my face, with his rage now replaced with astonishment.

"Sir, my father taught me how to shoot when I was a young girl."

"Well ya don't shoot like a girl," he responded with a smirk, leaning into me.

I didn't smile; I was putting every ounce of energy into keeping an indifferent expression, but I wanted to laugh out loud with joy.

"Well, thanks to him, you'll stay in our squadron." He chuckled. "Maybe you should have joined the Marines---they could use some girls who can shoot. Now back up against that wall at parade rest," he commanded, simmering down from his hot boil.

Thanks, Dad
.

I wrote my father a letter the first chance I got, telling my M16 story. I received his reply a little over a week later. He said simply, "Good job on that target practice, Airman." Dad was a Navy veteran and a man of few words about the military, but I knew he was proud of me.

After showing my skill with the M16's, both TIs treated me respectfully through the rest of basic training. My shooting reputation followed me to Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi, six weeks later, where I was to begin my formal training in Air Force Intelligence. I still wasn't sure exactly what that entailed. As I reported for duty after my flight, the sergeant who processed my incoming paperwork looked at my name and said, "You're not the M16 sharpshooter, are you?" I guess news traveled fast in the Air Force.

My first task at Keesler was to complete fourteen pages of forms, detailing all eighteen years of my life; it was nearly a page per year of my life. Apparently the Air Force was investigating my eligibility for a Top Secret/Special Intelligence security clearance. Until the security clearance was completed, I wasn't allowed to learn anything about my intelligence assignment. While I waited for my TS/SI security clearance, I attended forty hours per week of classes on and off base.

This formal training was in addition to the forty hours of basic training classes I had already taken at Lackland---on Air Force history, combat, and war strategy. At Keesler, I completed a number of psychological classes. The Air Force seemed to be intent on educating me about the paranormal, which was fascinating to me. I had no idea what I'd be doing with all that knowledge, but I figured that my job was going to include some crazy psychological scenarios.

After three months at Keesler, I was ordered to Langley, Virginia. That's when I learned that I was being assigned to the CIA.

Chapter 13

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

The Year 1988

I landed at Dulles International Airport and took the CIA shuttle to Langley. It dropped me at the Air Force in-processing station at the CIA, where I signed in. The next day, I reported for duty directly to my Commanding Officer. His assistant sent me into his office.

"Sir, Airman Torgeson reporting for duty," I reported in with a salute.

He returned my salute from his seat, then held out his hand for me to deposit my orders. I gave them to him, then moved to stand at attention, looking straight over his head to the wall behind him.

"At ease, Airman."

I moved to Parade Rest, tucking my hands behind me, and looked at him. He was a lean 40-something, with an angular face, black hair, and very small eyes.

"You're the sharpshooter," he exclaimed, looking at the papers.

"Yes, sir."

"And you're going into intelligence?" he asked, looking at me, more of a statement of fact than a question.

"Yes, sir."

"We could use you better in other places, you know. But the CIA's got our kahunas in a vice on this one. Apparently you tested pretty high on the CIA's tests at Keesler, and they're insisting upon getting you. I'd rather we use you as a sniper, but Congress won't allow us to put girls on the front line of combat."

What do I say to that
? I thought, deciding that saying nothing was a good plan.

"What do ya think of that, Airman?"

Oh, crap
.

"Sir, I'll serve wherever you want," I said, thinking on my feet.

"Right answer, Airman, right answer," he responded with a smile. "You could go far in the Air Force with that kind of answer."

"Yes, sir."

"Well Airman, the CIA's gonna have to wait a while before they get you, cause your security clearance isn't in yet. Until then, I'm assigning you to the Nuclear War Special Duty Team. That's the closest you'll get to combat for now. My assistant will tell you where to report tomorrow. Welcome to the Air Force, Airman Torgeson," he said, standing.

I threw him a crisp salute, and he responded in kind. I turned sharply, leaving his office. Stopping by his assistant, she gave me a paper showing where I would report for duty the next day.

What the heck is the Nuclear War Special Duty Team
? I thought as I strode down the hall, looking at the paper that the assistant had given me.

The next morning at seven o'clock, I reported for duty, then was sent over to the CIA for my polygraph, an essential element to obtain my security clearance.

I was intrigued about working at the CIA, especially since they seemed to want me so badly. I was patriotic and liked the thought that I could be useful. After having just turned eighteen years old, I hadn't had much time to get into any real trouble, but I was still scared that I would somehow fail the polygraph. I reported to the personnel department of the Agency and soon found myself in a little room, being hooked up to a dozen wires by a skinny guy in a black suit and a forgettable tie. Despite the tie, I was still intimidated, and I told myself not to freak out. The polygrapher had a personality as interesting as a cardboard cutout; he was so detached.

The polygraph seemed to be going along fine until about halfway through, when someone down the hall slammed a door.

Someone slammed a door
. I thought in reflex.

At the same time as the door slam, the polygrapher asked me, "Are you secretly involved with foreign nationals?"

"No," I answered, but I could see that the machine's needles had registered my startled reaction to the slammed door, and the examiner wrote something on the output paper, appearing eager.

Cardboard man then began pummeling me with detailed questions about foreign nationals.

"Do you know anyone who lives in a communist country?"

"No."

"Do you know anyone who is plotting terrorism in the USA?"

"No."

"Do you know anyone who is involved in sabotage against the United States?"

"No."

"Have you ever met in secret with a foreign individual?"

"No."

"Have you ever seen classified information from a foreign national?"

"No."

"Have you ever been asked to provide classified information to a foreign national?"

"No."

The questions continued and then were repeated for sixty minutes. Instead of panicking, I became hyperfocused, as though my life depended upon the success of this polygraph. After two long hours, the examiner shut down the machine and finally asked me the question that he should have asked long before.

"What was going on when I first asked you the question about any involvement with foreign nationals?" he inquired intensely.

"Someone slammed a door down the hall," I explained. "I was startled."

"It's important during a polygraph that you focus on the questions and not exterior things," he exclaimed, exasperation seeping into his façade.

Right
, I thought,
because I take polygraph tests all the time, and I should have known better
. I didn't respond out loud, but I watched as he unhooked me from the wires.

"We're all done here," cardboard-man stated. "Your Commanding Officer will get the results after we analyze them and prepare a report," he stated, apparently dismissing me.

I could swear he isn't human
.

"Thank you," I said as I turned to leave.

There was no reply from him. I overcame the temptation to slam the door on the bugger on my way out.

That sucked. I hope I never have another one
, I thought as I escaped down the hall.

Four weeks later, I was called into my CO's office and told that my background investigation was complete, my polygraph results were in, and I was cleared to work at the CIA.

By that time, I felt that I was nearly an expert in reacting to a nuclear disaster. I'd worked and drilled with the nuclear team for weeks and was relieved to hear that I had received my clearance and could be freed from the nuclear-obsessed crew. After all, there were only so many ways to read a Geiger counter.

I was scheduled to attend the CIA's newcomers briefing the following day. The class was for new CIA employees and all military personnel assigned to the Agency.

A female briefer outlined the Agency's history and its current organization, then went into an intensely serious explanation of the policies regarding sexual harassment and discrimination. She educated us about each level of security clearance and what each meant, and the whole class was drilled about the importance of gauging the need-to-know of co-workers or superiors. We also received an eye-opening tour of the vast Agency facilities, which included the medical clinic, credit union, Ticketmaster, cafeterias, and the fitness center. The tour concluded when the guide took us past a row of at least twenty-five pay phones in sealed cubicles that were collectively called the phone bank. Stopping us, the guide instructed us not to use the phones except in a personal emergency. When I looked at the phone bank, nearly every seat was occupied.