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Archive-name: Changes/abfh1b.txt


Archive-title: Anderson's Training

Keywords: trans

    Anderson asked the logical question:  "Now what?"

    "We'll handle this just like a standard set of permanent

orders."  He pulled the desk drawer open and handed Anderson a

piece of paper, it was another set of BuPers message orders.  When

the standard wording was translated, it read that Lt Anderson was

to be detached from his current duty station, take 30 days' leave

(known as "delrep" for "delay in reporting") and report to the

military air terminal at McGuire Air Force Base in civilian

clothes; he was not to use his own vehicle to get there.  His

personal effects (known as "household goods" or "HHG") were to be

put in storage at government expense for the duration of the

orders.  "You won't be stationed at McGuire," Col. Hampton

explained, "That's where we'll be picking you up.  Bring three

days' worth of clothes.  The Commodore of DesRon 2 has already

written a detaching fitness report, you'll sign it when you get to

where you're going after your leave.  

    "So go home and get your personal life in order.  Make sure

you're parents know that you're going to be out of touch for a long

time, it may be a few years before they get to see you."  He handed

Anderson a card.  "They can call this number in case of an

emergency, but make damn sure they understand that doesn't include

anything less than imminent death.  And make sure they know that

you may not be able to come back for any kind of emergency.  You

can use the address on the card as a forwarding address for your


    "Where am I going?"

    "You'll know when you get there, Sherry.  The same lady who

drove you here will take you back to your transportation.  See you

in a month."

    Anderson left the room.  Hampton watched him go and sighed. 

He was getting to have too much time in this assignment, he told

himself.  At first, he thought of the program as a way to gain some

use from worthless deviates.  But now, he knew that the men he

recruited were fine people, they simply had a different

orientation.  Hampton now knew that tossing them out was a waste;

now at least he could do something with some of them.    

    The woman drove Anderson to a third airport, this one was

considerably larger than the other two and had a control tower. 

This time, he was shown to a Sabrejet bizjet that was painted in

USAF colors.  The jet took him to Langely AFB.  The same man who

had taken his car keys at the Norfolk airport handed them back to

him.  Anderson found his car and went home.

    It took four days to arrange for the movers to come and take

everything he couldn't fit into his car.  Then he went home.  The

leave was less than satisfying; neither one of his parents were

supportive of his desire to stay on active duty.  Anderson visited

his brother and left him the car and his personal gear (including

a fair number of firearms).  He did a little bit of traveling, and

presented himself to the military air terminal at McGuire with two

weeks' worth of leave remaining.

    The Air Force sergeant who was at the receiving desk read

Anderson's orders and then checked a file.  She told Anderson to

go check into the transient BOQ and stay there; he'd be notified

when his flight was called.  Anderson had taken MAC flights before,

one normally has to wait at the terminal for one's name to move up

the waiting list.  This treatment mystified him, but he just did

as she told him to.

    The phone in his room rang a day and a half later.  Anderson

switched on a light, picked it up and muttered his name into the


    "Lieutenant Anderson?  Master Sergeant Wilkes at the MAC desk. 

Your flight leaves at 0430.  A car will be at the Q at 0410 to pick

you up."

    "What time is it now?"

    "A little after three, sir."

    "All right, thanks."  Anderson set the handset back into the

cradle.  Fucking zoomies, scheduling a flight on the rev watch. 

Oh, well.  He rolled out of bed, shaved and showered.  The desk was

open 24 hours, he was checked out by four and waiting for his ride.

    An airman came over to him.  "Are you LT Anderson?"


    "May I see your ID, sir?"  Anderson handed it to him.  The

airman looked it over and handed it back.  "Come with me, sir." 

He led the way to a "blue steelie," Air Force lingo for an issue

sedan.  Anderson got into the right-side seat.  He was a little

surprised when the airman passed by the MAC terminal and drove to

a hangar after passing a security check from the APs, who were

wearing woodland camo uniforms and carrying M-16A2s.  The airman

drove out onto the ramp and up to an Air Force C-12, their version

of the Beech King Air.  This one had seen better days, it was set

up as a cargo carrier (or "trash hauler"), complete with a load of

cargo.  The pilot, a woman in a USAF pilot's jumpsuit with

captain's bars waved him on board.  Anderson stowed his bag between

two crates and settled into the right seat.

    "You might want to put on that headset," she said.  "This old

beast can get pretty loud."

    Anderson did so, adjusting the headset to fit and the boom

mike to almost touch his mouth.  "Can you hear me?"

    "Sure can."  The pilot ran through the starting procedure with

the economy of motion born of great amounts of practice.  She soon

had both PT-6 engines turning.  She received her IFR and taxi

clearances, then taxied out to the runway.  They had to wait for

the wake of a departing C-5 to dissipate, then they were on their


    The flight went to Wisconsin, Anderson guessed.  He could

recognize Lake Michigan and he did his best to follow along with

the air traffic controllers working the airplane.  Dawn was

breaking when the pilot started her descent.  There was nothing but

woods, then he saw a small town next to an airport.  When they

landed, he looked with surprise at the collection of airplanes on

the ramp.  He hadn't seen so many tailwheel airplanes in one place;

everything from a few J-3s up to three Twin Beeches, a C-46 and two

DC-3s.  There were a few tricycle-geared airplanes, but damn few-

- a couple Cessna 172s, a Mooney, three Bonanzas and a King Air. 

Everyhting was painted in civilian schemes, complete with N-


    It looked like a civil airport in Alaska, except the man

coming out to greet them had an assault rifle slung over his

shoulder.  He told Anderson to go to the line shack, then he

started talking to the pilot about refueling the C-12 and unloading

the cargo.  Anderson trudged over to the shack.  A woman with a no-

nonsense demeanor asked for his ID.  She compared the card to a

list, then handed it over.  She stuck out her hand and said: 

"Welcome to school, Sherry.  I'm Doris Stackpole.  I'll be your

training coordinator while you're here at the school.  Let's get

you situated.  Come with me."  Doris led the way out of the other

end of the building.

    "What is this place?"

    "It's a training facility for all sorts of students.  Some of

the students are training for covert ops, some are here above

board.  First rule is:  Don't talk to anybody about who or what you

are or what you are here for.  Everything around here runs on a

`need-to-know' basis.  Understand?"

    "Sure do."  They had walked across the road to a small area

of townhouses.  Doris led the way to one of them and opened the

door with a key, which she gave Anderson.

    "This is yours for the duration of your stay."  She showed

Anderson around.  The townhouse was on two levels; upstairs were

two bedrooms and a bathroom, downstairs was a kitchen, dining area,

living room, a study (complete with a computer with a 19" screen)

and a half-bath.  "You're getting this place because it's so close

to the field, most of your training is going to be in flying."

    "Which of those planes will I be flying?"

    Doris shrugged.  "If you complete the course, all of them."

    "Even the DC-3?"

    "Yes, but you'll have a few other things to worry about." 

Anderson didn't like her grin, but he'd do a lot to get a DC-3 type

rating.  Doris went to the door.  "You have an appointment.  Bring

your stuff, they'll take it and issue you what you need."

    Anderson followed along.  They walked to a building almost a

half-mile away.  There they went into a room where Doris told him

to strip to his underwear.  Anderson did, two women came in and

started measuring his body; one measured, the other recorded.  They

traced the outlines of his hands and feet.  The real surprise was

when they measured penis size, both flaccid and erect.  Anderson

was embarrassed at that, but the two were just doing their job and

did it.  Afterwards, Doris gave him a pink terry-cloth robe and

told him to take his underwear off.  She collected all of his

things and marched out of the room.

    For the first time, Anderson was scared.  He had no idea where

he was, had no money, no ID, and all he had was a pink bathrobe.

    Doris returned about forty minutes later with some clothes. 

She handed him a pair of white cotton panties, "I think you know

how to wear them," she said.  Next was a yellow and black t-shirt,

a pair of white socks, women's blue jeans and a pair of Reebocks

that were white with pink trim.  "Other clothes will be sent to

your apartment.  Now, let's go to medical."

    "Another physical?"

    "Not like one you've ever had before."  This time, they drove. 

Doris had the keys to a jeep-like vehicle that ran on batteries. 

She drove to a hospital that was a couple of miles away by road,

although it was right across the airfield.

    Doris was somewhat right.  It was a thorough physical; but the

difference came when they had Anderson lie down for a whole-body

CAT-scan.  He almost freaked out; he had to lie on a very small

white tunnel while the machine hammered and whirred.  He could have

sworn the thing was going to grind him up.  After the scan, Doris

took him to the cafeteria for lunch.  The food was about the same

as any other hospital, barely edible.

    The PA system paged Doris when they had almost finished.  She

left the table to answer it, then returned.  "C'mon, Dr. Trotti

will see you now.  We'll find out what he can do for you."

    They finished quickly and left the cafeteria.  Anderson wanted

to ask what was going to happen, but there were other people


    Dr. Trotti was in his late 40s.  He shook hands and led them

into a darkened room.  There was a screen on the wall and an

overhead projector that could project computer images.  "Sherry,

my field is reconstructive surgery, though maybe  should say

constructive surgery.  Take a look at this."  He turned the screen


    Anderson looked closely.  The image was of a woman wearing a

tank top and a skirt that came to just above the knee.  Her breasts

swelled the top and showed a little cleavage.  The skirt clung to

nice hips.  Her face was not that of a raving beauty, but she had

nice cheekbones and didn't look bad at all.  "Who is she?"

    "That's you."


    "Yes."  Dr. Trotti shifted to another screen.  "This is your

skeletal structure.." He went into a lengthy discussion of how they

could modify Anderson's skeletal structure to make him look like

a woman, followed by a discourse of what plastic surgery techniques

they could use.  Anderson felt the MEGO (for "Mine Eyes Glaze

Over") factor kicking in.  Adding pieces here, taking pieces out

there.  It wasn't his body, it was a biological erector set.

    After Trotti said his piece, Anderson asked the key question: 

"How much of this is reversible?"

    Dr. Trotti considered that.  "Most of it is.  We can change

everything back that required surgical techiques.  You are going

to need a fair amount of electrolysis for us to be able to

accomplish what we need to do.  That isn't reversible."  The doctor

just smiled.  Almost everyone he had worked on asked that question. 

He had done the reversal surgery on about five percent of those he

had worked on.  But he didn't say anything.

    "All right.  When does the electrolysis start?"

    "Right now," Doris said.  They said goodbye to the doctor and

went to another part of the hospital.  There a nurse injected a

painkiller similar to novocaine inside his mouth.  She had him lie

on a table, then after about 30 minutes, she started to work. 

Another nurse came in and started on the other side of his face. 

Anderson could hear the humming of the machines and the occaisional

`zap' as a needle vaporized an oil pocket.  The nurses would wipe

his face with an antiseptic every so often.  He was very tired and

since he was feeling no pain, he fell asleep.

    They woke him up four hours later.  His lower face was wrapped

in a cold mask, it had tubing through which a chilled solution was

circulating.  When they took the mask off, one of the nurses

closely inspected his face.  "Not bad."  She gave him a tube of

antiseptic ointment and a small bottle of pain pills.  "See you

tomorrow," she said.

    Anderson wanted to say something, but his face was numb. 

Doris took him back to his townhouse.  She showed him the clothes

hanging in the closet, mostly variations of what he was wearing: 

jeans, different tops, several pairs of running and aerobics shoes. 

There was an assortment of unisex-athletic gear.

    "You get food by placing an order through your computer,

though you'll have to cook it yourself unless you order the

microwavable dinners; I recommend them as you won't have a lot of

time.  The instructions are next to it, it's fairly self-evident. 

You can order any books, tapes, CDs or videos the same way.  The

computer also ties into the training database for unclassified

material; you'll be taught how that works starting tomorrow. 

Anything you order will be placed on the living-room table, except

for perishables which will be put into your refridgerator or

freezer.  There are some tapes by the VCR to start you off.  I'll

be by tomorrow at 0730.  Any questions?"

    Anderson made writing motions.  Doris found a tablet and a

pen.  "Toothbrush?  Razor," he wrote.

    "Toothbrush is upstairs in the bathroom.  No razor, it's

easier to work with longish hair.  See you in the morning."

    Anderson half-heartedly watched a video, then found a chicken

dinner in the freezer after his face denumbed enough to eat it. 

He took a shower and rubbed the ointment over the areas where the

eletrolygists had worked.  He soon fell asleep wondering waht

tomorrow would bring.

    Tomorrow brought flight training.  Doris took him to a

classroom next to the airport.  She turned him over to an

instructor named Craig, who proceeded to start teaching him how to

fly by instruments.  Classroom work was in the morning, simulator

work in the afternoon.

    This routine went on for a solid month:  electrolysis one day,

flight training the other.  As Doris had promised, all the course

work was on a computer database, so Anderson was able to work on

the rating in the evening.  The simulator gave way to an IFR-

capable Cessna 180; Anderson became able to fly an approach to

minimums and follow up with a good landing.  "It's a lot harder in

a taildragger," Craig explained.  The electrolyis was a lengthy

affair, Anderson sometimes had several techicians working on his

body: they removed all the hair from his face, the back of his

neck, his arms, legs, chest, and back.  The process was always

accompanied by localized painkillers.  They thinned his eyebrows

to ones that could be either masculine or feminine.

    By the end of the month, Anderson had an instrument airplane

rating and the body hair of a woman.



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