Spies & Sweethearts

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeA chilly wind lifted Emily’s hair as she walked across the forty-acre campus. Unseasonably blustery, the temperature hovered just above frigid. She drew her coat closer and hunched into the collar. Two weeks had passed since her arrival at the training facility, located somewhere in Virginia. Or was it Pennsylvania? Everything was so secretive, students were given information on a “need to know” basis. Apparently, the instructors didn’t think she needed to know much, including where she was.

The days were long and packed with lecture after lecture, the nights with memorization and homework. Her eyes burned from all the reading, and her brain ached from studying. College had been a lark by comparison.

She approached the small creek that ran through the property. Her roommate sat on its banks tossing stones into the water.

“Mind if I join you, Martha? I’ve got about twenty minutes before my next class and couldn’t stand being inside one more minute.”

Martha smiled and gestured to the ground beside her. “Me, too. I’m a farmer’s daughter. My life before this was spent outdoors. Too much time between four walls isn’t healthy.” She shuddered. “How’re you holding up?”

Emily shrugged. “I’ve always been a good student, voracious reader, and all that, but there are times I feel overwhelmed and wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Am I smart enough to see this through?”

“I’m holding on to the fact that they wouldn’t have selected us if they didn’t think we could do the job.”

Birds chirped overhead, and chipmunks chattered in the bushes. The river water gurgled and danced in the sunshine that warmed Emily’s back.

She tucked her hair behind her ears. “That’s true as far as getting into the program, but four people have already washed out, one of whom departed on the second day. This is a difficult course. Certainly the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“I don’t want to borrow trouble, but I think it’s only going to get tougher. We haven’t touched codes and ciphers yet or done any fieldwork. I may be strong, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for climbing trees or hiking over mountains.”

“You’re supposed to be making me feel better.” Emily nudged Martha’s shoulder.

Martha chuckled. “Right. Sorry.” She skipped a rock across the water’s surface. “Hey, did you like Mr. Smith’s class? And by the way, we have too many professors named Smith and Jones. If they’re going to practice all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, just assign letters. You know like Professor Q.”

“Or Mr. X.” Emily smoothed her slacks. “What did you think the job was going to be? I assumed they were hiring me for my ability to translate French. I don’t see why I have to learn police procedures like how to search a house or conduct surveillance on a person.”

“What about me? My claim to fame is animal husbandry and crop rotation. Why would they possibly have a need for those skills?”

“Why did you apply if you were skeptical they could use you?”

“I have eight brothers and sisters, most of them younger than me. That’s a lot of mouths to feed even on a farm. Government and war industry jobs pay well. So, I filled out the paper and took the test. This is where they sent me.” She rubbed the dirt from a small stone. “I do have a head for figures; you know math problems.”

“Ugh. You mean like those awful word problems I struggled through in high school? If two trains left two different stations twelve miles apart, how long until they ran into each other, or some such nonsense? Who needs to know that?”

“Maybe these folks.”

The sky darkened, and gray clouds scudded overhead. Emily shivered. “The classes on disguising myself were interesting. And not just wigs and clothing but how to develop habits and mannerisms. I could become a whole different person after the war.”

“What would your family think about that?”

“Same as they always do. I made a wrong decision.” She huffed out a breath. “Enough about me. What’s your favorite class so far?”

“Propaganda. The psychological aspect of trying to influence people. Fascinating. Talk about a skill that comes in handy. I could get my husband to do whatever I wanted him to.”

“You’re married?” Emily’s gaze whipped toward Martha.

“No. I mean when I get one.”

“Good luck with that. I’m going it alone. I don’t want a husband. Just one more person telling me what to do.” She shook her head. “No, after we’ve won this war, I’m not going home. Maybe I’ll stay overseas. I wish they’d tell us where we’re going to be stationed.”

“They’ve got to see who’s left at the end before they can do that.”

Emily glanced at her watch and leapt to her feet. “And if I don’t get going, I’m going to be the next victim kicked out.”

“What’s your class?”

“Tactics and field craft. A fancy name for fighting...” She shuddered. “And killing. Necessary skills if they send me behind the lines, but frightening to think about.” Would this be the class that washed her out? She licked her lips, then waved over her shoulder, and trotted toward the two-story brick house, her legs eating up the distance in moments. Racing up the steps, she yanked open the door and hurried down the hallway, coming to a stop a few feet before the classroom.

She patted her hair into place, tucked in her blouse, and ran a hand over her pants. A glance at the clock told her she had thirty seconds to spare. She grinned and entered the room. The only vacant seat was front and center. So much for slipping along the side and into a chair in the back.

“Miss Strealer. Nice of you to join us.”

Her jaw dropped, and she stared at the instructor. The Clark Gable lookalike from the airplane leaned against the desk, his face stern.

j

Gerard swallowed a grin. He couldn’t let Miss Strealer see how much he enjoyed her discomfort. Since seeing her name on the roster two days ago, he’d had time to adjust to the knowledge of their paths crossing again. Stunned at the thought of the gorgeous young woman parachuting behind enemy lines, he reviewed her file to determine why the agency selected her.

He’d recognized the woman’s intelligence on the plane, but her record spoke volumes about her potential. Yes, her language skills and knowledge of the French people were impeccable, but her aptitude scores were higher than every student in her group. Her fine motor skills exceeded his own. She excelled on the intuition tests and passed the psychology evaluation with flying colors.

All well and good, but would she be able to kill a man with her bare hands?

Probably not. Her timidity on the plane during takeoff then during the turbulence incident didn’t bode well. It was better for her to fail here and be sent on her way than to put her in a situation from which she couldn’t recover.

“Welcome, everyone. Congratulations on making it this far. You are among the brightest America has to offer, and we appreciate your willingness to do your bit for the war effort, as they say. Most of your training has been book learning, but that’s about to change. The next five weeks will be the most physically challenging of the course, probably more demanding than you’ve ever experienced. You will be exhausted at the end of each day. You’ll need to push yourself beyond what you ever thought possible.” His gaze swept the room, then he zeroed in on Miss Strealer’s expression. “This training will make the difference between whether you live or die in the field.”

Her eyes widened, and her eyebrows shot up.

He had to give her credit for maintaining her composure. She didn’t gasp or go pale like some of the other female students. Did she have the fortitude for this after all?

“Anyone want to back out at this point? No one will blame you if you are unwilling to put your life on the line.” He pointed to a pair of women in the back who had exchanged a fearful glance at his comment. “How about you ladies? Want to stay?”

“Yes, sir.” They spoke in unison.

They wouldn’t last the week. “Fine.” He gestured to a smug-looking young man lounging in his chair. “What about you, tough guy? Think you’ve got what it takes?”

“Absolutely. I’m from the Bowery. Nothing more dangerous than that.”

Gerard narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see about that.” He sauntered forward until he stood inches from Miss Strealer. Crossing his arms, he peered down his nose at her. “And you? Can you handle crawling in the dirt, running for hours wearing a pack, or escaping detection from tracker dogs?”

She sat up, ramrod straight, laid down her pencil, and glared at him. “Yes, sir. Any reason to believe I can’t?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Her face pinked, but she continued to stare him down. She did seem to have gumption, but would her grit and spunk be enough to keep her alive longer than the six-week average lifespan of a radio operator?

He rubbed his hands together. “All right, enough conversation. Let’s get cracking.” Gerard clicked on the overhead projector then dimmed the lights. Moving to the screen, he poked a photograph of a small building. “The first topic we’re going to discuss is how to attack an enemy-occupied house. Needless to say, surprise is crucial in these situations. Without it, your mission has a greater chance of failure.”

Holding up his thumb, he said, “First, there must be a detailed preliminary reconnaissance of the approaches to the house and the house itself.” His index finger went up. “Second, there must be a definite plan of action to which everyone adheres. No mavericks, no gunslingers.” Gerard shot a look at the young man from New York. “Got that, Bowery?”

The recruit nodded.

Gerard clapped his hands, the sound sharp in the silence. “Now, if the group is going to avoid casualties, speed and aggression must be used as soon as the action begins. Lastly, it is essential that every allowance be made by the leader for the original plan to go awry. Be prepared for the worst, because if something can go wrong, there’s a strong possibility it will. That’s when your real mettle comes into play.”

With a flourish, he stabbed the windows and door on the house’s image then swapped the Mylar sheet with a photograph of the back of the building. “Lots of ways into this place. Who has an idea about the means of ingress?”

“One of the windows in the back?” A timid suggestion rose from the middle of the group.

“Nope, you’re dead. No one can enter quickly, and you’re an easy target as soon as you get in. More often than not, you have to jump down when entering through a window.”

“The roof. Definitely the roof.”

“Excellent, Bowery. It is the most advantageous route because you can drive the enemy lower, and he can’t roll any grenades on top of you. However, before you congratulate yourself, be aware it’s next to impossible to get there undetected because you are bound to make noise, no matter how hard you try not to. So, you’re probably dead, too.”

Miss Strealer held up her hand.

“What say you, Miss Strealer?”

She licked her lips.

He blinked so as not to stare at her alluring mouth. Get a grip, Lucas. “Well?”

“Uh, the back door because it’s less likely to be defended, at least as strongly as the front?”

“Is that a question or a statement? Seems like a definite maybe.”

Her left eyebrow rose, and her chin jutted out. “A statement.” She cleared her throat. “Most times the back has better coverage because the landscaping isn’t as trimmed or as well cared for.”

“Very good. That’s correct. If you can’t enter via a skylight in the roof, the back door is your second best option.” He tossed a glance at her. “Congratulations, Miss Strealer. You’re not dead…yet.”

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that statement.