Chapter 40
For their first weekend of training, or abuse as Nash later called it, they rode together in the rear of a company car for two hours and said little.
Neither the driver nor his sidekick spoke unless spoken to.
Nash assumed that anything he said would be absorbed by the two and put in a memo.
As a fledgling covert operator, he had adopted the rule: You never get in trouble for the things you don’t say.
So he kept his nose stuck in another le Carré novel, while Rae Claire read a nonfiction book about some French women who worked as spies in World War II.
Their joint literary adventure gave them plenty to discuss when they were alone.
Rae Claire had spent six months in training there a few years earlier, as well as her annual refreshers that lasted from twenty to thirty days.
Back when she was a rookie she dreamed of running covert operations around the world, as did most aspiring intelligence officers.
For the past three years she had been stuck at a desk pretending to be an academic editor.
Rescuing the three Americans might be her ticket to adventure.
If the operation failed, she would probably be recalled to Langley for more desk work.
They entered The Farm through unmarked and heavily guarded gates, and were driven to a building where they were met by an instructor who never smiled.
They sat in a small classroom and listened as he described the Hostile Interrogation course they were about to encounter.
He caught them off guard with “What are you afraid of? Snakes, heights, the dark, rats, flying, needles, cramped places, sexual assault, spiders?”
When they were slow to answer he said, “Come on, everybody has a fear. What about snakes? That’s a common one. Ever held a snake?”
Rae Claire said, “No. And I don’t like snakes at all.”
“And you?” He looked at Stuart.
“Okay, I’m sort of claustrophobic.”
“Got it.”
Rule Number One: Never reveal your weakness.
“Watch this,” he said, and a large screen lowered.
They watched and listened for an hour as several former POWs described how they survived years of interrogation, torture, and captivity.
They had served in Vietnam and were now easily in their eighties, and they seemed to enjoy describing the horrors that they had not only survived but walked away from with pride.
Their message was clear: You will survive, regardless of what they do to you.
However, some of their stories were nauseating.
And one old veteran made the mistake of hinting that not all of his pals in captivity actually made it out.
When they had heard enough, the video ended and a nattily attired gentleman entered the room.
He limped and used a cane. He’d been a career field officer for thirty years and had worked in the most dangerous places in the world.
Some of his colleagues considered him to be a legend.
He told the story of being captured and spending four years in a prison so deep in the mountains Langley had never heard of it.
He suffered painful injuries that received no attention.
He was constantly told his country could not find him and he would soon die a painful death.
He could hear the screams and cries of others.
His cell had a dirt floor. Holes in the wall allowed snakes and rats to come and go.
He was interrogated by torture, but never broke, never revealed his secret mission.
He gave them plenty by “peeling away the onion,” but never the highly classified intel.
He learned to mentally vacate his surroundings and take himself to his boyhood home on a farm in Indiana, a place with great memories.
Riding horses, fishing in the ponds, swimming in the creeks, playing games with his brothers.
The happiest days of his life. He trained his mind to go there every day and escape the hell he was enduring.
He could fabricate conversations with parents and siblings.
When he was finished with his stories, he simply said, “Good luck,” and walked out the door without another word.
The instructor left the room too, and a few awkward seconds crept by as Stuart and Rae Claire waited for whatever was next.
It began with lights out, a total blackout that was soon followed by a loud booming noise that shook the walls and floor.
The door opened and let in just enough light to see a frightening squad of commandos in black darting in.
Before Stuart and Rae Claire could react they were grabbed, rather roughly, by some really tough guys and dragged to the rear of the room where a hidden door suddenly opened and swallowed them.
They were separated and would not see each other for seventy-two hours.
Stuart did not resist but the commandos pushed and shoved as if he did. He was thrown into a dark room. One of them said, “Change clothes, and watch out for snakes.” The door slammed and they were gone.
They were on his side, right? We’re all good guys.
If so, then why was his heart pounding and his forehead sweating?
The sudden attack had shocked him. His eyes acclimated to the darkness and he searched for snakes around his feet.
Finding none, he noticed a small cot with some clothing stacked neatly on it.
Olive green pants and a matching shirt, black combat boots, size 11, a perfect fit.
He changed into the uniform and sat on the cot.
A voice from a hidden speaker said, “Put all your stuff in the bag. Watch, wallet, keys, everything.”
So they were watching.
An hour passed. He had not been prepared for such a dramatic capture, and though he knew it was a training regimen it was still more frightening than anything he’d expected.
The simulated version of being grabbed by trained operatives was so fast and so authentic that Nash was still uncertain.
He tried to remember his basic training at Fort Campbell, ten years earlier.
The door opened and three of the boys rushed in.
“Stand up!” As he stood, a thick black hood went over his head.
“Hands behind.” They grabbed his hands and cuffed them behind his back.
With more force than was necessary, they yanked him through the door and a few steps later they boarded a vehicle.
It smelled like an old bus. Breathing was difficult but Nash was not about to complain.
He would give them nothing. They rocked along for a few minutes then stopped.
They grabbed Stuart’s elbows again and escorted him off the bus and into a building where they put him in a cage that was too tight for him to sit.
“Stay on your feet.” The hood was ripped off and his captors disappeared.
It was impossible to sit so he had no choice but to stay on his feet.
There were similar cages on both sides of his but he was alone.
The light was dim but he soon focused on his surroundings.
It was obviously a sick version of a jail used to brutalize rookie trainees.
There was no sign of his fiancée. No sign of anyone.
Some time passed, though he had no idea how much.
The space was so quiet he could hear the silence.
He was six feet two inches tall with broad muscular shoulders, and his body seemed to touch metal every time he moved.
More time passed and his calves grew tighter.
They had arrived at The Farm at 10:18 a.m. He had checked his watch, which had been confiscated.
It was now well into the afternoon and the yogurt he’d had for breakfast was a distant memory.
A man without a mask appeared before him and said, “You okay?”
“Something to eat would be nice, and some water.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And I need to take a piss.”
“Go ahead.”
Then he was gone.
The combat boots had become painful and Nash managed to unlace the left one and kick it off. He couldn’t manipulate the laces to his right one. The man came back with a bottle of warm water and a cup of rice. Nash looked at the rice and said, “Gee thanks.”
“Take it or leave it.” He squeezed the plastic bowl through an opening in the wire.
Nash took it, ate it with his fingers, and drank the water.
Not long afterward, two men in black appeared.
They opened the door and led him along the hallway to a room with a urinal.
He removed the boot on his right foot. Walking was a relief.
He urinated as long as possible, bending and stretching his legs.
Instead of returning to his cell, he was led to another room where he sat across from his first interrogator, a most unpleasant jerk who from the beginning seemed to know more about his past than he did.
He would be called Major. He began firing questions, occasionally glancing at his notes.
They covered everything from Stuart’s high school days through college.
Major grilled him on a low grade he’d made in a physics class.
Stuart tried to defend himself but was surprised by the fact that the CIA would have access to his student records.
There had been a fight after a football game when a bunch of drunks brawled and threw beer cans.
Nash had thrown no punches, nor received any, but he was warned by the police.
Five others were arrested, but the incident went away.
Major didn’t believe him and attacked from all angles.
Being accused of something he was only partially responsible for was unsettling.
Major finally got under his skin. They bantered back and forth and the language deteriorated, but Nash managed to settle down and cool off.
It’s just a game, a part of the training. They can’t kill me.