A different kind of mission - Chapter 5

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A sharp rapping at the door to Brad's room started an equally-loud hammering within his chest as he struggled through a moment of disorientation the next morning. The delicate femininity of his room seemed doubly out of place after the Spartan barracks that had been his recent home. Brad called out once his heart was down from his throat, and Kathy entered the room.

"Up and at 'em, girl," she directed. Brad didn't feel much like a girl that morning. He had carefully removed his wig and hung it on the tall form, then removed his makeup. His instruction the previous day had included cleansing and moisturizing and other aspects of skincare, and he had complied as fully as he could before going to bed. No pajamas had been provided, so he had slept in the emerald panties, a fact that disturbed him again as he began to get out of bed with the trim instructor still watching.

"Oh, go on," Kathy laughed. "I've seen about as much of you as there is to see. Don't bother showering this morning. We have a workout first."

Brad quickly took care of the essentials and returned to the bedroom to find shiny black tights and an emerald leotard waiting for him. He dressed in the unfamiliar but not unexpected clothes and was soon following Kathy out of the room and down the hall. Other recruits, now six in number, and their instructors were converging in an exercise yard just outside the lodge. The field was lush with grass, but there were mats and aerobic steps spread around. In moments, all the trainees were lying on the mats with their instructors pulling on legs, arms, shoulders, necks, and everything else that moved.

"Ladies," announced the chief instructor, an appellation that seemed much less appropriate than the previous evening, "all of you will have to achieve the flexibility and grace of beautiful women. You may think this is easy, but I assure you that it is not. Give it your best effort, and you'll get through the pain faster."

Pain? In a moment, the truth of that warning became all too apparent as the personal trainers pushed harder and harder against the tightness of the recruits' muscles and joints. The strength imparted during basic training now worked against them as they tried to relax taut, hard muscles. The instructors were relentless, though, and all the recruits were soon aching from the forced stretching.

"All right, everybody up!" the chief instructor ordered. She was one of those impossibly fit young blondes that they always use as aerobics instructors, probably named Ashley or Amber or something suitably stylish. That stereotype turned out to be all too true as she cranked up a boombox and had the recruits start bouncing along with the music. This facet of the training was as much dance as exercise, and the personal trainers were as relentless at pointing out graceless moves as they had been at loosening up tight muscles. In just moments, the team was sweating in a way that women had somehow learned to overcome. It wasn't clear that this could be trained out of the bodies of the team, so they were going to get into such good shape that they wouldn't raise a sweat under any exertion the mission might require. At least, that was the plan.

After some interminable time, Amber (or was it Ashley?) called a halt and had them walk to another area of the compound, a few hundred yards away. Waiting for them, there was the first male instructor they had seen, or at least, the first one that was recognizably male. He was a bit over six feet tall, with a bushy black mustache, and he stood in the center of a large mat about twenty feet on aside.

"All right, ladies," his tone indicated disdain and ridicule, the first person who had not been sympathetic to their androgynous appearance, "I'm your martial arts instructor. My name is El Supremo, at least, as far as you're concerned. It's my job to teach you how to handle yourself without weapons. Let me make it clear at the start that I fight dirty. Marilyn has told me that anything that will heal within a year is fair game, as long as no scars result. You can heal a LOT in a year. Let me also make it clear that the only way you graduate from my class is if you can kick the shit out of me. Since none of you are likely to graduate, I expect we'll be seeing a lot of each other over this year and that I'll end up sending your sorry butts out into the field half-trained, but that's the breaks. Now, who wants to be first?"

Right, like anyone was volunteering to get beat up. Brad was especially bothered. Like all good martial arts instructors, those that had taught him aikido had made it clear that martial arts were not a path to being a bully but a way to achieve peace in the face of danger. This "El Supremo" character was the antithesis of that creed. Part of Brad was angered by the heresy, but part of him was intimidated by the arrogant confidence of the instructor. Clearly, this was not going to be a pleasant class. In a coincidence that was clearly well-planned, Marilyn and Constance had seemingly wandered up just as the instructor began his harangue.

One of the recruits was even more intimidated than Brad. Brad couldn't really remember this member of the team very well. Clearly, he had succeeded at the heels and makeup well enough to survive the first day's attrition, but nothing special came to mind about him. His hair was a medium brown, and the primary color of his clothes was a soft rose that wasn't unusual among the remaining recruits. The worried candidate started shaking his head, slowly at first, then more and more emphatically.

"No," came first a mutter, then a clear statement, then a shout, "NO! I am not getting kicked around by another bully. I don't care what kind of prison you put me in; I'm not getting pounded again."

This young man, like all the team, was slender and short. He seemed more fragile, though, as though the external limitations were only a facade on an even less capable spirit. His repeated denials became even more frantic until finally Marilyn stepped up to him and, in a strong, masculine voice they had never heard from her before, shouted, "Attention!"

Trained reflexes captured the whole team (interestingly enough, including the instructors), and the terrified boy stopped his babbling in shocked silence as all came to attention. Marilyn's eyes never left the young trainee. When he finally pulled himself together, she patted him softly on the shoulder and then turned to address the group as a whole, once again in a soft, feminine tone.

"I think we'll delay today's unarmed combat training for a short while. All of you follow me. Oh, at ease, just stroll along with me."

She started down a path deeper into the woods surrounding the compound. The other recruits followed along uneasily. The scene with the panicked response of one of their number had unnerved the entire team, and they walked as though they were picking a path through a minefield, waiting for the next explosion. Marilyn and Constance seemed unconcerned, but they had already shown that their minds were always evaluating the team members, always aware of their actions. After about ten minutes of gentle strolling, they approached another double razor-wire fence surrounding a reasonably conventional barracks building, an exercise yard, and a few small sheds. There was a uniformed guard at the only visible gate, the first normally dressed soldier they had seen since the helicopter pilots had left. Marilyn led them up to the gate and stopped, then turned to those following her.

"This is what happens to those who wash out. I'm not showing you this as a threat but as a promise. It's not especially bad, at least not for those who merely wash out of the training. I wasn't kidding, though, about what will happen to anyone who breaks security. Nonetheless, this is the only way out for those who can't complete the training. The only way. In the meantime, talk to those who are already inside."

With that, she nodded to the guard, who blew his whistle. Three men came tumbling from the barracks building, and by now, it was no surprise to see that they were Carp Anderson and the others who had failed to measure up. They were dressed in conventional BDUs, though with no insignia showing. Marilyn ostentatiously stepped through the group of trainees, taking place behind them so that they could move forward at will.

Brad was the first to respond. Perhaps his sympathy for the distressed recruit was a little less than the others since he had faced his own bullies in a more self-reliant manner, refusing to just take abuse. Or perhaps it was just that he already knew Carp Anderson and wanted to talk to him. In any event, he stepped closer to the outer fence and spoke, "Carp, how're you doing?"

"Not too bad," Carp replied, ducking his head in shame before his peers. "This place is okay. The barracks are more like a BOQ than an enlisted man's barracks, and they let us have movies for the dayroom TV. They even told us we can send for correspondence courses while we're in here."

"How long will that be?" the question came from several sources.

Constance answered from the back of the group, "Until the mission is completed, and such additional time as is required to ensure the success of the mission is not compromised."

The three inside the wire ducked their heads again, reminded of the predicament that held them. One of the outside recruits voiced a concern that Connie's words had raised, "But that could be forever."

"Yes," now Marilyn responded, bluntly, unequivocally. Turning to the recruit who had panicked at the hand-to-hand training site, she said, "Go on in. You'll find clothes inside."

She then turned and started back up the path they had traversed. Brad watched the dejected ex-team member walk to the gate the guard was opening. His tights and leotard looked sadly pathetic, just as his slumping shoulders and drooping head. Brad realized, as he turned to follow Marilyn, that he still couldn't remember the boy's name, neither his femme name nor his real one.

In a few minutes, they were back at the mat area. The instructor, "El Supremo," was still waiting, dancing a private kata to focus his mind and make use of the time. As the team struggled behind Marilyn, she walked straight onto the mat and up to the instructor.

"All right, asshole, you just cost me a team member. Better now than during the mission, but you owe me," the hard language was strangely incongruous coming from the gorgeous transvestite. She had put her makeup on that morning, and it appeared the blonde curls were her own. In her tights and multi-colored leotard, she looked for all the world like a young woman challenging a brutish beast of a man.

The man nodded to her, then stepped into position. They faced each other, made a formal bow, then set themselves. The instructor struck a formal pose, hands a bit above waist level, feet diagonally strong, legs partially bent. Marilyn just stood there, casually. Brad thought, "she's gonna get killed." He was surprised to find that bothered him. He hadn't had much contact with officers in his time in the army. Mostly they were just inspecting one thing or another and usually finding fault. The power they wielded was intimidating but distant. Still, Marilyn had shown interest in them, shown superb mastery of the skills she demanded of them, shown the strength of character and of leadership with an ability to make fast, sure, accurate decisions. She was respectable; that was the word. Brad realized he respected her greatly, a respect that was increased by her willingness to face this danger first, leading from the front. Somehow, that made her the representative of them all, and it was wrong for her to take lumps on their behalf. Her pain was their pain, and they weren't helping. These thoughts took only an instant, but that's all there was.

El Supremo exploded into motion, diving forward to catch Marilyn's hair in one meaty paw. With the other hand, he slapped her face hard. Even with his open hand, it was clear that his blows rocked the slight transvestite. A clenched fist would probably have broken her jaw. The team gasped at this abuse of their leader, a gasp that was soon echoed by another gasp as she fell backward onto the mat, pulling the man with her own hair, then with her hands as they found a hold. The beefy man found himself lifted over her bunched legs, but unlike the conventional technique where a leg is placed in the stomach of the attacker, Marilyn's slender foot was planted firmly in his crotch, very firmly. His grunt sounded even over the collective shock of the watching trainees, and his reflexive attempt to block her foot caused him to lose his grip on her hair. This left Marilyn fully in control, and she used that control to accelerate his motion into a whipcrack so hard it lifted her off the mat, a good thing since the impact of his crashing body surely registered on seismographs around the country, and anything in contact with the ground near his body would have felt some noticeable shocks. The boom as El Supremo hit the mat sounded so loud they wondered if his back had broken, a "concern" that was immediately alleviated by his rapid motion to cuddle himself into a ball, clutching his crushed manhood. He obviously couldn't breathe, but the observers couldn't tell whether that was because the wind was knocked out of him or just due to the pain in his crotch. Not that they cared.

General Merlin stood up from the mat. None of them, probably not even Constance, could have told exactly what change had transformed Marilyn into Merlin. There were no describable physical changes except the red blotch on his face where he had been slapped and a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. Yet it was as clear that this was a man as it had been undeniable that Marilyn had been feminine.

"That's another reason we chose men for this mission. If and when the time comes to fight, we expect you to fight. No mercy, no rules, no hesitation. When the time comes, there won't be room for the nurturing aspect of femininity, just the killer instinct of a man. If you don't have that instinct, you might as well join the others in the barracks compound because there's no room for you on the team."

As they watched, another magical transformation occurred before their eyes, yet indescribable. Where General Merlin had stood, now Marilyn smiled at them, the smile distorted by a lip that was already thickening. They had been told that the transformation they needed was more internal than external, but now they believed it, convinced by the incredible effect of Marilyn's appearance.

"Besides," she said with a smile and Marilyn's gentle voice, "El Supremo is wrong. You're all going to learn to kick his butt. If he won't show you how I will, and I'll use him to demonstrate. Won't I, asshole?" This last was delivered to the still-huddled man, who nodded feebly.

"Well, that's enough on unarmed combat for today, I think," Marilyn continued. "Let's go back to the lodge."