From alt.sex.stories.tg Wed Jul 24 10:35:16 1996
Path: nienor!mordred.cc.jyu.fi!forwiss.uni-passau.de!suelmann
~From: suelmann@forwiss.uni-passau.de (Michael Suelmann)
~Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.tg,alt.sex.stories
~Subject: TG: ABFH - complete
~Date: 22 Jul 1996 22:33:35 GMT
Organization: University of Jyvaskyla, Finland
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NNTP-Posting-Host: beleg.forwiss.uni-passau.de
~Xref: nienor alt.sex.stories.tg:2062 alt.sex.stories:61518

TG, sex-change (chem,surgery), plot (aviation, partly violent)	§§§§§§§§
There was an incomplete repost of this story recently.
Here is all the authour wrote until now. 
There probably won't come any new parts.

This is the start of the series "Assault Bitches From Hell"
Copyright Stephanie M. Belser.  Her E-mail address is
73020.2405@compuserve.com


Assault Bitches From Hell


    Lieutenant Anderson waited outside of the office of the
Chief of Staff for Destroyer Squadron Two.  He had no idea what
the COS wanted, but he really didn't care very much.  In ten
days, very much against his will, he was going to be a civilian.
He planned to burn his uniforms as soon as he could.
     Captain Williams opened the door and said:  "Come on in, Mr.
Anderson."  Anderson did so, he found an Army Colonel sitting in
a chair next to a table.  A file folder lay on the table.
"Anderson, this is Col. Hampton.  He wants to discuss some
matters with you."
     Col. Hampton stood up and shook hands.  "Nice to meet you,
Lieutenant."  He turned his head and said:  "Thanks, Pete" to
Capt. Williams, who left the office.  "Have a seat, son."
     Anderson sat down.  He wanted to ask what this was all
about, but he kept quiet.  Hampton looked at him and nodded.
     "All right.  I've got something I'd like to discuss with
you, Sam, if you don't mind."
     Anderson shrugged.  "Talk all you want, Colonel, but why
should I listen?"
     Hampton pulled a sheet of paper from the file.  "You're due
to be discharged on an `Other than Honorable' basis late next
week.  Your service record is an exemplary one.  After your first
year, your fitness reports have been straight `A's, consistent
recommendations for early promotion.  You went to Department Head
School early, did well.  You've been the Engineer of a frigate
for the last sixteen months, your captain thought very highly of
you.
     "Then a security officer at the bank was matching up ATM
transactions with photographs.  He saw that a woman was using
your card.  Upon further investigation, it was learned that you
were the woman.  You're a transvestite, so now you're being
discharged.  Is that about it?"
     Anderson had sat quietly throughout the entire recitation.
"Correct, sir.  So what?"
     "So this."  He handed the sheet of paper to Anderson.
     Anderson read it.  It was a standard Bureau of Naval
Personnel set of message orders, addressed to him, discharging
him on honorable conditions.  Without a word, Anderson stood up,
went over to the desk and dialed the AUTOVON number the officers'
order section of BuPers in Washington.  (It was a number all
naval officers know by heart.)  In a few minutes, Anderson
learned that the orders were genuine, but not yet active.  They
would be released when verified by an army colonel named Hampton.
     Anderson hung up the phone and returned to his seat.  he
handed the orders back to Hampton and said:  "Okay, Colonel, I'm
all ears."
     "First, I want you to read and sign this."  Hampton handed a
another piece of paper to Anderson.  It was a disclosure
agreement; by signing it he agreed to keep whatever was discussed
to himself for the next 75 years.  The US Government was
authorized to use any method they deemed fit, not limited to
legal methods, to make him keep quiet.
     Anderson looked up.  "This could be interpreted to mean you
could have me shot if I talked."
     "That's right.  You won't be able to discuss whatever we
talk about.  Is it worth an honorable discharge to listen?"
     Anderson signed it.  "You're on, sir."
     Col. Hampton settled back in his seat.  "I'm sure you're
aware of the restrictions we have on assigning women to combat
duty.  Most of the time, that's not a problem.  We have assigned
women to combat areas, even areas so hot that they have to carry
full combat gear.  We can assign them there because their weapons
would be used for defense.  But we cannot assign them to any job
where they would have to use their weapons offensively.  There
are some times when we need that capability.  Then we run smack
up against the law.
     "Now, I'm not talking about full-blown battlefield missions.
I'm referring to unconventional mission, `covert action' if you
will, where a woman would have a distinct advantage.  But we
can't use them."
     "So why not turn the job over to the CIA?  Surely they
aren't constrained by the same law," Anderson pointed out.
     "No, they're not.  But we like to have our own capability to
mount such operations.  The law doesn't prohibit us from using
men, though."
     "Which is where I come in?"
     "Exactly.  We screen everyone being discharged for being a
transvestite or a transsexual.  Those who have some abilities
suitable to our needs are approached for further consideration.
In other words, we still have a place for you in the military if
you want it."
     Anderson looked directly at Hampton.  "I was outed six weeks
ago.  They couldn't get me off the ship fast enough.  Now you say
you want me.  Fine.  What's in it for me?"
     "A lot.  You'll be transferred to an army unit.  While
there, you'll receive your base pay plus a number of special
pays.  If you stay in, you'll be promoted at the same rate you
would have been before.  If you decide to leave before completion
of the training program or are found to be not what we need,
you'll get the honorable.  If you complete the training, then
should you leave, you will be treated like a reservist who did
the full 20 years of drilling:  At 62, you become a retiree with
full benefits."
     Anderson thought it over.  "What's the first step?"
     "Go home right now.  Do not return to this office, ever.
Pack an overnight bag with one change of clothing, your pilot's
logbook, and a pair of sunglasses.  You won't need anything else.
Be at the general aviation terminal at the Norfolk airport at
0700.  A man will meet you and put you on a flight.  He'll also
take care of your car."
     "Sounds interesting.  But why me?"
     Hampton shrugged.  "You have some abilities we need,
especially your flying experience."
     "Don't you get pilots, too?"
     "Not really.  The Government has so much invested in their
training that they are quietly told to keep it cool until their
EAOS.  Besides, they're not into the low, slow stuff."  Hampton
stood up.  "Thanks for listening, Lieutenant."
     Anderson shook his hand and said nothing.

     He was at the general aviation terminal at 6:45 the next
morning.  Right on time, a man came up and asked if he was Sam
Anderson.  When Anderson nodded, he motioned him to follow.  The
man led him out to the ramp and pointed to a Piper Navajo.  "Get
in that plane.  Don't talk to the pilot.  Let me have your keys."
     Anderson separated the keys for his car from his key ring
and handed them to him, then he walked to the airplane.  He
climbed into the Piper and sat down in the right-hand seat.  The
twin was configured to carry cargo, there were only two seats.
The pilot went back, shut the door, took his seat, and started
the engines.  After a few minutes to warm up the oil, they were
soon climbing into the sky over Tidewater Virginia.
     The pilot leveled off at 8,500 feet, heading southwest.
Without a chart, Anderson had no way to know where they were
going.  He did know they had flown for almost four hours when the
pilot started a descent into a small airport.  The field was
located in a pine forest; it had one runway that looked narrow
and short.  When they landed, the pilot shut down both engines
and pointed at a car parked by a small line shack.
     The inference was obvious, Anderson got out of the seat.
picked up his bag, and went over to the line shack.  He found a
rest room, drained his bladder, then went out to the car.  A
nice-looking woman was sitting behind the wheel.  She looked at
him with mild interest and nodded towards the passenger's side
door.  Anderson opened the back door, put his bag in, and got
into the front.  He buckled up and they drove off.
     She said nothing, and Anderson was damned if he was going to
say anything.  He could figure out that they were somewhere in
Arkansas from the license plates on the cars, but he didn't
recognize anything.  He had never been there before.
     They pulled up in the parking lot of a small professional
building forty minutes later.  The woman pointed to the front
door.  Anderson got out.  They want to play it cool, he thought,
so would I.  He grabbed his bag and went in without a word or a
backwards glance.
     There was another woman sitting at the reception desk in the
building.  "Are you Sam Anderson," she asked.
     Finally, a voice.  "Yes."
     "May I see your ID, please?"  She held out her hand.
Anderson dug out his wallet and handed her his military ID card.
She glanced at it and handed it back.  "Please have a seat, the
Doctor will be with you shortly."  She turned away from him in
dismissal.
     Anderson went to the waiting area and soon found a
"Newsweek" that was current according to the AMA guidelines-- it
was only seven months old.  He leafed through the magazine and
some others for about a half-hour, then the receptionist told him
to go to Room Five.  He did so, then waited for another ten
minutes.
     A man in a white coat who appeared to be in his mid-40s came
into the room.  "Sam Anderson?  I'm Dr. McHenry.  I'll be giving
you your inprocess physical this afternoon."
     "WHAT physical?"
     "Oh, they didn't tell you," Dr. McHenry remarked.  "The
first thing we do is give you a complete physical.  Some of it
involves blood work, which is why we haven't fed you lunch.  That
and a few other tests are first up, then you'll get something to
eat, followed by a lot of other tests, then a dental exam. "
     "How long will this last?"  Clearly Anderson was not at all
pleased about going through a physical.  "I had one two weeks
ago."
     "That was, correct me if I'm wrong, a pre-separation exam.
That just makes sure all your major body parts are attached.
This one's a little more intensive.  We should be done by nine or
so."
     Nine tonight?  Goddamn it, cursed Anderson to himself.
"Well, let's get on with it."
     "All right.  Strip to the waist and then come with me."
Anderson did that.  The doctor led him to a room where he turned
him over to a nurse.
     "Lie down here, please," the nurse said.  Anderson did so.
The nurse drew blood, filling several vials.  Then she smeared
some clear goo on his chest ant attached the sensor cups for an
electrocardiogram.  "Not bad," she pronounced as the strip
unrolled from the machine.  Looks like you try to stay in shape."
     The rest of the exam was a forgettable ordeal of tests;
urine, stool, hand-eye coordination, a stress test, and even a
proctological exam.  They took a break around four and gave
Anderson a bag of McJunk food from the Golden Arches.
Afterwards, he had to fill out an extremely detailed medical and
psychological history.  That was hard; the questionnaire mainly
concerned transvestism and transsexualism.  It asked a lot of
questions that he hadn't even thought of before.
     The last ordeal was a dental exam.  It was given by a
dentist who made the dentist Steve Martin played in "The Little
Shop of Horrors" seem like a compassionate soul.
     The day ended at ten that night.  A different nurse drove
him to a small motel.  "There's a restaurant across the street.
Tell them to put your meal on Peterboro, inc.  Don't worry about
the motel bill.  Be ready to leave with your gear at six-thirty."
     Anderson nodded and got out of the car.  The clerk gave him
a key without asking any questions or giving him a registration
form.  The room was a standard cheapie motel room; two double
beds, a telephone without a dial, towels one could see through, a
shower, and a TV set bolted to the floor.
     The restaurant wasn't bad, but Anderson was too tired to
care much.  He had a salad and soup, then went back to the room.
He called the desk and asked them to wake him at 5:45.

     It seemed as if the telephone rang fifteen minutes later,
but when Anderson looked at his watch, it was quarter till six.
Goddamn, this is like standing he evening watch and then getting
up at reveille, he thought.  He shaved, showered, and got
dressed, then went across to the restaurant for breakfast.  The
service was quick, he was able to eat and get back to the motel
parking lot three minutes early.  The same nurse who had driven
him to the motel drove him back to the clinic.
     This time the receptionist directed him to another room.  It
was brightly lit with a large mirror on one side.  Anderson had
read enough mystery and espionage novels to guess that the mirror
was of the one-way kind.  A fairly comfortable chair faced the
mirror.  Next to the chair was a stand with a speakerphone on
top.  He sat down in the chair and waited.
     He didn't have to wait long.  "Good morning, Lieutenant
Anderson," said an electronically-disguised voice.  "We are going
to ask you a series of questions this morning.  Please answer
them as honestly as you can.  Ready?"
     "No.  Who are you, and why this set-up?"
     "There are four of us.  We are going to talk with you about
a number of subjects.  The reason for this setting is so that you
cannot tailor your responses to our reactions.  You can't see us
and the computer interface will make all our voices sound the
same with no inflection.  Ready?"
     "Shoot."
     "When did you first crossdress?"
     "When I was four or five."  And it went on from there.  What
he had worn, what was his reactions, where did he obtain feminine
attire, reactions of family, girlfriends.  What was his feeling
towards women.  Each response generated more questions.  Anderson
felt like a limp rag by the time they took a break at nine.  They
started up after twenty minutes and went to eleven-thirty,
punctuated by one head call.  It was tough as hell.  He had to
talk to a group of strangers about a part of his life he had
never shown anyone.
     The session ended when another nurse came in and told him to
follow her.  They left the building and got into a car.  The
nurse swung through a fast-food's drive-in lane, she told
Anderson to order his lunch.  When they drove off, she instructed
him to eat it as they drove.  He just went with the flow.
     They arrived at another airport twenty minutes later.  The
nurse told him to go inside and ask for Carol.  Anderson got out
and did that.  Carol appeared to be in her late 20s with brunette
hair.  She had on jeans, Reeboks, and a t-shirt.
     "You're Sam Anderson, eh.  Let me see your logbook."
Anderson handed it over.  She leafed through it, then handed him
a key on a keyring.  "Go out and preflight the blue Citabria, 64
echo."
     Anderson smiled at that, he went out and checked the
airplane over.  It had been a while since he had flown a 7ECA,
but he was current in Super Cubs, so he felt confident.  Carol
came out when he finished and got into the back seat, Anderson
climbed into the front.  They put on headsets.  "Can you hear
me," Carol asked.
     "Yes."
     "Good.  Start her up and let's go.  Unicom's 122.7, head out
on 240 and climb to four thousand."
     Anderson pumped the throttle twice, cleared the prop, and
engaged the starter.  The four-banger caught and started, he held
about 1,000 rpms while the oil warmed up.  When it was warm, he
added power and taxied to the runway.  The taxiway was grass, he
didn't go very fast.  The runup was normal.
     Time to go.  Nobody was coming, so he swung onto the runway,
lined the nose up, and added power, feeding in right rudder to
counteract the engine's torque.  He held a little forward stick
to lift the tailwheel, then held the tail low and let the
airplane fly when she was ready to.
     The day was warm, the Citabria didn't climb very rapidly,
but they soon were at 4,000 feet.  "Do some dutch rolls," Carol
said.  Anderson banked the plane left-right-left-right, using the
rudder to keep it on a straight course.
     "Slow flight."  Anderson took the power off, slowed down,
then added power while holding the nose up.  He was mushing
around on the edge of a stall.
     "Turn 90 degrees to the left."  Anderson slowly turned.
"Now the right."  He was back on his original course.
     "Power-off stall."  Anderson turned to ensure the area was
clear, then chopped the power and held the nose up.  He used
rudder to keep the wings level, the airplane shuddered and
stalled.  He lowered the nose, added full power, and established
a climb.
     "Power-on stall."  He cleared the area, ensuring nobody else
was around.  He cut the engine, slowed to 65, then raised the
nose and added full power.  He brought the nose up more and more
until the airplane stalled, dropping the nose.  Anderson brought
the nose down below the horizon, built up airspeed, then
established a climb.
     "Take us back."  Anderson turned around and flew back the
way he came, establishing a shallow descent.  He found the
airport and entered the pattern.  "Do some full-stall touch and
goes."  He flew the airplane around the pattern, doing about four
full-stall landings.
     "Show me some wheel landings."  Those are harder, Anderson
had to flare out just above the runway and touch the main wheels
to the pavement, adding in forward stick when the wheels touched.
He bounced a couple, a couple were greasers.  After the fourth
one, Carol told him to taxi back in and shut down.  They went
into the building, the nurse who had driven him there was
waiting.  Carol wrote in his logbook that he had been
satisfactorily checked out in a 7ECA in 1.5 hours of flying time.
She handed him the logbook back without comment, then Anderson
followed the nurse back to the car.
     She drove him to the clinic again.  This time, Col. Hampton
was in the office, dressed in civilian clothes.  He stood up and
shook hands with Anderson.  "Congratulations, son.  You passed
the screening process.  Do you want in?"
     "Sure."
     Hampton handed him a book of names for girl babies.  "First,
you pick a name for yourself.  It'd be easier if you choose one
that starts with an `S'."
     Anderson looked at the selection, sounding them in his head.
"How about `Sherry?'"
     Hampton nodded.  "Fine.  Welcome aboard, Sherry."

     Anderson asked the logical question:  "Now what?"
     "We'll handle this just like a standard set of permanent
orders," the Colonel replied.  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
mail."
     "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 though 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
handset.
     "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?"
     "Yes."
     "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
way.
     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
outside of an EAA fly-in; 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-numbers.
     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
around.
     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 we should say
constructive surgery.  Take a look at this."  He turned the screen
on.
     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."
     "What?"
     "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 several 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 can 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 a lot of swelling.  His upper lip was so
swollen that he had trouble drinking.  The side of his face where
one of the electrolygists had worked was swollen, too.  This time
they had him strip to his underwear and four people were working on
him; two on the face and one on his legs.  The worst part of the
procedure was when a doctor would come in and inject lidocaine so
the electrolygists could proceed.  Most of the time he could see a
TV, so they let him watch VCR movies or cable.
     This went on for almost two weeks, but by the time they were
done, he had no body hair other than that that a woman had.  They
told him that they'd have to do it all again in six weeks, but it
would take less time then.  Well, he thought, maybe by six weeks
the swelling would go down.

     They gave him a day off, then they started 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 three weeks.  As Doris had promised,
all the course work was on a computer database, so Anderson was
able to work on the ratings 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.

     By the end of the month, Anderson had an instrument airplane
rating and had passed the written exam for a commercial pilot.

     Things began to change a little in the second month.  Doris
took Anderson to a hairdresser.  Terri clucked with disapproval at
the military haircut.  Anderson thought his hair was long; it was
longer than the uniform regs allowed, but still short.  Terri recut
it into a hairstyle that was short but fairly feminine.  He looked
in the mirror, he thought he looked like a big dyke.  She looked at
his nails.  "Your nails are a mess.  You need to stop chewing
them."  She painted them with a clear liquid, then waited for the
coating to dry.  "Now chew on them," she said.
     Anderson tried, the stuff tasted horrible.  He spit out a
fragment of nail and said as much.
     "That's just the point.  Take the bottle with you and put a
coat on your nails each morning.  After a while, you won't even
think of biting them."  Terri then pierced his ears.  "You're about
what, 26," she asked.
     Anderson nodded.
     She pierced them twice more, so he had three gold studs in
each ear.  "You're young enough so that looks about right," she
concluded.  After a lecture on how to care for the piercings, she
took him over to a vanity table and began showing him how to apply
cosmetics, indoctrinating him in the mysteries of foundations,
bases, power, lipstick, gloss, mascara, eyeshadow, and cold cream.
After she was done, she scrubbed it all off and had him apply it,
correcting him as he made mistakes.
     "That's sort of the `full formal' look," she explained.  "It's
good for an evening out.  But for daytime, it's a bit much..."  She
then showed him how to lightly apply makeup for a look that was
both enhanced and natural.  "You don't want to wind up looking like
the daughter of Bozo the Clown and Tammy Faye Bakker."  Anderson
left the salon with that coating still applied.
     That took the entire morning and then some.  Anderson was
getting very hungry, so Doris dropped him back at the townhouse.
"See you in an hour," she said.  Anderson made a couple of
sandwiches and leafed through two aviation magazines that had been
dropped off.  He also noticed that "Cosmopolitan," "Redbook," and
"YM" had been added to the selection.  He repaired the damage to
his lipstick by the time Doris returned.
     Doris showed up carrying two purses, one of them was for
Anderson.  She showed him what cosmetics to carry, enough for field
repairs.  He looked at the wallet, it had a Wisconsin driver's
license in the name of Sherry Anderson, complete with photograph
and signature.  There was also a VISA and American Express credit
cards, a pilot's license (private, instrument airplane), medical
certificate and a radiotelephone permit in Sherry's name.  There
was also $52.47 in cash.
     "All those are legal," Doris said.  "Anyone who checks with
the DMV or the FAA will find Sherry Anderson listed.  Give me your
logbooks."
     Anderson went to find them and handed them over.
     "You'll get these back in a while.  Now we have an appointment
with a voice coach.  You really need help there, Sherry."
     "I know I sound like a man, but why do you say that?"
     They left the townhouse as Doris explained:  "Appearances are
very important for a man who is passing himself off as a woman.
What someone first perceives is the way they are going to think of
you, 99% of the time.  If they see a woman, then they are going to
think `woman' even if your voice is a tad low.  But in your case,
the first contact a lot of people are going to have with you is
over an airplane's radio.  So your voice has to convey that you are
a woman.
     "You might say we are going into phase two of your training
here."
     "Which is?"
     "Female training.  You're going to take deportment lessons.
We aren't going to teach you how to act like a woman.  An act can
fail under stress.  So we are going to teach you to BE a woman.
There will be sessions with image consultants, the voice coach, and
some time out in the real world.  You're going to start spending
some time with a therapist to ensure that we aren't overloading
you.  She'll also help you sort out your feelings about who you are
and what we are training you.  Feel free to talk with her about
anything, ok?"
     "Sure.  Will I still be flying?"
     "Oh, yes.  You have a *lot* more training to go through."
     The voice coaching was simple.  The first session took just
fifteen minutes.  The coach showed Anderson how to raise his voice
slightly through humming and gave him a tape-recorder to practice
with.
     The therapist was next.  Her name was Janet, she explained
that the process was to talk things out.  She would have him
explain his life to her.  The process was like peeling an onion,
one removes one layer at a time.
     Anderson digested that.  "But there's nothing distinct about
the center of an onion," he remarked.  "How do you know when you
get there?"
     "When there's nothing else left.  You'll know it, and so will
I.  We'll start on your next visit."
     Doris was waiting in the therapist's outer office.  "What's
next on the schedule," Anderson asked.
     "We're going to get you some new clothes."  They rode the
electric jeep to a clothing store.  There the saleslady first
fitted Anderson with a bra and a set of breast prothesis.  She had
him try on a number of different bras, then camesoles and slips.
After that, she brought in a navy houndstooth suit with a white
blouse which she had him try on.  Then she fitted him with a pair
of black leather pumps with 3" heels.  Finally, she led him over to
a three-sided mirror.
     Anderson's jaw dropped.  Gazing back at him in the mirror was
an attractive young businesswoman.  He ran his hands down the side
of the skirt, feeling the smooth material.  He smiled and the woman
in the mirror smiled back.  What he didn't see was the satisfied
grins Doris and the saleslady gave each other.  He wasn't sure how
long he stood there, entranced at his image in the mirror.  He felt
something click inside himself, and from then on knew that the
female pronouns were the right ones.  It just felt right.  It was
a moment that Sherry would remember as long as she lived.  She
would later say it felt like she had been reborn.
     They spent a lot of time assembling a wardrobe; dresses,
skirts, tops, casual wear, coats, shoes, and a couple of pairs of
boots.  Doris picked out a few things to take back with them, the
saleslady promised the rest would be delivered.
     Doris helped Sherry put her clothes away when they returned to
the townhouse.  "Tomorrow you start on your commercial pilot's
license," she said.  "Just be at the flight school by 0730.  You'll
do your training in the Bonanza, since you'll need to use a complex
airplane for the exam.  Wear the jeans and the sneaks for your
flight training.  I'll let you know each afternoon what is planned
for the next day so you can choose the proper attire.  If I don't
see you, I'll leave a note in your email.
     "The other thing is, you need to start on a physical training
program.  Some of that will come later, but I want you to start
running each afternoon.  That is to be the only activity where you
aren't to wear the artificial breasts.  Start today."
     "Okay."  Sherry changed into a t-shirt and shorts, then went
out for a run.  It was a brief run, she hadn't been running for a
few months.  But she knew from past experience that the wind would
come back quickly.

     Sherry was at the flight school on time.  If Craig had any
thoughts about her changed appearance, he kept them to himself.
     The instructor thought she was a little weak on slow flight
and stalls.  "I think you're afraid of them, so let's change the
syllabus a bit," he said.  Sherry found herself in the front seat
of a Bellanca Decathalon; they went through stalls, spins, and some
basic aerobatics.  She had to use a Sic-Sack on a couple of
occaisions, but soon she was doing loops, rolls, and inverted
flight.  Craig had her do inverted stalls and spins, then he let
her take the Decathalon up when she had some free time.
     Sherry had the time of her life in the Decathalon.  Craig
chewed her ass out for making a low inverted pass down the runway
one afternoon, but she didn't mind.
     For most of the non-flying days, Doris had her wear more lady-
like attire.  She got used to moving around in dresses, skirts, and
high heels.  She lost her purse a few times the first week, but
soon carrying one became automatic.
     The therapy was easier than she thought it would be.  Sherry
trusted Janet and opened up to her completely.  They met three
times a week, then scaled back to twice a week.  Janet wanted to
make sure that the training wasn't taking Sherry down a road she
didn't want to go.  But what she saw was a young woman who was full
of life.  Sherry was finally doing everything she had wanted to do.
     The deportment classes (to use Doris's term) were more like
aerobics.  The instructor's name was Sharon, she worked to teach
Sherry to loosen up and move more fluidly, not to shamble along
like a male.  They were tiring at first, but also fun.  Sherry was
keeping up her running, she was now doing over four miles a day.
The town (she thought of it as that) has several running courses
laid out along the roads, complete with mileage markers.  Sherry's
goal was to run three laps around the airport, a distance of over
eight miles.
     The coursework was changing constantly.  After a series of
lessons on clothing and accessories, Sherry started a basic cooking
course.  Doris pointed out that most women knew how to do more than
fry hamburgers and eggs, which about the extent of Sherry's kitchen
skills.  So she learned how to cook and how to select items from
the supermarket.  Sherry privately didn't think much of this phase
of her training.  It seemed like a lot of effort to spend so much
time preparing a meal that normally didn't take anywhere near as
long to eat.  Lord Sandwich knew what he was doing, she concluded.
     The big treat came after Sherry passed her commercial pilot's
check ride.  Doris and Janet treated her to a trip to Chicago for
three days of R&R.  They took the Bonanza, Sherry flew them to
Meig's Field right downtown.  They went shopping on Michigan Avenue
and in Watertower Place.  The highpoint was a theatre night,
including a fantastic dinner afterwards.  Sherry was sorry to leave
Chicago, even though she logged some good instrument time,
including a NDB approach to their home base.

     Sherry started working with Craig on her multi-engine rating
in the Twin Beech the next day, including a session on the care and
feeding of radial engines.  "You can't overprime a radial," Craig
admonished.  She learned about engines that measured their oil
levens in gallons, not quarts.  Learning to taxi a multi-engined
taildragger was a little bit of a challenge.
     While Sherry was being introduced to the fun of engine-out
drills, a conference was underway concerning her progress.  Col.
Hampton had flown in, he met with Janet, Doris, and Dr. Trotti.
"How's our boy doing," was his first question.
     Janet smiled.  "She's a woman, Colonel, and she's doing fine."
     "Explain."
     "Frankly, I don't think Sherry's a transvestite.  I think
she's a transsexual, although she really hasn't admitted it to
herself.  The majority of TVs we get here aren't content to go
full-time dressed up.  They find some way of visibly asserting
their masculinity.  The TSs assimilate completely.  Sherry has
shown no signs of not wanting to be a woman.  No covert strength
exercises, or anything like that.
     "Her adjustment to female living has been remarkable, although
I don't think she should consider making a living as a chef."  That
comment earned a laugh from Doris.
     Col. Hampton mulled that over.  "How's the flying coming?"
     Doris fielded that.  "Craig says she's doing well.  She may
not be a natural at it, but she is working very hard at it."
     "So what's the next step in her training?"
     "She's started multi-engine work.  Once she gets her multi
ticket, then we are going to get her rated in DC-3s and C-46s,
along with turboprops so she has some turbine time.  After that,
then it may be time to send her out living full-time as a pilot to
build up her flight time."
     "What about tradecraft?"
     "We'll start weapons training next week, along with escape and
evasion, surveillance and counter-surveillance techniques, and the
usual stuff," Doris said.
     "What about her femininity?"
     "I think it's time to see if she wants to start hormones,"
Janet replied.  If she agrees and sticks with it for the next few
months, then it may be advisable to consider some non-genital
reassignment surgery."
     "Face and voice," he asked
     "Yes.  I'd say if she is to go that route, we do the surgery
before she goes out for learning how to live on her own as a
woman."
     "All right," Col Hampton concluded.  "Call the airport and
have Sherry brought here for a discussion about hormones with you
and you alone.  We'll wait up in Trotti's office."

     Sherry came to Janet's office looking an absolute mess.  She
was sweating from the effort of conducting the dead engine
exercises.  "This is a little out of the ordinary," Sherry said.
"What's up?"
     "I've been reviewing your progress here, Sherry.  You are
turning out to be a fine young woman.  When I or anyone else looks
at you, we'd be hard-pressed to believe that you are really a man.
How do you feel about it?"
     Sherry was taken a little aback.  "I guess I feel good about
it.  When I get dressed and look in the mirror, I see me.  It's
hard for me to realize that I am a man, too."
     "Do you want to go back to being Sam?"
     "What?  But Colonel Hampton said-"
     I know what he said," Janet interrupted.  "What has been done
is easily changable.  Even if you have no facial hair, all you'd
need to do is get a crewcut, change clothes, take out your
earrings, and everyone would assume you are a man.  But now you're
at a decision point.
     "For what I am going to say now, I do not want an answer.
Promise me you won't say a word to me until tomorrow morning or
later if you need the time.  All right?"
     Sherry nodded.
     "This is the choice:  You can go down the impersonation road
with facial surgery and breast implants.  It'll fool most of the
people.  When you're done, Dr. Trotti can make you look almost the
way you look now.  Not quite, but almost.
     "The other option is more permanent.  Instead of implants,
you'd start hormones.  We'll schedule you for voice surgery, your
voice will be higher forever.  The facial surgery will be more
extensive.  And finally, if you make it that far, you'd go through
sexual reassignment surgery.  At that point, you'd be as female as
chemistry, training, and surgery can make you.
     "It's your choice.  Go home and think it over."
     Sherry nodded solemnly and left.  She thought about it quite
a lot.  She thought about how she had never quite fit in as a man
and how everything felt so right now.  She had a few drinks in
thinking it over, too.

     Sherry was wearing a pink suit and was waiting in Janet's
outer office when Janet came to work the next day.  "Come on in,
Sherry," Janet said.  They sat down and Janet didn't say anything.
     Sherry took a deep breath and smiled.  "I want it to be
permanent.  When can we start?"
     Janet looked solemn.  Inside she felt joyous, but kept a
professional demeanor.  She opened a drawer and handed her a piece
of paper.  "Take this to the pharmacy, they'll fill the order.
Follow the instructions exactly, Sherry.  Ok?"
     "Sure, Janet."
     Janet stood up and hugged Sherry.  "Welcome to the other side,
Sherry."

     Sherry went to the pharmacy and had the prescription filled.
The prescription called for taking Premarin and Aldactone.  The
pills had to be taken with food and had to be taken at
approximately the same time each day.  The pharmacist gave her a
lengthy brochure about what to expect while taking hormones.
     She read that once she got back to the townhouse.  Mood
swings, weepiness, long-term risks of cancer; it was heartening to
realize that no women in her family had ever developed breast
cancer.  No time like the present, so she fixed a sandwich and took
her first pills.  It was almost a disappointment that nothing
happened right away.  She logged onto a commercial database and
read the information files about the drugs.  Aldactone, an anti-
androgen, was widely used in the rest of the world but was not
approved for use by the FDA.  Must be one of the benenfits of the
Feds, they can get away with ignoring their own rules.
     The ringing of the telephone startled her.  In over two
months, she hadn't had one incoming phone call.  She picked up the
handset and said hello.
     "Sherry, it's Doris.  Change into jeans, a sweatshirt, and
sneakers.  I'll be over in twenty minutes to pick you up."  The
line went dead as Doris hung up without awaiting a reply.
     `Christ, what a bitch!' Sherry thought as she went upstairs to
change.  It can't be a flying day, there's no need to drive to the
field.  Well, going with the flow has worked so far.  She was ready
at the appointed time.
     Doris drove up in a Jeep, a real gasoline-powered one.  Sherry
hopped in and asked what's up.
     "Another phase of your training," she replied.  "You start gun
class today."  Doris drove to a site several miles away, it was a
rectangular building with a large earthen berm behind it.  Doris
handed Sherry the keys to the Jeep.  "I'll catch a ride back, drive
back when you're done.  Go to the office and tell them your name,
they'll take it from there."
     Sherry did as Doris told her to.  The office had three men
lounging around who looked like midwestern "good-ole boys,"
complete with flannel shirts and yellow work boots.  When she said
her name, a tall man in his late 40s stood up and said:  "Yeah,
I've been waiting for you.  My name's Keith.  Let's go."  Sherry
followed him out of the office.  He led the way down the corridor
to a set of stairs, then dwon a flight to the basement.  They went
to a heavy door, he opened it and threw a set of wall switches.
The front of the room lit up and the whine of a powerful
ventilation fan started.  They were in an indoor pistol range.  It
had three firing points and appeared to be a 25-yard range.  Each
firing point had a target holder that moved back and forth by an
electric motor.
     "You ever do any handgun shooting," Keith asked.
     "Some."
     "What do you shoot?"
     ".45 Colt auto."
     Keith grunted, then went to a wall cabinet.  He pulled out
some targets, tape, shooting glasses, and two pairs of large ear
protectors.  Then he unlocked another cabinet and handed Sherry a
Colt Gold Cup .45.  Sherry immediately pulled the slide back and
locked it.  "Ok, so you may know what you're doing," Keith
admitted.  He hung a 25-yard rapid-fire target on the frame and ran
it down to the far end of the range.  Then he handed Sherry a box
of cartridges, two empty magazines, and waved her to the firing
point.
     Sherry stepped up to the position.  She dry-fired the pistol
several times to get a feel for the trigger; it was a lot lighter
and crisper than an issue service weapon.  She locked the slide
back, set the pistol on the counter, and loaded five rounds into a
magazine.
     Sherry said:  "Put on your hearing protection, please."  She
then put the glasses on and the earmuffs over them.    She shifted
her body as she picked up the pistol and magazine so her left foot
was ahead of her right one.  She inserted the magazine into the
well of the pistol and slipped off the slide release, which allowed
the slide to run forward and chamber a round.
     She held the pistol in her right hand with her left hand
forming a cup in which the right hand rested as if she was catching
it.  Her left elbow was bent almost 90 degrees, the right elbow was
straight.  Breath deep, let a little out, squeeeeezeee...BLAM!
Sherry fired four more times, then Keith stepped up and brought the
target up.
     "Not bad," he said.  Sherry had hit the x-ring once, the ten
ring twice, the nine once, and the seven ring.  46x1.  She felt
pretty good about it.
     Keith poured cold water all over her joy.  "But that means
nothing.  Nobody's going to allow you to settle into a Weaver
stance and calmly snap off five rounds at them.  And for damn sure
you won't find a Gold Cup lying around.  But at least you know
which end of a pistol does what."
     So Sherry started practical pistol training.  That was a nice
euphemism for learning how to kill someone with a pistol.  "First
thing is this," Keith said:  "A pistol's a defensive weapon.  It's
what you use to stop someone from doing harm to you or someone
else.  If you're going to set out to kill someone, then use a
better weapon with more killing power and range."
     Over the next few weeks, Sherry learned how to shoot
competently with almost every conceivable handgun.  The training
took place on a firing range that was a mock-town with pop-up or
swinging targets.  She had to learn to shoot with one hand, the
wrong hand, and both hands.  Keith taught her how to draw from
waist, shoulder, and leg holsters.  For one phase of the schooling,
she had to wear a suit, heels, and draw from a purse.  It sure felt
strange to Sherry to walk though the training range in a navy
pinstripe "dress for success" suit, career pumps, and whip out a
.380 automatic to drill a imitation scumbag.
     Combat training was held using guns firing paintballs.  These
were often painful as the paint pellets were fired from regular
firearms (rather than the paintball guns), but the training impact
of being shot was of value.
     The flying continues as before.  Sherry passed her multi-
engine flight test.  She was put on the roster for the air-charter
outfit based at the airport; soon she was flying the Twin Beech and
the Navajo on cargo runs.  To her amusement, she even flew some men
to the same southern airport where she had been taken for her
medical examination.  When the schedule called for her to make a
night run, her other training was adjusted to accomodate the
flight.  She was building time in the classic method used by
aspiring commercial pilots.
     The therapy continued, too.  Janet acted more like a close
confidant than a distant professional, which resulted in Sherry's
opening up completely.  Janet also reviewed the surveillance
reports on Sherry for any discrepancies, including the tapes made
by the microcameras in Sherry's townhouse.  She was coming along
fine.
     Sherry had continuing appointments with the electrolysis team,
normally every six weeks.  They went after follicles that were
dormant during the initial process along with the ones that had
survived.  The first repeat session took four days, then the time
dwindled after that.  They were nothing that she regarded as fun.
     The ground training shifted focus somewhat.  The curriculum
moved from handguns to shoulder weapons:  rifles and shotguns.
Sherry found she had a talent with a rifle, she could "dope" the
wind and normally hit a target at six hundred yards.  The shotgun
was easy for her, it was a reactive weapon where the rifle was
normally a deliberate one.  Sherry really didn't like the high-
powered rifles too much, they kicked fiercely.  But anything
smaller than a .30-06 was almost fun.
     As firearms training tapered off, they started her on unarmed
training.  This had little in common with the theology of martial
arts, it was raw street survival training.  A few sessions were
held with Sherry wearing "street clothes," dresses, skirts, heels.
Those sessions often resulted in the clothes being totalled, but
they were replaceable.
     One session was nighttime training.  Sherry had to walk down
the street.  Most of the people would pass her by, but one was
supposed to attack.  When the attack came, Sherry spun out of the
attacker's grip and pulled a snub-nosed .38 from under her jacket.
She levelled the pistol at the attacker and fired three times, the
instructor staggered back in shock as three paint pellets smashed
into his chest.  The lights came on as the two looked at each
other, the other people on the street had all dived for cover when
the shots rang out.  The trainer rubbed the impact sites and said:
"Very good.  If you have a weapon, the hand-to-hand moves are for
fools.  But that's not the goal of this training, so don't bring it
again."  His voice sounded harsh, but he was trying hard not to
smile.
     Sherry had a medical appoinment the next day.  Dr Trotti and
one of his parters, Dr. Pamela Levinson, gave her another complete
physical.  It lasted most of the day, Sherry just put up with the
routine.  She hated being poked and prodded, but that was the way
the medical profession worked, especially if one was in the service
of Uncle Sam.
     The two doctors saw her after the exam.  "How are you doing,
my dear," Trotti asked.
     "Fine."
     "Any complaints?"
     "No."
     "Are you noticing any soreness around your nipples," asked
Levinson.
     "Some," admitted Sherry.  "The literature the pharmacy gave me
said to expect that."
     Both doctors nodded, then Trotti shifted gears.  "I want you
to go to the blood bank and have them extract a pint of blood, then
another one in four weeks.  That will provide a ready source in
case we need it."
     "For what?"
     "Surgery," he said.  "In two months, we're going to take you
in and reshape your face to a more feminine appearance.  At the
same time, the day before actually, Dr. Levinson will do the vocal
surgery.  You'll be out of action for a while after that, but we'll
make sure you're still learning something."
     Sherry nodded, not wanting to speak.  Her mind was filled with
a conflict; she wanted to have the facial surgery, but she also
didn't want anybody cutting her with a sharp object.  The doctors
asked some other questions, but Sherry answered them rather
abruptly.  When the interview ended, she went to the blood bank and
they drew a pint for deposit on her account.  They told her to
drink plenty of fluids and not to fly for 24 hours.  She called the
field and had them take her off the schedule.
     Janet had noticed Sherry's hesitancy at the pre-surgery
meeting, she dropped by after work with a bottle of white wine and
some munchies.  Sherry was a little amazed and a little peeved that
Janet hadn't called; the townhouse looked like an exercise in
"Living With Chaos."  But she found a couple of semi-clean glasses
and a plate for the food.  After the bottle was opened, Sherry
opened the discussion:  "I assume you didn't stop by just for a
visit."
     "Why do you say that?"
     "Oh, I don't know," Sherry said with sarcasm dripping like
molten steel.  "You've never said anything like `let's do lunch,'
but two hours after a discussion about surgery, here you are, booze
in hand."
     "In some way's you're still a man," Janet said with a wry
smile.  "Most women wouldn't go that quickly to the heart of the
matter.  They'd have opened with some pleasantries and eventually
worked around to the point."
     "Or they might try altering the subject.  Answer the damn
question."
     "All right," Janet sighed.  "You seemed uncomfortable with the
idea of surgery.  What bothers you, the idea of changing your
appearance?"
     "No," Sherry said emphatically.  "Nothing like that.  It's
more like I don't like the idea of being operated on."
     "Have you ever had an operation?"
     "Nope, nothing more serious than removing wisdom teeth.  I've
never been knocked out, not even accidentally."
     "And the idea bothers you," Janet probed.
     "People sometimes don't wake up afterwards."
     Janet smiled.  At least it wasn't a matter of Sherry not being
convinced that the operation wasn't necessary.  She spent a lot of
time trying to calm Sherry's jitters.
     Sherry wasn't too convinced, but she was reassured that there
were other things in life more risky that she had done.  Then
Sherry asked a question Janet wasn't prepared for:  "When are you
going to remove my testicles?"
     "Why?"
     "I did some reading on hormones in the database.  The writers
all seem to believe that female hormones work better if they're not
fighting male hormones.  You could also lower the dosage level of
both drugs and reduce the risks from side effects."
     Janet looked very serious.  "But if that's done, you'd never
be able to father a child.  And there is no way to reverse that
operation, even superglue wouldn't work."
     Sherry stood up and stripped to the waist.  "Do I look like a
man?  I am a woman-" she said that with considerable emphasis "-but
I still have some extra parts.  I want that taken care of as soon
as I can."
     Janet motioned to Sherry to put her clothes back on; Sherry
complied.  Sherry's breasts were starting to bud, her body looked
like one that might belong to a six-foot tall twelve year old.  "We
can't do all that, not right away."
     "Why not?"
     "You know about the Harry Benjamin Standards of Care?"  Sherry
nodded.  "Well," Janet continued, "we are really violating them
somewhat in your case.  There is an overriding interest that
classifies as `national security,' we've compressed a lot of the
time factors.  But we still won't do the final reassignment surgery
without some form of Real Life Test.
     "You are going to have to live and work as a woman for a while
before we consider you for final surgery.  When it comes time, we
will have you operated on by the best there is."
     "You mean-" Sherry held her tongue when Janet held her finger
to her lips.
     "I think we know who that is.  There are people who help out
the Government on a volunteer basis, but under the strictest
security.  You won't meet the surgeon, at least not when you're
concious.  But we have to satisfy a minimum of the Standards before
you can undergo SRS."
     "Hmm.  And I don't suppose you have any specifics in mind for
a Real Life Test?"
     "As a matter of fact, yes.  You'll get a job with an air cargo
service, flying night runs for a check-delivery service.  That'll
also build your logbook up.  It's really a double-barreled test:
we'll see if you can survive on your own as a woman and if you can
be a competent professional pilot."
     Sherry nodded.  By this time the wine was gone and they both
were feeling tired.  Janet made her exit, Sherry washed up and went
to bed.
     Doris called Sherry at 5am and told her to be ready for flying
at six and to bring changes of clothing for three days.  Sherry
grunted something unintelligible into the phone and got up.  She
went over to the field at six; to her surprise she was handed a
completed flight plan to Mojave, California and the keys to the
Twin Beech.  Go with the flow, she figured, she was airborne by
6:30.
     The plan had her overnighting in Cheyenne, then on to
California.  The FBO at the Cheyenne airport gave her a ride to a
local Holiday Inn.  Sherry had dinner in the restaurant and went to
bed.  She grabbed a cab to the airport the next morning and
completed the trip to Mojave.
     Of all the possibilities that she anticipated, what happened
didn't occur to her.  She was met at the airport and immediately
loaded onto a Marine C-12 en route to the Twenty-Nine Palms Marine
base.  Four instructors met her for a course in desert survival.
Over the next seven days, they showed her how to survive in the
desert with the materials and equipment she'd likely have if she
had to crash-land in one.  Water was the key, they emphasised.
without water, you die.  With water, then one might survive.
     The detail that convinced her that sopmeone was really
planning her training ahead was that the instructors had a week's
supply of her hormone pills.
     Sherry really enjoyed the hot shower she took after the week
was over.  But they didn't keep her at 29 Palms; she was flown to
San Diego and put onto a C-141 to Panama.  Once there, she got to
repeat the whole process in a jungle.  The struggle there was
almost the opposite; too much water and trying to keep dry.  There
were more poisonous snakes in the jungle than she ever dreamed of,
and bugs galore.  Sherry wasn't too sure which she hated more, bugs
or snakes.
     Week three found her in Colorado, this time the focus was on
mountain survival.  By this time Sherry was wondering if she'd
survive survival training.  The survival trainig was followed up by
a cram course in land navigation; the final exam was a three-day
trek to a pickup point.  They made it clear to her that they would
only look for her at the pickup point, she had to get there or
reach civilization on her own.  She made it to the pickup point
with three hours to spare.
     After she showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes,
one of the instructors took her to a restaurant for a graduation
dinner.  Sherry had no trouble finishing a 16-oz prime rib, the
largest steak she had eaten in years.  It was about the best she
ever remembered, too.  The night was memorable if only for the fact
that it was the first time since she passed through Cheyenne that
she slept indoors in a bed with clean sheets.
     Sherry caught a commercial flight to Madison, Wisconsin the
next day.  Craig met her at the airport, the two flew back to the
home base in the Bonanza.  The Twin Beech was on the field when
they arrived.  She had no idea who retrieved it, but she knew
better than to ask.
     Doris had left a note on her door; Sherry was glad to learn
she had the next two days off.  She slept for most of it.   When
she stepped on the bathroom scale, she was shocked to learn that
she had lost 25 pounds during the rigourous training.  None of her
new wardrobe fit, she wore sweats and pulled the drawstring tight.
It would probably be a temporary loss.

     Doris had left a note in Sherry's mailbox that told her to
report to the airport after her two days' off.  When Sherry did,
she found herself sitting through a ground school for a DC-3 type
rating.  The school took three days (a DC-3's not very
complicated).  After that, it was time to fly.  Sherry had to
adjust to the height of the -3's flight deck, everything else she
had flown before would have crashed if flared at the height of the
old Douglas airliner.  Flying the plane took some work, powered
controls hadn't been in use when Charles Lindberg wrote the
requirements that the airplane was designed to meet.
     It took about ten hours of flight time for Sherry to feel
comfortable in both the left and right seats of the DC-3.  The
flight test was routine, she soon had a new license with a DC-3
type rating.
     Then they did it all over agin, but this time for a DC-3T; a
DC-3 that has had the piston radial engines removed and modified
for PT6 turboprops.  That training went fairly rapidly since Sherry
was already familiar with PT6 engines.
     After three weeks, Sherry had regained ten pounds.  She had
obtained some new clothes that fit her smaller body, but not many
as she figured she'd eventually regain the weight.  They scheduled
a few brush-up training sessions in unarmed and armed defense to
break up the routine of flying.  Then Doris told her to pack a few
bags, she was moving away for awhile.  Sherry wondered what had
happened to the planned surgery, but she didn't ask.
     The two of them drove a late model Honda Civic to Chicago.
Doris explained on the way down that they had to reschedule the
operations for three or four weeks later, so they were taking the
extra time to put Sherry to work.  Some of her stuff was already in
an apartment not very far from Midway Airport.  Sherry was about to
fly as a "freight dog" for the next month.  Doris handed over her
logs.  Sherry looked at them, all her logbooks had been rewritten
so that every entry was for Sherry Anderson.  The signatures of all
the flight instructors looked genuine, the older logbooks looked as
worn as the originals had.
     They drove right to Midway, where they found the offices of
BryanAir.  Doris gave her the keys to the Honda, kissed her
goodbye, and caught a cab for O'Hare.  Out of curiosity, Sherry
opened the glove box and looked at the car's registration.  She
wasn't surprised to see it was registered in her name.
     Sherry went into the offices and asked for the chief pilot.
The chief pilot, Sheila Mueller, looked over Sherry's logs and
asked her some technical questions about various aircraft, mostly
twins.  After the interview, she said:  "Let's go.  There's a Beech
out there, 7DR, preflight it."
     Sherry went out and checked the airplane over.  7DR was a
working cargo airplane, but she noticed that the engines appeared
to be in fine shape.  All the fluid levels were right,  As she
finished, Sheila came out with two headsets and a portable
intercom.  She waved Sherry into the left seat and Sheila took the
right.  After they wired the intercom, push-to-talk switches, and
the headsets, Sherry asked:  "Where to?"
     "Get her started, then tell Clearance Delivery that we are
going VFR to the lake practice area."
     Sherry started the engines, then obtained departure
instructions and a transponder squawk from Clearance Delivery.
When the oil was warm enough for taxiing, she called Ground Control
and was cleared to taxi to the active runway.  At takeoff, the
tower had her fly the runway heading to 2,000 feet before turning
towards Lake Michigan.  Once there, Sheila ran her through some
engine-out drills, including an engine-out ILS approach to Midway.
It took almost an hour before Sheila was satisfied and they landed.
     They removed the headphones with a contented sigh, accompanied
by the whining of the gyros spinning down.  "Be here at nine
tomorrow night," Sheila said.  "You'll be flying a load of checks
between here and Minneapolis.  The flight planning's already done,
we've been on this route for years.  So just show up then, you'll
check the weather and go."
     "Ok," Sherry said.  Inwardly she was thrilled.  It was what
she had wanted ever since she was a boy, to work as a pilot.
     After a few weeks of constant night flying, the thrill wore
off.  A couple of men in some of the airports she had stopped at
had made passes at her.  One rough jerk had even grabbed her by the
shoulder.  He had taken his hand away when Sherry coldy advised him
to do so "if you want to retain the use of it."  Most of the flying
was in Twin Beeches, the rest of the time was spent in Piper
Navajos.  None of them had weather radar or flight directors, but
all had enough avionics so that the flights could be made if
something broke.  The only reason the airplanes had autopilots was
because it saved fuel to use them.
     Sherry noticed that a fair number of the freight pilots for
the different carriers were women.  All of them (male and female)
wore fairly grubby clothes, normally blue jeans and heavy shirts to
keep the chill out when the heaters failed to operate.  Only a few
of the women wore any hint of cosmetics.  Their favorite scent was
100LL aviation fuel, seasoned with Phillips 20W-50 oil and a dash
of hydraulic fluid.  Flying was the favorite topic, though the
women often moaned about how hard it was to have a relationship
with a man when the women worked nights.  They confined such
complaints to times when no men were present.  Sherry was logging
over 30 hours of flying each week, all night cross-country multi
time.
     She didn't learn much about the area around her apartment, for
all she wanted to do when she was there was sleep.  Some of it she
saw when she went out for a run, it didn't impress her any.  The
skirts, dresses, and heels in the closet stayed there.
     It was supposed to be for a few weeks, but Doris called and
told Sherry to stay put.  Sherry flew night freight for three
months.  Her pay from the freight line was deposited into her
savings account, she was also still receiving her pay as a
Lieutenant (O-3) with eight years' seniority.  The apartment was
paid for by her government living allowance, Sherry figured she was
socking away a mint.  As it stood with the hours she was working,
she didn't come close to spending her flying pay, much less her
military pay.  If this kept up for awhile, she could pay for SRS
herself.
     Shery consoled herself that when the time came to leave, she
had just as much notice as she'd been getting all along.  Doris
showed up and had her pack two suitcases.  The rest, Doris said,
would be taken care of.  They drove the little Honda to a major
hospital in Chicago, where Doris checked Sherry in.  After dropping
the bags in a room, they went to an office.  Sherry wasn't the
least bit surprised to find Dr. Trotti there.  "You ready," he
asked.
     "For what?"
     "We're going to do a makeover on you.  But instead of
cosmetics, we'll do it beneath your skin.  I've scheduled you for
tomorrow.  We have some tests to run."
     Sherry put her foot down.  "I've had it."  She turned and
glared at Doris.  "I'm tired of being treated as a piece of meat
who just does as she's told.  It stops now, damn it.  I want to
know what is going to happen now, and what is going to happen next.
Or the deal is off."
     Doris started to say "You can't mean--" when Trotti waved her
to silence.
     Trotti and Sherry stared at each other.  "I think she means
that, Doris."
     Sherry nodded her head.
     "All right.  All right," Dr Trotti sighed.  He pulled a group
of photographs from an envelope on the desk.  "This is what we're
going to do--"  he outlined a procedure that focused mainly on the
face.  They wanted to reshape her jaw, trim her nose,  pare down
her adam's apple, and tighten her vocal chords.  "We'll do the
vocal chord work first, because we need you alert.  You have to
speak while it's going on so we can tune your voice.  Then after
that, we'll give you a general anasthesia and do the rest of the
procedure."
     Sherry frowned.  "I've been on hormones all this time.  Isn't
it good practice to stop taking them prior to surgery?"
     Trotti smiled with a little embarrassment.  "Actually, you've
been off them for the last three weeks--"
     "`Three weeks'?!"  Sherry yelled the question.  "You bastards
have known this all along and haven't bothered to tell me?"  Her
hands raised slightly and she clenched her fists as if she wanted
to rip Trotti's throat out.  Trotti saw her rage and took a half-
step backwards without even realizing he had done so.  Sherry
pivoted, seeing some movement from the corner of her eye.  Doris
had opened her purse and had her hand inside.  Sherry stared at
her.  The stare said `go ahead, make a move,' but Doris, her face
white, slowly pulled her empty hand out of the bag.
     Doris slowly unslung the purse and placed it on a table, then
took two steps away from it.  Doris was good, she thought she'd be
able to take Sherry, but that wasn't the object of the exercise.
They had a lot of time and money invested in Sherry Anderson.
Doris wasn't willing to toss that away, nor did she want to have to
explain to her superiors why she had killed Sherry.  The thought
that Sherry just might have taken her didn't even enter her mind.
     Sherry breathed deeply and relaxed.  She knew how close she
had been to going over the edge.  "So, what happens afterwards?"
     Doris also let out a sigh.  "After the operations, you'll
recuperate here for a week.  Then we'll take you back to the base.
You won't be ready for flying or anything else for at least six
weeks, maybe twice that.  So we'll teach you other things,
classroom work."
     "Such as?"
     "Languages.  You have to learn the language of the area you'll
be operating in."
     "What language?"
     Doris smiled and shook her head.  "Not everyone you'll come in
contact with here is cleared to know.  We don't need you babbling
about it under anesthesia."
     Sherry nodded.  "I can live with that.  So let's get started."

     Trotti called an orderly who showed Sherry to a hospital room.
Sherry dumped her gear and then followed the orderly for an
examination.  Blood tests, X-rays, dental exams, EKG; it all was a
familiar bore.  The voice surgeon peered down her throat, but his
manner was abstract.  She knew a lot of doctors acted this way, so
she didn't take it personally.
     That evening they gave her an enema and restricted her diet.
The orderlies woke her at five the next morning for a shower, then
gave her breakfast and a sedative.  Sherry was awake but foggy when
they wheeled her up for the voice surgery.  She vaguely remembered
being given a lot of local anasthetic before the surgery.  It was
not as comfortable as a dental exam, what with the doctor sticking
a bunch of hardware down her throat.  But it didn't hurt.
     After that little ordeal, a nurse gave her another shot and
Sherry went into dreamland.  When she woke up, her throat and face
hurt.  A big sign in front of her ordered her not to talk, but to
push the button if she felt in pain.  A nurse came in and showed
her how to use the self-medication machine to obtain painkillers.
Sherry did that and fell back asleep.
     The next time she woke up, she noticed the IV drip and felt
the catheter.  Oh, well, she thought.  The sign was still there.
She pushed the button.  A floor nurse came by with a menu and a
pencil; Sherry circled her choices.  `Oh boy, hospital food,' she
thought.
     A doctor came in to check vital signs; Sherry knew she was a
doctor because the doctors all wore business clothing under their
white coats.  The doctor explained that Sherry had to be silent as
much as possible for the next two weeks.  Then she told her how
that the operations appeared to be successful.  The doctor held up
a mirror.  Sherry thought she looked as if she had just gone ten
rounds with Evander Holyfield, but the doctor explained the
swelling was normal.
     The IV was removed that afternoon, the catheter the next
morning.  Three days later, Doris, Janet and a third woman showed
up to take Sherry back home.  They had a small RV so Sherry could
lie down for the trip if she wanted to.  She wanted to.

     Sherry got two weeks' off.  She felt she didn't need that much
time, but Doris explained that she would need her voice for the
language training.  Sherry spent the time catching up on her
pleasure reading, watching movies she had missed and playing with
the computer.  She tried running after a week and could barely go
two blocks.  The surgery and the long hours of flying had taken a
lot out of her, she realized.  She also tried out her new voice.
It was still a little low, but it was a feminine lowness.  Twice
she relaxed by taking a Jeep to the firing range and shooting a few
weapons.  One of the instructors gave her a treat and let her fire
a M2 .50 caliber heavy machine gun, the good old "Ma Deuce."  65
years old and still the best HMG in the world, he said.

     Dr. Trotti and a throat specialist (who pointedly was not
introduced) gave her a medical exam before permitting her to start
classes.  The verdict was good, so Sherry started language courses
the next week (and also resumed taking the hormones).  The course
work was a twelve hour immersion, with little homework at first.
Sherry was learning two languages at once, Spanish and Portugese.
She didn't think she was being prepped for a mission in the Iberian
Peninsula, so that meant she was going to go to South America.
They told her that they weren't concerned about making her appear
to be a native, that she was going as an American.  But it always
helps to know the language.  Sherry concluded that the mission
wasn't set so deep in the bush that she needed to know any of the
local Indian dialects.

     The language training lasted for three months.  Sherry might
not have been able to discuss quarks and other sub-atomic particles
in the two languages, but she knew enough to get around and
survive.  They taught her a lot of aircraft-nomenclature in both
languages (which made sense).

     She resumed flying six weeks after the surgery.  It felt good
to fling the Decathalon around the sky, then she settled down and
became current again in the cargo aircraft.  The self-defense and
weapons training started up again as the language instruction
petered out.  Some of the sessions were taught in the two
languages, so Sherry learned how to discuss weapons in the tongues.

     Doris dropped by one afternoon.  She told Sherry that after
the training had ended, that she'd be going to another freight line
to build up more flight time, but this time she'd be flying a DC-3.
Sherry looked forward to that.

     But what Sherry loved best was what she saw when she looked in
the mirror and what she heard when she spoke.  What she saw and
what she heard was a woman.  She told Janet that more and more, she
wanted to finish the course and get rid of the last vestiges of
maleness hanging between her legs.  Janet just smiled and counseled
patience.  Sherry was patient, but she wanted to finish the course
and resume the rest of her life.

     She overlooked that "Payback Time" was coming, too.

     Sherry found herself in La Crosse, Wisconsin.  The routine was
similicity itself:  She would fly as co-pilot for a DC-3 to
Madison, Janesville, Rockford, IL and into Midway, .  At each
point, part of the cargo would be loaded on so that when they
arrived in Chicago they normally had a full load.  The cargo (which
was in containers) would be transferred to a cargo jet and taken to
the national sorting center.  Christa Welles (the DC-3's Captain)
and Sherry would try to catch a few winks in the female bunkroom
until the outbound cargo was delivered.  Then they would fly the
DC-3 back to La Crosse.
     Sherry, who had grown up reading the stories of Ernest Gann,
was in high heaven.  Ok, so they were using VORs and loran, not
low-freqency ranges, but it didn't take much imagination on her
part to believe they were flying AM-21.  She could see why the old
airline pilots loved the DC-3; easy to fly, easy to land, and about
as forgiving a taildragger as was ever made.
     Christa didn't see it that way, but she was a short-timer.  In
three weeks she would be going to United's new pilot school.  In
baseball terms, she had made it to "the show."  United had sent her
some advance course material and she was spending every bit of free
time studying it.
     Sherry's other studies weren't neglected.  She had a
subscription to two weekly newsmagazines in Portugese and Spanish.
The school called her twice a week for progress reports and to
gently quiz her on current events.  The calls were made in one or
the other languages.  A case officer dropped by every three weeks;
again the discussions weren't in English.
     When Christa left, Sherry was promoted to the left seat of the
DC-3.  Another woman took over the co-pilot slot.  Sherry flew as
a DC-3 captain for six months.  It seemed to her as if things were
going very slowly, but there was a reason to it.  The program that
was training her incurred no major costs while Sherry was flying
the cargo planes.  While her military pay was continuing, the money
for that came from the Navy.  As far as they were concerned, Sherry
was an asset that was in safe-keeping.  Sherry was living on her
flying pay.  Her military pay kept accumulating in a combination
money market and mutual fund account.
     Doris called her one morning and told her to stop taking the
hormones, that there would be more surgery in three weeks.  Sherry
asked what surgery, but Doris wouldn't tell her.  Sherry sighed at
all the "need to know" bullshit, but that's the way they did
things.
     Right on time, Doris showed up three weeks later at the La
Crosse airport as Sherry came back from a cargo run.  There was a
new pilot for the -3, Doris led Sherry to a Gulfstream III that had
its cabin windows covered over.
"Where are we going," Sherry asked.
     Doris led the way onto the jet and closed the door.  She
knocked on the cockpit door (also shut) and then sat down.  Janet
was there, too.  "We are going for the final surgery," Doris said.
She nodded to Janet.
     Janet pulled out a briefcase as the jet taxiied to the active
runway.  "We have a lot of material to go over, first.  Read these,
and sign at the bottom where the `x' is if you agree.  We'll
countersign."
     Sherry started to read.  Most of it was legalese about the
risks of sexual reassignment surgery.  There was a lengthy consent
form and a very stark explaination that the surgery was not
reversible with any current or foreseen technique.  She barely
noticed the takeoff roll and climbout as she waded through the
forms.  There were a few she had to reread to make sure she
understood them.  But there was no question in her mind that this
was what she wanted.  Each time she signed a document, Doris and
Janet would countersign it and Doris would notarize it.
     Finally, she finished the last form.  She handed it to Janet,
who signed it.  Doris used the embossing stamp and signed it.  "Now
what," Sherry asked.
     "Any last minute qualms," inquired Janet.
     "About being operated on?  Yes.  About why?  No."
     "All right," Janet sighed.  "Just sit back and enjoy the ride.
You'll find some books in the bin next to your right knee."  Janet
was relieved.  She had to ask Sherry that question out of
professional duty, but nobody wanted her to back out.  A likely
mission was on the planning table and there was no one better
qyalified than Sherry for it.
     Sherry found a Portugese version of Louis L'amour's "The
Sacketts."  It was easy reading.

     The jet landed and taxiied into a hangar.  Sherry wasn't
allowed to leave the airplane until the hangar doors were shut.
The three women then got into a limosine with blackened windows
that was in the hangar.  Even the license plate was covered up.
The limo went to a hospital; they got out in an empty parking
garage.  Two orderlies waited with a gurney.  They had Sherry lie
on it, then they strapped her in.  One orderly covered her to the
neck with a blanket, the other wrapped a bandage around her eyes.
     They wheeled her up to a private room.  As she expected, the
windows were opaque.  Doris showed her that the TV set worked,
although it only had generic cable stations on it, nothing that
would identify the city or state they were in.  Sherry unpacked and
settled in.
     What Sherry wanted to do now was sleep, but that was not to
be.  Two different doctors came by to do a physical examination,
followed by another doctor who identified himself as the
anesthesiologist.  All three wore surgical greens and masks,
presumably to minimize any chances of Sherry identifying them.
     The dinner was light, it was followed by one nurse who gave
Sherry an enema (which was no fun as Sherry wasn't into water
sports), and another who shaved her pubic area.  Finally a third
nurse came by, woke her up, and gave her a sleeping pill.
     An orderly woke her up early the next morning and gave her a
shot to make her drowsy.  "Great, just what I needed," Sherry
thought and she went to sleep again.  She thought she remembered
somebody talking to her in the OR, but she wasn't sure.
     The next thing she knew is that she woke up with a burning
sensation in her groin.  Sherry groped for the call button, a nurse
came in and gave her a shot.  She went back to sleep.

     Sherry was confined to bed for five days, although she felt
strong enough to get up after three.  One of the doctors told her
it was "because you're in great shape, young lady" and ordered her
to stay in bed anyway.  Sherry whiled away the time watching CNN
and HBO.  Doris and Janet visited every day, they brought her
copies of the NY Times.  That meant nothing, as Sherry knew the
paper was distributed nationally.
     When they let her out of bed, Sherry started to get some
exercise walking up and down the hall.  She was surprised to see
that most of the rooms were empty.  The others had closed doors,
they only let her go out when the other patients were out of sight.
     She was in the hospital for ten days.  The return trip was
made the same way, except this time the airplane was a Lear 31 and
the flight ended at the training base.  There Sherry recuperated
for a few weeks and did whatever she felt like.  To her joy, one of
the airplanes on the flight line was a Stearman; she arranged for
a checkout and flew the big biplane as much as she could.  There
was a T-28 on the line; Sherry checked out in it but didn't fly it
very much.  To her, it wasn't as much fun as the biplane.
     They ran her through a series of refresher courses-- language,
defense, and flying.  The emphasis in the flying was in terrain
folowing and rough-field operations.  Sherry was also given
extensive training in loran, omega, and GPS navigation systems.
Loran was familiar, but they ran her through it anyway.  Omega sets
in aircraft were rare to start with and hardly anyone still used
them, but on the off-chance that one would be there, she had to
learn it.  GPS (Global Positioning Satellites) was the lastest
system, supposedly accurate to less than 50 meters in three
dimensions.

     After Sherry was checked by a team of doctors and judged to
have recovered, she went back to La Crosse and resumed flying the
DC-3 on the cargo runs.  Doris told her that "completely recovered"
didn't mean that all the scars had healed.  They wanted time for
the scars from the surgery to fade before making a final evaluation
of Sherry's fitness for a mission.
     Her co-pilot was an average-sized woman named Julia Waldowski.
Julia and Sherry became pretty good friends, hard to avoid when one
spends five days a week flying together.  After verifying that
Julia knew what she was about, Sherry let her fly the alternate
legs of the runs.  There wasn't much to it.  If the weather was
good enough, they'd fly VFR to avoid the delays caused by the ATC
system.
     Julia was a bit of an exercise nut.  While most of the other
pilots were trying to catch a little sleep between the inbound and
outbound legs, she would go for a run around the cargo area.  One
night she forgot to pack any deoderant, so she asked Sherry if
there was any in her bag (almost all the pilots had a small bag
with a change of clothing and toiletries in case they were
weathered in).  Sherry was asleep and mumbled something like "sure"
and went back to sleep.
     The return flight was in good weather; they cancelled IFR and
flew out of Midway VFR.  Sherry flew the leg and noticed that Julia
was being really quiet.
     "Did you hurt yourself running tonight," she asked.
     "No, it was a good five miles."
     "Then what's wrong?"  Sherry glanced over, although it wasn't
necessary to look with the headests and the intercom.
     Julia was silent for a minute, then said:  "When I borrowed
your deodorant, I found a dialator in your bag."
     That rang a few bells in Sherry's mind.  Most people would
have called it a `dildo,' but she called it a `dialator.'  "Okay.
So?"
     "`So?'  We've been flying together for a few months now.  I
mean," Julia stopped, at a loss for words.  She reached for her
purse and took her wallet out.  She drew a photo from one of the
plastic pockets and handed it to Sherry.  She then put her hand on
the control wheel.  "I have the airplane."
     "Your airplane," Sherry replied.  She pulled a small
flashlight out and shielded the light, then she looked at the
photo.  The picture showed Julia standing next to a taller woman,
one who was almost half a foot taller.  She was pretty good
looking, though, and appeared to be about the same age as Julia.
There was some slight resemblance between the two women, especially
in the way a slight smile was on their lips.  Sherry put away the
flashlight, handed the photo back, and said:  "I have the
airplane."
     "Your airplane."
     "Who is she?"
     Julia was putting the photo back into her wallet.  "That's
Michelle, my big sister."
     In more ways than one, Sherry thought.  "How much older is
she?"
     "Depends on how you look at it.  She's either three years
older than I am or she's 23 years younger."
     Sherry did some quick figuring; she knew Julia was 25, so
Michelle was 28..uh, oh.  "Spell it out."
     "She was born as Michael.  She had a sexual reassignment
operation two years ago.  Most people wouldn't know it to look at
her.  But when she travels, she had a dialator in her suitcase; she
uses it to make sure her vagina stays open.  Her dialator looks
just like yours."
     Sherry made a note of that; she'd better replace the damn
thing with a regular dildo.  It'd be better to have someone assume
she was just weird.  "How do you feel about having a sister who's
a transsexual?"
     Julia made a noncommittal gesture in the dim red light of the
Doug's cockpit.  She looked out to the right, where the headlights
of the cars on I-90 were visible.  "Michael never fit in as a boy.
I think I knew he wanted to be a girl a long time ago.  She's a big
woman, now, but she's very happy.  Michelle has a sort of inner
peace that most people don't.  I think it comes from knowing that
she has done what she needed to do.
     "I don't know, it's strange sometimes.  But when I'm around
her, I forget sometimes that she used to be a he.  My parents
aren't very happy, but they've realized that it was the best
thing."
     Sherry tuned the number 1 navcom to the Rockford tower
frequency, 118.3 mHz.  The tower was closed, so she listened to see
if anyone else was in the area.  Nobody was there, so she tried
calling Hartzog on their frequency to find which way the windsock
was pointing.  The lineman looked out the door and let her know.
She pulled back on the throttles lsightly and started a shallow
descent, then switched back to the tower frequency.
     Julia didn't let it drop.  "When did you have your surgery?"
     "You're making a pretty big assumption, aren't you?"
     "No, I don't think so.  Even for a tall woman, you have large
hands and feet.  Whoever worked on you did an excellent job;
there's no scarring from the tracheal shave.  I can see a few
pockmarks that probably came from electrolysis, but everyone else
is going to assume they're acne scars."
     Sherry sighed.  "A few months ago.  I came back from recovery
when we started flying together."
     "Does the line know?"  Julia was referring to the cargo
airline.
     "No.  How would they?  They don't do physicals, my paperwork
all says `female.'"
     "How did you get the time off?"
     "I put in for a leave of absence without pay."
     "Does the FAA know?  How did you get a medical?"
     Sherry smiled slightly.  She announced her position over the
radio, then answered Julia.  "There are ways.  The FAA knows all
about me.  It's not exactly an unknown thing for them to see.
Karen Ulane did us a big favor."
     "I guess so.  That was too bad, though," Julia commented,
referring to the crash that killed Ulane.
     "Yeah.  Gear down."
     Julia pushed the lever down.  "Coming down...down and locked."
     "Tailwheel locked."
     "Tailwheel locked."
     Sherry pulled the throttles back.   "Flaps ten."
     "Flaps ten.  Mixture to full rich."
     "Full rich."  She pushed the prop controls forward, ensuring
they'd be set if she had to go-around.  Nobody else was in the
pattern, Sherry flew a tight approach with minimal power.  When she
knew she had the field made, she called for full flaps.  She landed
the DC-3 a little tail low, then let the tail settle.  One the tail
was down, Sherry moved the control column all the way back to hold
it.  She unlocked the tailwheel once they had slowed to taxi speed.
     Julia commented.  "Michelle'll be so thrilled to know."
     "Julia, don't tell her.  Please."
     Julia looked over.  "You're on of the ones who want to
disappear afterwards, then."
     "Yes.  Please don't tell anyone."
     "Okay, Sherry."
     They didn't talk much for the rest of the flight.

     Julia did ask Sherry a couple days later if she wanted to get
together for dinner and some drinks on Saturday night.  Sherry
didn't have any plans, so she agreed.  "You have any ideas," she
asked.
     Julia shrugged.  "There's a decent Chinese place not too far
away from the field.  We can go there."
     "Sounds good.  What should we wear?"
     "I'm tired of wearing pants all the time," Julia declared.
"I'm going to dress up a little."
     "Ok by me.  Where should we meet?"
     "We both live near the field, so let's meet in the line
parking lot at seven."
     "Sure.  See you then."

     They were both there at seven.  That may have been a little
surprising to a casual observer, but both women were pilots and
were used to showing up on time.  Julia was wearing a dark floral
print dress that was flowing and came to just below the knee.  The
dress apparently was made of rayon, tan hose, and black pumps with
3" heels.  Sherry had a black knee-length dress with a polo shirt
type of collar.  She also had on black pumps but with a little
lower heel.  They decided to take Sherry's Honda; that way  Julia
didn't have to clean off the passenger seat of her Tercel.
     There was a wait for the restuarant, but not much of one.
They shared food, like most peole do when they're eating Chinese,
and giggled over the fortune cookies.  Sherry's said "You are about
to take a long journey."
     Julia knew a nice lounge not very far away.  Over a couple
drinks, the two women talked; mainly about flying.  Like most
pilots, they used their hands a lot.  The bartender listened in as
much as he could, he seemed fascinated by two women discussing
aviation in a way that only pilots could.  They did switch to diet
soda after the second drink; neither one wanted to risk a drunken-
driving beef.  (The FAA's been going after pilots who drink and
drive.)
     The crowd had lessed out, it was getting late, so they left
the bar.  Two men followed them out, ambling behind them as their
heels clicked faster across the parking lot.  Sherry fished her
keys out and had them in her hand when the two men caught up to
them.
     One of them grabbed Sherry by the right wrist from behind.
"What's your hurry, little lady," he asked in a tone that chilled
Sherry to the core.
     The other one had grabbed Julia.  "We only want to party a
little.  Come with us, you won't get hurt and we'll show you a real
good time."  Both men laughed.
     Sherry exploded into motion.  She pivoted and drove her left
fist into the man's midsection with all the power she could muster.
The breath whooshed out of his lungs, he let go of her wrist and
started to double over.  Sherry pulled back, then swung the edge of
her right fist into his nose, smashing it to a bloody ruin.  She
wasn't finished, but he was when she kicked his left kneecap out of
alighnment.  He fell to the pavement a bleeding groaning ruin.
     The goon holding Julia was frozen in shock as he gaped at his
devastated friend.  He came alert when he heard a metallic
clicking; he looked up and saw Sherry pointing a small black
automatic pistol at his head.  From her stance and her expression,
he knew he was very close to dying.
     "Let her go," Sherry commanded.  The man did so instantly.
"Put your hands on top of your head.  You move without me telling
you to and you're a dead man.  Julia, get the phone from my car."
Julia did.  "Dial this number-"  Sherry told her what number "-
come around on my left side and hand it to me."
     Julia did as she was told; she was almost as stunned as the
man who Sherry had the gun on.  Sherry took the phone and when it
was answered, explained the situation.  She was told to stay where
she was.  She handed the phone back to Julia, who took it and stood
there uncertainly.
     A police car with no lights drove up three minutes later.  It
stopped so that the headlights illuminated the scene.  The cop got
out and came over.  His pistol was drawn, but wasn't aimed at
anyone.  "You Anderson," he asked.
     "Yes."
     "Ok."  He holstered the gun, grabbed the guy standing up and
tossed him against the Honda.  "Assume the position, asshole."  The
man did.  The cop frisked and cuffed him, then he marched him over
to the cruiser and threw him in the back seat.  Sherry put her
pistol away, the cop came back and frisked and cuffed the guy on
the ground with a heavy-duty cable tie.  Sherry helped him drag the
man to the cruiser and stuffed him in next to his buddy.  The cop
siad:  "We'll be in touch" to Sherry and drove away with the two
would-be rapists.
     Julia was still a little dazed.  Sherry walked her over to the
passenger's side of the car and helped her get in.  Sherry walked
back around and got in.  She looked over at Julia.  "Are you all
right?"
     "I've never seen anything like that.  It was so quick.  All of
a sudden he was on the ground and you had a gun."
     Sherry nodded, but didn't say anything.
     "Where did you learn do do that?"
     "I was taught.  Where and why, I can't tell you."
     "Were you in the service before-"
     "Yes."  Sherry let Julia draw her own conclusions, even though
she knew they'd be the wrong ones.
     "And the gun.  I grew up in Chicago.  The only guns I've ever
seen belonged to the cops.  Is it yours?"
     "Yes."
     "Do you have a permit for it?"
     Sherry nodded.
     "Do you carry it wtih you all the time?"
     "I can't answer that.  I will say I carry it when I need to."
     Julia looked over at her.  "Why did you have it tonight?"
     "I needed to, evidently."
     Julia sighed.  "I think I want to go home."  Sherry drove her
back to the airport and parked next to Julia's car.  Julia got out
without saying a word; Sherry stayed there until Julia had started
to drive away.
     Sherry sighed.  She didn't know what would happen now, but
there wasn't much she could do about it.

     Sherry was not very surprised when she reported for work on
Monday afternoon and found a new copilot assigned to her run.  She
went over to the desk and asked where Julia was.
     The dispatcher shrugged.  "She called in sick, said she wasn't
feeling very well."
     "Any idea when she'll be back," Sherry asked.
     No, but I wouldn't worry about it if I was you," he replied.
"She also asked to be assigned to another run."
     "She say why?"
     "`Personal reasons' she said.  Your new guy is Jeff McCreary.
His last job was working as a CFI."
     "Has he had much taildragger time?"
     Pete rummaged through his desk and found a folder.  "Let's see
here.. he instructed in Citabrias and did some banner towing with
them.  He has a fresh type rating in the -3.  800 hours total, 75
multi.  This is his second flying job."
     Sherry didn't complain.  She didn't have a lot more hours than
that, although she did have considerably more multi-engine time.
The thought of looking up Julia came to her, but she discarded it.
If that's what she wanted, then Sherry would honor it.
     Jeff wasn't the best looking guy Sherry had ever seen; his
nose looked as if he had used it to stop a few fast-moving objects.
He didn't talk much, either.  But he knew how to fly and Sherry was
soon swapping legs with him.
     This went on for a few weeks.  Jeff was nothing if not correct
with Sherry; no conversation beyond the business at hand, not even
an invitation to eat together on the turn-around.  Sherry wondered
what was wrong, but she suspected that Julia had talked and the
word had spread.
     In a way, she was relieved when an envelope came from Doris.
Inside was a clipping from "Flight Careers Digest" for an airline
and charter outfit that operated in Central and northern South
America.  They were looking for pilots with experience in heavy
piston-engined cargo airplanes; the smallest airplane type listed
was the DC-3.  Pilots with time in C-46s, DC-4s, -6s, -7s and C-97s
were highly desireable, as were ones with competency in Spanish
and/or Portuguese.  Since the line operated aircraft with U.S.
registration, only pilots with FAA issued licenses would be
considered.
     There was no note included with the clipping, but one didn't
need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what had to be done.
Sherry sent her resume off the next day.
     The airline sent a letter back asking her to come to Miami for
an interview.  She got some time off, then set up an appointment.
Getting there was tiring, but it didn't cost anything.  She rode
the jumpseat of the DC-3 to Chicago, then she rode a 727 to
Memphis.  They offered her a tour of the sorting facility, Sherry
asked for a raincheck for her return trip.
     The final leg was a DC-10 direct to Miami.  The crew was a
mixed one in that the pilot and flight engineer were from the cargo
carrier, while the co-pilot came from Flying Lion; an international
air-cargo company that had been swallowed up.  They had some idea
why Sherry would be nutty enough to go to Miami in July, but they
didn't ask.
     The interview was scheduled for 4pm at AirSouth's offices at
Miami International.  Sherry had learned from the cargo crew of a
motel that offered day rates for flight crews.  She checked into
the Motel at six and left a two o'clock wakeup call.
     It was hot when the call came.  Sherry took a shower and got
dressed, with the sound of the TV set for background noise.  At one
point she heard the sound of a large radial-engined aircraft taking
off and went to the wind; she saw a Boeing C-97 climbing out.  She
had never seen one before.  Oh, well.
     She got dressed in a pink suit with a white short-sleeved top,
white hose and white pumps.  Since she was leaving the room, she
took her luggage with her.  Sherry had lunch in the motel
restaurant before calling a cab to the interview. She was at the
offices fifteen minutes early.
     AirSouth didn't look like it spent much money on office
furnishings.  The place had linoleum floors that were probably old
when C-97s were being made.  The lighting was industrial-strength
fluorescent bulbs.  The offices were in a very large room, privacy
was obtained by green metal partitions with wavy glass translucent
panels.  The receptionist was a girl in her late teens who was
wearing a sundress and had reddish heavily-permed hair set off by
large gold hoop earrings.  She told Sherry to take a seat.  Sherry
found one that didn't look to be too filthy and waited.
     The girl sent her on back twenty minutes later to meet Phil,
the Chief Pilot.  Phil appeared to be in his late fifties.  He had
an office that was in the open area, though he had more space than
the other areas she saw.  On the way back, Sherry didn't see any
enclosed offices.  The place was exactly what it looked like, a
converted aircraft hangar.  Noise coming from the back showed that
not all of the hangar had been converted, she could hear air tools
and a clang as something metallic hit the concrete floor.  Phil's
office (not too surprisingly) was decorated with photos of Phil and
airplanes.  In one photo, he was standing in front of a C-119 that
had Air America lettering.
     Sherry saw that Phil had seen her looking at the photos.
"I've never heard anybody say anything good about the -119."
     Phil gestured her to a seat by the desk.  "You won't from me,
either.  So you think you want to fly for us."
     "Yes."
     He shook his head.  "It's not a job for a nice lady."
     "Hardly anybody calls me a `lady,' let alone `nice.'  I can
take care of myself."
     Phil seemed to be amused at that.  He rummaged in his top
right desk drawer, pulled out a pistol and tossed it on the desk.
"Recognize that?"
     Sherry glanced at it, then looked back at Phil.  "Taurus 9mm."
     "Know how to strip it?"
     "Yep."
     Phil waved his hand at it.  Sherry picked it up, dropped the
magazine out, and cleared the chamber.  "Silvertips," she muttered.
In a matter of seconds she had the pistol stripped.  She held the
barrel up to the light.  "You could clean it once in a while."  she
then reassembled the weapon.
     "Think you put it back together right," Phil asked.
     Sherry glared at him.  She picked up the magazine, slammed it
home, racked the slide and aimed the pistol towards the roof.
     "No, I believe you," he yelled.  Sherry lowered the hammer,
then she dropped the magazine out and slid the round that had been
in the chamber into the magazine.  "Let me see your logbooks."
     Sherry handed him the logs and the interview went fairly
normally after that.  Phil would occasionally switch into Spanish,
continue the conversation for a few minutes, then abruptly shift
back to English.  After about fifteen minutes he said:  "Contingent
on a flight test, you're hired.  Starting pay is 35K, including
full medical with furnished housing provided and meal allowances.
You'll be working out of Rio, so your pay is exempt from Federal
taxes.  We'll set up a bank account for you in Grand Cayman so the
Brazilians won't tax you, either.  How does that sound?"
     "Sounds good to me.  When's the test?"
     "I'd do it now, but I don't think you'd want to do it in that
nice suit."
     "I've got other clothes in my bag out front."
     Phil stood up.  "In that case, let's do it."  He pointed back
towards a door in the rear.  "Just go out that door after you've
changed.  Paula will show you where the ladies' room is."  Phil
turned and headed out towards the rear door.
     Sherry retrieved her stuff and changed into jeans, Reeboks,
and a black t-shirt.  Phil was standing next to an AirSouth DC-3.
He told her to start a pre-flight, then stopped her after five
minutes when he saw she knew what she was doing.  They climbed into
the airplane, shut the door, and went to the cockpit.  Phil waved
Sherry to the left seat, he sat in the right.  The two soon had the
engines warming up.  Sherry was glad to see that AirSouth had an
intercom system and headsets.
     "Okay, what we'll do is go to Taimiami and shoot some
landings," Phil said.  He left it up to Sherry to talk to Clearance
Delivery, Ground Control and the tower, though he did help her
navigate around the taxiways.  Taimiami (also known as Kendall to
avoid confusion with Miami International) is about ten miles from
Miami, so it was a quick hop.
     The flight test was more fun than work.  Phil did pull the
power back at one point and had Sherry do a power-off landing from
the downwind.  She touched the mains down just beyond the numbers
and tried not to show her pleasure.  They then went out over the
Everglades for some engine-out work.  Phil then told her to contact
approach and they went back to Miami International.
     After the engines were shut down, they removed their headsets.
Phil rubbed the top of his scalp and remarked:  "You can fly her,
all right.  Be back here at nine four weeks from Friday.  I'd
suggest you put most of your stuff in storage.  Paula will give you
a list of what we recommend you bring with you.  Most everything
else you'll need you can get there.  All right?"  He stuck out his
hand.
     Sherry shook it.  "Sure."  She followed Phil out of the
airplane and back into the offices.  He led the way back to the
front.
     Phil rapped on Paula's desk to attract her attention from the
magazine she was engrossed in.  "Sherry's hired.  Have her fill out
the personnel forms and give her the orientation package."  He
turned to Sherry.  "See you in a month."
     "I'll be here.  Thanks for the job."
     Phil smiled.  "Hold off on the thanks until you've been here
awhile.  Have a good flight back."
     Paula pulled out a file drawer and handed Sherry some papers.
One was a fairly standard employment application, there was an I-9
form, and a designation for a life insurance beneficiary.  Sherry
took a pen from her bag and started filling out the forms.  Paula
was a little surprised when Sherry produced her passport to satisfy
the I-9 form.  The life insurance policy was for one hundred
thousand.  Sherry split the designation between her parents and
IFGE.  Paula didn't ask who IFGE was.  Sherry had never been a
member of IFGE, but she had heard of them and she almost grinned
when she thought of the reaction they would have.  The last thing
Paula handed her was the orientation package.
     Sherry read though some of it while waiting to hop the cargo
flight to Memphis.  The listing of what to bring was fairly
comprehensive:  six pairs of lightweight long-sleeved trousers
(khaki preferred), four pairs of tropical/jungle boots (broken in),
two pairs of heavy insulated trousers that would fit over the khaki
ones, two pairs of winter hiking boots, six short-sleeved shirts,
three heavy long-sleeved shirts (flannel recommended), a dark-
colored sweatshirt, utility knife (sheath-type), three pairs of
sunglasses, lightweight and winter gloves suitable for flying.
They would furnish winter parkas.
     They also recommended three pairs of jeans, six light blouses,
a few lightweight skirts, two dresses (knee-length or lower), and
two pairs of black pumps.  That was followed by a recommendation to
bring a "suitable sidearm," one capable of stopping an adversary.
They strongly recommended automatic pistols that were corrosion
resistant.  She had some ideas, but planned to bounce them off
Keith before she chose a weapon to bring.
     It was after seven when Sherry got out of the AirSouth hangar.
Phil was leaving and he gave her a ride to the ramp area for the
overnight package lines.  Sherry's luck held, the flight to Memphis
was still loading, or more accurately, the Caravan from Key West
was still unloading.  There was room on the DC-10, too.
     This time she took them up on the tour of the sorting
facility.  It was an amazing sight, packages being transported at
high speed along a vast network of conveyor belts.  Laser barcode
readers scanned each package, which was shifted from conveyor to
conveyor as the code and flight routing demanded.  There was a
full-time PR staffer whose job it was to show VIPs around.  Since
there weren't any such august visitors that night, she was showing
Sherry and a few new freight dogs the operation.  Sherry asked her
if the routing computer could handle flight delays and equipment
breakdowns.
     "Absolutely," the lady said.  "The schedule is uploaded into
the computers each day and updated as need be.  We also have
scanners that compute the cube of each package and record its
weight, that feeds into the flight planning for each plane.  We
have weight-and-balance data for every plane we regularly use,
along with sample data for any planes we may lease or rent."

     "So if somebody shows up with a Martin 404 for the Christmas
rush," asked a female pilot.
     "Then we pull the data file for the 404s.  Watch,"  the tour
guide said.  She used a terminal to call up the sample sheet for a
Martin 404.  "We have a data form that all our subcontractors have
to fill out so we get the specific information on their aircraft.
Once that's in, then we only update it if needed.  As you can see
here, we've had 16 Martin 404s on file besides the generic one.
     Sherry took another look at the pilot who asked the question.
She was about 6'3" and had a fairly heavy build.  Her features and
voice were feminine, but her hands were large enough to easily wrap
around a heavy pistol's stock.  Her feet were at a minimum 12WW.
She caught Sherry looking, her slight smile said "I know what I am
and I know what you are."  Neither one of them exchanged a word the
entire time.
     The guide continued her spiel from the point where she was
interrupted:  "Now the computer data from the packages is used to
compute each aircraft's loading.  If we either go over wight or
`cube out' in that we have more packages than will fit in the
aircraft, the computer makes any alternate routes that it can or
alerts the dispatchers.  Depending on the time of the year and
volume, we have backup aircraft available at various points in the
system."
     There was enough time to grab a quick snack after the tour
before the airplane to Chicago was ready to leave.  The departure
itself was something to watch, dozens of airplanes leaving just
minutes apart.  The controllers had it down to a science, the
lighter aircraft left before the heaviest ones so that nobody had
to wait for a wake turbulence hold.  A handful of Caravans and Twin
Beeches left first, followed by Falcon 20s, DC-9s, 727s, a DC-8,
the DC-10s, and finally the 747s working the international routes.
Rush hour at two am.
     Sherry was back at her home airport at the time she was
accustomed to arriving.  Pete greeted her as she walked though the
door from the flight line:  "Did you get the job?"
     Sherry tried not to show her surprise.  "And what makes you
think I went looking for a job?"
     Pete smiled and spread his hands wide.  "There are some pilots
who like the life of a small charter outfit, but not many.  Most
want the big bucks and prestige of airline flying.  Besides, you
went to Miami for one day.  That's a long trip for a day trip.  So,
did you get the job and with whom?"
     "Yep, with AirSouth."
     "AirSouth?"  Pete's eyebrows rose at that.
     "You know them?"
     "Rumors, only rumors.  They do a lot of Central and South
American charter work for the Feds, especially DoD and some other
lesser known outfits."  He paused for a second.  "You might
consider them a successor to Air America.  You'll do some hard
flying with them.  You can use my typewriter over there if you want
to type up a resignation letter.  Two weeks is standard, we can get
someone in here by then."
     Sherry just laughed and went behind the desk.  The letter
didn't take very long to write.  She gave it to Pete, who slotted
it in the Chief Pilot's box.  Then she went home to take a long
shower and get some sleep.  When she woke in the afternoon, she
called Doris to report on her new job.  Doris asked her to stop by
on her way to Miami if she had the time.  The conversation could
have been that of two women who've known each other for years.
     Pete handed her a note when she checked in for work.  The note
was from the Chief Pilot and all it said was "See me when you
report in."  That was now, so she tossed the note and went to his
office.  Sherry knocked on the door and opened it.
     John Schiff was the Chief Pilot, and he was a good one.  The
company had hired him away from American.  He, like Sherry, loved
the DC-3.  His salary wasn't as high as American had paid him, but
it wasn't shabby, either.  He got to fly as much as he wanted to
(40-60hrs a month) and when he went to sleep each day, it was in
his own bed.  He looked up at the knock.  "Come on in, Sherry.
Have a seat."
     "You wanted to see me, boss?"
     He held up her resignation letter.  "Kind of bare-bones.  I
haven't lost another good pilot to the majors?"
     Sherry shook her head.  "Not hardly.  AirSouth."
     John sat back in surprise.  "You're going to work for Phil
MacDonough?  That old bastard."  He shook his head and almost
laughed.
     "You know him?"
     "Yeah.  He and I flew for Air America in the early `60s.  I
got out of that sort of flying, he never did.  It can get into your
blood if you let it.

     "Sherry, the hardest and most satisfying flying I ever did was
for them.  We used to fly instrument approaches to villages just by
time and distance.  What we would do is fly alongside a mountain
and set the altimeter, then we'd drop into the clouds and break out
over a village in a valley.  We'd drop the cargo, then climb back
out though the cloud layer.  No beacons, let alone an ILS.  No
rules, either.  All that counted was if you got the job done
safely.  If you didn't," he shrugged a shrug that any pilot would
have understood.
     He looked out the window and watched a Cessna 421 taxi by.
"It was a different kind of flying.   If Mac's involved with it
now, then it still is.  There's a certain high from adrenaline, of
sticking your head in a dangerous place and coming out alive.  It's
almost a macho thing.  A lot of men go through it, I suppose, which
is why a lot of us get killed doing stupid things like BASE
jumping.  I don't know if I'm making sense to you, or even to
myself.
     "Few women get caught up in that sort of thing, but some do.
Maybe you're one, Sherry.  Damn few women go around armed, either,
for that matter."
     Sherry froze when he said that.  "What do you know about
that?"
     John shrugged.  "Julia told me about your dinner together when
she requested another captain.  We've done a lot of work over the
years for the cops at all levels.  I was able to verify that the
incident happened and that you have a legal right to carry that
pistol anywhere except maybe the Oval Office."

     "And now," Sherry asked.
     John shrugged.  "Now, nothing.  Somebody went to a lot of
trouble to get that permit for you.  Someone with that much pull
might also be able to make some trouble for me, which is why I
didn't ask you not to carry the piece."   He sighed, and looked out
the window again.  He must have made a decision, because he swung
back and looked squarely at Sherry.  "Do you know why I hired you?"
     "No."
     "I was sort of asked to by the FAA.  Your resume was in a pile
on my desk one day when a Flight Standards inspector came by for a
chat about a problem with the maintenance paperwork.  While we were
talking and I was trying to figure out how much the penalty was
going to cost me, he asked if I had any interesting resumes; he
gave me some line about they were looking for a couple of check
pilots and had a hard time finding ones who were interested in
applying to work for the government.
     "So I said sure and handed him the stack.  He read through
them and then handed me yours.  He said `You shouldn't let this one
get away from you.'  You were qualified for the job, Sherry, but so
were a lot of other pilots.  I told him I'd call you in for an
interview.  He said good, and then told me he didn't see a problem
with the paperwork that couldn't be fixed and he'd let me know if
any action would be taken.  After I offered you the job, I called
him up and told him I had hired you.  He said fine and in an `oh,
by the way' tone of voice told me no enforcement action was going
to be taken against us."
     "I don't expect you to confirm any of this, but like I said,
I've been around the covert action game.  I suspect they're
grooming you for something down in Central or South America.  Just
take one piece of advice from me and watch your back.  I saw them
spend a lot of resources to train people for missions that while
successful, got almost everyone killed.  As long as the mission is
a success, they don't care about the people involved.  I'm sure
they've spent a lot of time and money training you, but don't be
surprised if they try to sacrifice you for something you don't want
to die for."
     John stood up and stuck his hand out.  "You're a good pilot,
Sherry.  When whatever you're doing down there ends, if you want
to, you can come back here with no questions asked."
     Sherry almost broke down over that unexpected bit of kindness.
She managed to choke out a "thank you," shook hands, and made it to
her car before she started to cry.  After she had her cry, she went
back into the freight terminal and washed her face in the ladies'
room.  Then she went back to the dispatcher's office and started
reviewing the weather and  flight plan for the evening's run.

     John's caution stuck with her.  She visited a lawyer and
updated her will.  She also purchased a small back-up pistol in a
private sale (so it couldn't be traced to her easily) and practiced
with it at a range in a forest preserve until she felt somewhat
comfortable with it.
     She bought a Glock .45 though a regular dealer after she found
one who was willing to let her test-fire different weapons.  Sherry
was a fan of the old GI .45, but she was willing to recognize a
better weapon when one came along.  The dealer first tried to
persuade her to buy a 9mm, but he stopped when he realized that she
knew what she was about.  Sherry purchased five spare magazines.
She intended to take her Government Model Colt along as a backup
weapon in case something happened to the Glock.
     After some thought, Sherry sat down and wrote out everything
that had happened to her since the day she was called into the
Chief of Staff's office at Destroyer Squadron Two.  She had a
photographer take some pictures of her, both portrait and full
length.  She then used a Polaroid camera with a self-timer to take
some nude shots, those went into a special envelope.
     Sherry found some old photographs of her before all this
started; photos of her on a deployment to the Mediterranian and
some that were taken at Suffolk Airport when she had taken a few
skydiving lessons.  She laughed at the thought of using a female
pronoun for the male photos, but the English language was never set
up to deal with changing one's gender.  When she looked at the
photos, she knew they were of her, but it was also like looking at
the photos of a relative.  It was getting harder to realize that
she was once a man, even harder to understand how she could have
survived for so long as one.  Sherry knew she'd rather die than
have to go back to living as a man.
     Sherry then went to a private investigative service.  She had
them fingerprint her and draw up a notarized statement that siad
that the fingerprints belonged to one Sherry Anderson and listed
her passport number, Wisconsin driver's license number, Social
Security card and pilot's license as supporting documents.
     All the mysteries and espionage novels she had read now came
to good use.  Sherry knew that sometimes bodies can be identified
by dental remains only.  She went to a dentist for a checkup, which
included a full set of bitewing X-rays.  Sherry put the name and
address of the dentist into the package she was drawing up.
     Once the package was done, she went to the lawyer and made
arrangements for the package to be sent to her parents by a bonded
courier if she didn't make contact with the lawyer for a period of
two years.  Sherry knew she was violating every rule in the book,
but she also wanted somebody to know she had existed.  The lawyer
scrupulously avoided asking any questions concerning the contents
of the package.
     Putting everything down on paper had made her think.  She had
obeyed her orders not to have any contact with her relatives.  Her
parents must still be under the impression that their son Sam was
on a special mission for the government.  That was true, but how
would they react when the mission was over and they found out that
their son was now their daughter?  Her father was very well-
connected politically, would he raise a big stink?  Sherry couldn't
believe that this line of reasoning hadn't occurred to someone.
She didn't want to back out of the mission, but she wanted to be
reasonably sure that if someone tried to cross her that they
wouldn't get away with it.
     Sherry also got her affairs in order; she made sure her shots
were up to date and arranged to put what she didn't need to take
with her into storage.  Since the car was titled to her, she sold
it with the new owner taking delivery at the airport the day she
left.  Doris was pissed at first, they had paid for the car, but
she realised that the more Sherry did that was above-board, the
better it was.  Doris didn't ask for the money from the sale and
Sherry didn't offer to give it to her.
     She also had a lot of reading to do, AirSouth had sent her
their operations manual, along with their flight manuals for the
DC-3 and DC-4.  The DC-3 was was familiar.  The DC-4 wasn't too
bad, it was more complex than the -3, especiall