Duty, Honor, Country       by: Brandy Dewinter

 

Chapter 8 - Trail’s End?

Marilyn decided they would make their escape attempt just before sundown. After dark the guards would be too suspicious of any women approaching them so that was out, yet soon after a dusk assault they would have the shelter of darkness to hide them from pursuit as they escaped from the harem. None of the girls had the slightest qualms about killing anyone or anything that supported this monstrous regime. In truth, they would welcome a chance to hurt a few of those sadists, or at least those who supported the sadistic, self-styled Maximum Leader.

Tall Carol led the way. She sashayed along in her six-inch heels with an extra dip and wiggle in every step. Marilyn followed, demonstrating the complex motion of Jell-O on springs that was sure to catch men’s eyes. They walked casually up to the guarded gate covering the exit from the harem. The arrogance of the harem mistress, along with making gruesome examples of a few escapees, had intimidated most of the women in the harem to the point where escape truly was unthinkable. This was not as surprising as it may have seemed. During the Korean War ruthless prisoner of war policies had enabled half a dozen guards to control hundreds of prisoners, more than the number of bullets carried in the guards’ guns. If a riot had started, a mass escape attempt, most of the men would have been safe. But someone would have had to take the first step (and probably die). Similar intimidation had been used to control the harem girls and made escape unthinkable in the guard’s minds as well, especially when other thoughts filled all available thinking capacity. Marilyn and Carol giggled together, urging Vanna to hurry up and catch them, though each was exactly in position. At the key point Carol dropped an earring and bent over to pick it up, her long legs accentuated by incredible heels and an almost-non-existent skirt. The guard’s eyes followed her motion as though directly connected and probably never saw the instantaneous flash that ended with one of Vanna’s knives in his throat.

Now they were committed and speed was of the utmost importance. Unfortunately, speed was something they didn’t have. Even as Vanna retrieved her knife and took up the guard’s weapon, Marilyn was back at their starting point gathering up the gagged Jennifer. The girl was cuffed but not otherwise restricted in motion. At least she could be expected to move on her own. It wasn’t so easy with Sandy. She was still very weak from loss of blood and from the damage to her body. Though she did her best, Jaymi was carrying her as much as escorting her, a job that Jaymi would not allow anyone else to take. Constance had returned to his Daniel persona complete with guard’s uniform, but surprised everyone other than Marilyn when he appeared escorting his sister.

"All right, everyone, listen up," Marilyn directed, "this is the real Connie McLean. She’s been our source on the inside. We’re taking her, too. Unfortunately, she’s been beaten and has broken ribs, so she’s going to need help. It’s all or nothing from here. I don’t have to tell you that if they capture us, there’s no hope. Let’s go."

With that they left the harem building. It seemed too easy, somehow, but those in a totalitarian state get so used to using and accepting intimidation they get lazy and forget that some people will not be intimidated. The team shepherded their weaker members through the grounds to the motor pool where Jaymi soon had a van going. Daniel drove to the outer gate and said he was taking the truck to make another pickup for the harem. They let the gate guard get a glimpse of the gagged Jennifer and he accepted the authority of Daniel’s uniform as though it were a passport. Maybe it wasn’t fair, it certainly wasn’t sporting when another of Vanna’s knives carved his life away as well, but that gate guard was the only witness that could have reported that one of those leaving the compound was a man.

The death of the first guard was soon reported and the absence of several harem girls was soon discovered. It wasn’t a surprise to find that six of the girls had recently been abducted and presumably knew each other. No corresponding relationship was identified for the other two escapees, but the word went out to search for eight young women at least one of which was injured. That might have worked in a society where people were treated equally. In Maximum Leader’s country, though, those wearing the uniform of his elite guards obeyed no rules but their own, answered no questions but those from their own officers. Daniel, in his liberated uniform was a searcher, not a searchee. He forced his way past roadblocks on the authority of his uniform alone without letting anyone inspect the interior of his van. Of course, the search was for escaping women, not for a man who might have women hidden in the back of his van. If one of Maximum Leader’s officers suspected him, they were history, but no one else could even question him. Soon they were at the border, and once across the pickup was quick.

With typical foresight, Marilyn had positioned their doctor and a support team in the neighboring country. No one not already familiar with their unique physiques needed to be involved in any medical examinations. Since the girls had never tried to hide being Americans, they were able to openly accept transportation in official U.S. vehicles and fourteen hours after they escaped from Maximum Leader’s captivity, they were back in their Montana compound.

Jennifer knew only that one of the team, Daniel, had masqueraded as a woman to gain entrance. She thought that some team of men had actually rescued her from inside the lab, then given her to the girls for their joint escape. She was warned that if her story ever came out, Maximum Leader’s agents would pursue her even into the U.S. and kidnap her again, a more potent threat than any prison sentence for violating national security. She ended up in the witness protection program with a new identity.

The real Connie never knew the team’s secrets either. She also accepted a new identity, as did Daniel. The team was not as reluctant to see him go as they might once have been. His aloof, coolly-amused distance had seemed to be chosen just to give all members of the team a unique persona, but it had also kept him from ever forming the depth of friendship shared by the others. Of course, the fact that hhe had kept a secret from those who should have been closer than family, whose lives depended on mutual trust, hurt the others as well. They still liked and respected him, but trust, well that was just too fragile to be resurrected. Those who had washed out of the training were returned to regular army units, though they were told they would be monitored for some unspecified time to ensure they never compromised security. The risk was reasonable. After all, if Maximum Leader ever realized his diabolical brew had been neutralized, he could come up with another one. Their own lives depended on keeping quiet, again a more potent threat than any prison sentence.

So it was a group of five that gathered one evening in the lounge a few nights after their return. Sandy was nearly recovered from her ordeal, though there was an image of pain that never left her eyes now. It was heartbreaking in a way that made her seem as though some past incident had forever ripped her innocence from the young woman. Now she seemed even more in need of protection, even more the dewy-eyed damsel in distress. Pretty close to the truth, actually. Like Sandy, the others had all maintained their cross-gender personas even after the conclusion of the mission.

"Well, ladies, we’ve come a long way," Marilyn reminisced with a smile. The nods from her team were more an invitation to continue than an interruption.

"We need to make some decisions. I say, ‘we’ because these are not orders. Consider it another chance to volunteer. We have an invitation that we can answer in three ways, the invitation is from the President. He and the First Lady want to meet us. Since he’s the Commander-in-Chief that part is pretty much of an order, but they’ve requested to meet us in our femme personas. That’s optional. The first choice we each have to make is whether or not we want to meet them as we are, or dressed like men. We don’t all have to make the same choice, either. It’s up to each of us."

"Second, even if we dress as women for the meeting with the President, each of can choose to go back to looking like our normal gender after that. There won’t be time to complete the surgical changes before we meet the President, but I’ll arrange the necessary procedures soon after for those who want them. However, I’ve been authorized to offer you the chance to continue as you are. You obviously can’t go back to regular army units so your enlistments will be canceled with honorable discharges and we’ll provide you with new identities like we did with Daniel."

"There is a third choice. The President has indicated he would like the team to continue. He seems to think our unique capabilities might be valuable in other situations. If we choose to do this, then we’ll all remain in the army as a special force. This is not part of the earlier commitment you made when you volunteered. You’ve all met that with outstanding success. I won’t even trot out the same arguments again, about Duty, or Honor, or Country. You know them already. You also know our capabilities and can make your own judgments on whether you think the nation can use us, maybe even needs us."

"Well, that’s the situation. Our meeting with the President is set for a week from tonight. How are we going to look? What are we going to tell him?"

Once again all the girls turned to Sandy. Especially now that Constance/Daniel was gone she was the de facto second in command of the team, more for the respect the others gave her skills and judgment than for any specific authority. More than that, though, she had suffered the most in the team and had the most reason for moving on to some other lifestyle.

There was a moment of introspection in her look, a bit wider window into the pain that had held her showed for a second in her deep-green eyes. Then that pain was replaced with a sparkle of happiness they hadn’t seen much lately. The fifteen-going-on-twenty-five girl with shredded innocence became a fifteen-trying-to-be eighteen girl headed for her first school dance when she stood and giggled, "Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I saw the most darling evening gown in the catalog and I’m ordering it before the rest of you get the chance."

Then she was a bit more serious for a moment. "Marilyn, none of us are the same as we were when you scooped us up. You told us once that internal characteristics were more important than external ones in making this work. You were right, as always. Inside, I don’t feel like a man anymore, and I don’t want to go back to being a man. I also don’t feel like a woman, at least, not in all ways. We’re unique, each of us and as a group. I only know I love you and I’m not ashamed to say so. I love all of you. If you’ll have me, I want to stay part of the team."

With that, she stepped to where Marilyn was seated and urged her to stand with a gentle touch of slender fingers. They embraced in a way that was more than men could do, more than women even allow themselves to enjoy. Emerald eyes smiled into brilliant sapphires as the rest of the team crowded around. The relationships in this team were going to play havoc with traditional military order and discipline, but any of these girls would kill or die for any of the others, and they all knew it. No one better get in their way.

It’s hard to imagine a meeting with the President being an anti-climax, but it couldn’t compare with the emotional impact of the decision the team had made to continue. Still, the Cinderfellas all had a ball at the ball. When they got to the White House they could almost hear eyeballs snap as the Marine guards watched one gorgeous woman after another climb from the official limousine. They all played out their parts in the personas that were now more real than whomever they had once been. Carol vamped the guards and got a blush from one almost as bright as her hair and a grunt of near-pain from another. Sandy managed to drop a delicate lace hanky and almost caused a riot as would-be helpers raced to retrieve it. And that was just at the entrance portico. They eventually got themselves sorted out and into a procession that would have been regal if they hadn’t all been smirking so much. Of course, Marilyn’s jiggling and Carol’s sashaying didn’t quite invoke an image of majestic dignity. Jaymi had some of that, though, and Vanna defined the term, until she let just a bit of lace show through a slit in her long gown. Only Sandy really looked royal, the perfect princess come to the palace to be presented to the king. The flowing gown she wore captured her trademark peekaboo style, promising a glimpse at a treasure more precious than "commoners" possessed. It had one unexpected consequence.

The First Lady was livid. She had heard about these troops who had made such a great sacrifice for their country and decided the properly tolerant, liberal thing to do would be to invite them to the White House in all their pathetic finery. It would show that she wasn’t judgmental about poor, misguided people that didn’t meet society’s norms. Instead, when the troop of gloriously beautiful woman arrived she was sure she had been tricked. Someone had taken advantage of her famous tolerance and substituted real woman of surpassing beauty to make her look foolish, not to mention rather plain. Someone’s head would roll over this. Of course, these beautiful girls must have been pawns of those who had chosen to embarrass her. The First Lady knew that really pretty women couldn’t compete in a man’s world, couldn’t possibly have a mental capacity on a par with their stunning appearance. She, herself, was just about as pretty as you could be and still be smart. At least, in her opinion. In all her planning it had never occurred to her that parading a bunch of pathetic transvestites through the White House would have destroyed the security necessary for mission success.

She whispered her anger to the President, who accepted her judgment with a barely-suppressed sigh of relief. His own response to that sort of feminine beauty had been long reported in what he considered the hostile press. It bothered him, though, that these were men and he wasn’t supposed to be attracted to men. When his wife decided they must have been real women, he felt less guilty. In fact, there might be another opportunity here, maybe five of them. Of course, both were consummate politicians so they greeted their guests just like any others at the formal dinner. Their plans for . . . whatever . . .would wait.

At least the President, or his aides, had remembered to maintain the masquerade at the public portions of the formal dinner. The members of the team were among a host of guests from various areas, not even identified as members of the military. No one suspected they might have earned their way into the President’s presence. Instead, they were considered part of the window dressing of glitterati sprinkled around to make things more elegant.

When the team reached the President in the receiving line, he said to their blonde leader, "You must be Marilyn. I must say, you don’t look quite like I expected."

"Indeed, Mr. President, just what did you expect?" she countered, arching an elegant brow.

"I don’t know," he stammered.

Marilyn could see the anger in the First Lady’s eyes and in a moment of clarity that would later seem so obvious it should be unremarkable, she understood why. Leaning close to the President, she whispered in his ear using her masculine voice, "You might want to tell your wife we’re no competition for her. We’re just soldiers with special skills, and we like to think we are quite skilled at what we do."

The shock on the President’s face when he heard that incongruous voice was too deep to be concealed, though he laughed a second later as though Marilyn had told him a dirty joke or something. His wife picked up on the interplay and looked at the team leader, then the rest of the team much more closely.

"I find it very hard to believe you’re what you say you are," she said coldly.

"That could be a problem, ma’am, since we’re not in the habit of revealing our ‘distinguishing characteristics’," Sandy grinned from her place next in line. She had offered her delicate hand to the President with that motion that induced a kiss more than a handshake, and he had almost found himself complying. He managed to turn that into a bow, one that seemed a little distracted since his eyes were glued to a panel over Sandy’s bosom that threatened to go transparent if she breathed, and she was definitely breathing. The fire-haired Carol that was next in line was the one to whisper in the First Lady’s ear with something that was convincing, in tone or in content. The First Lady’s eyes went wide at whatever Carol said, then she looked at Sandy with a great deal more respect than anger, adding perhaps a little fear.

White House protocol experts had arranged suitable dinner companions for each team member, or at least suitable for their appearance. They found themselves distributed along the table amongst bureaucrats of various agencies. Each girl was behaving quite demurely, even Carol. The lecherous old goats with whom they were paired were being forward enough, ever more so as the evening wore on. When junior officers appeared to escort the team to the President’s office, the girls turned to the handsome young men with such joy and alacrity that another layer of credibility was added to their already-impenetrable disguises as women.

As they entered the Oval Office, they couldn’t help looking around at this archtypical seat of power for American citizenry. Their flickering glances absorbed the three other occupants of the room along with the paintings and furnishings of the Chief Executive’s office. Two of those occupants were known, the President and First Lady. The third was unknown to any of the team but Marilyn. This third person was a man that they might have seen a thousand times, or never. At first glance, he appeared completely ordinary, average build, average height, neutral coloring. It was only on second glance that they noticed his almost-inhuman precision. He wore a standard dinner tuxedo that was perfectly tailored to his trim form instead of any military uniform, but he had the look of military training, if not current service. He stood with perfect balance, not at a rigid military attention, but poised without fidgeting, shoulders symmetric, head erect, as though an engineer had designed him. He said nothing, though. There really wasn’t time if he had wanted to.

The First Lady launched an immediate attack, "All right, I want to know who put you up to this. You are obviously real women. Also that long-haired girl is too young to even be in the army, and no one so innocent looking could possibly have suffered as that red-haired woman said she did. I won’t stand for someone trying to embarrass me, I mean, the President like this."

"I’m afraid we all know what you mean, dear, but that’s for the voters to decide," a voice curiously without power declared. There was an echo of power, though, as if the voice could have had power, or perhaps should have, or perhaps had access to so much power it could be heard in even the flattest of tones.

"Sam," the President continued, "do you know what’s going on?"

The precise man answered, "Well, Mr. President, I didn’t hear what Carol said to the First Lady, but I can guess. First, ma’am, let me assure you that these are all genetic males, all fully equipped with male genitalia. They do an amazing job of appearing as women and it helps to maintain the illusion by referring to them as women, but they are truly men. I assume that Carol told you something about Sandy’s ordeal on the mission. If necessary, I can produce the medical records to confirm the injuries that were inflicted upon her. It is a tribute to her skill and her strength of spirit that she can still appear innocent after what she has suffered. I assure you that not many could, whether born male or female. The success of Operation Seahorse was a team effort, but she certainly made a major contribution. She, or in her alternate persona he, is Sanford Beech, an army private and currently 20 years old."

When the operation was named a glance of confusion flickered among the enlisted members of the team. Surprisingly, this provoked an instant’s imperfection in the perfect neutrality of "Sam’s" face as a responsive flicker of smile creased the corners of his eyes. Instead of commenting, though, he looked at the President for further orders.

The President’s orders were for his wife, though. "Dear, why don’t you go back to the party and keep the guests happy. Offer my regrets and tell them I’ll be along in a few minutes."

The angry frustration in her eyes as her assertions about the team were blandly dismissed boded ill for whichever servant or underling she first encountered outside the office, but she did as the President requested and left the room. Once she was gone, the President turned on the famous smile and moved from his desk to a more-casual arrangement of sitting chairs.

"Please, um, ladies, sit down. Can we get you something to drink? I apologize if my manners are a bit . . uneven. I’ve never before had a chance to interact with such skilled . . is it cross-dressers?"

Sam replied, and the girls found out something about themselves in his answer. "Actually, Mr. President, according to the standard literature, it would be most correct to refer to the team as she-males. They constantly maintain a female appearance, more than just interim cross-dressing as transvestites do. Yet they do not consider themselves true women trapped in men’s bodies and are not preparing for Sexual Reassignment Surgery as transsexuals do. Isn’t that right, ladies?"

None of the others knew enough about the standard terms to agree or disagree, except perhaps for Marilyn, so they mostly just shrugged and tried to understand what he had said for themselves. They didn’t even know this guy that was talking, let alone know if what he said was right. Sam picked up on their confusion and the instant of smile flickered at the corners of his eyes again. This time, instead of waiting for further questions from the President, he continued.

"Mr. President, I’ll make you a bet. I’ll bet that none of the team besides Marilyn had ever heard of Operation Seahorse until I mentioned it, and that none of them knows who I am."

Marilyn smiled at this comment, though the President’s face mirrored the confusion on the rest of her team. "You’re right, Sam. They had no need to know," the team’s blonde leader said.

"I don’t understand what you mean," the President said.

"Since I was the only point of contact outside the team," explained Marilyn, "I was the only one who knew the code name for our mission. I was also the only one who knew our controller, Sam Gates."

Sam picked up the discussion, "That’s one of the things that makes Marilyn so effective for the team. She takes security seriously. If someone has no direct need to know, she doesn’t tell them. Period."

"Very well," the President responded. "Now, Sam tells me he thinks the team should continue and that you have consented to do so. I’m inclined to agree, but I have to admit I’m not sure why. You obviously represent a unique capability, but I’m not sure how we might need or use that uniqueness. I don’t expect we’ll have many more missions quite like the one you just completed. For the sake of all of us, I certainly hope not."

"We hope never to see another mission like that one either, Mr. President," Marilyn replied for the team, backed up by four vigorous nods. Their attention turned to Sam Gates, who had masterminded the creation of the team in the first place.

"Mr. President, the experts don’t agree on just how much of a person’s attitudes and characteristics are created by the culture in which they were raised versus how much is genetic. Nonetheless, it is true in our culture that men can be and usually are more ruthless than women, and more determined in mission accomplishment. They have a greater willingness to sacrifice themselves for their country, as opposed to defending only their children. Their plumbing is a less-important aspect of their manhood than their inner drive. This team is a group of beautiful women with the strength of will that typifies men. They are also physically stronger than typical of beautiful women, which is just one more advantage they can offer over teams that are female. Whether they ever need to demonstrate their virility in the line of duty again is not the only reason for sustaining this capability."

"I see," the Commander-in-Chief agreed. "Very well, you have my support. What shall we call this little secret?"

"I was thinking it might be appropriate to call them the ‘She-Male Independent Tactical Expedition.’ SMITE for short. When you have the need, they can smite the enemies of our country," Sam offered, another instant of smile flashing.

"Why Sam," Marilyn laughed, "you do have a sense of humor after all."

The President stood and walked back to his desk where a pile of documents waited.

"Attention to orders," Gates said sharply. Old reflexes were triggered and the SMITE team found their bodies moving to formal positions, though the flowing gowns and soft curves kept them from duplicating the sharp precision Gates demonstrated. The President picked up the first document and spoke formally.

"General Merlin, for your actions in the recently completed mission, you and three of your team, Carol Stevenson, Jaymi Fox, and Vanna White are awarded Silver Star medals for conspicuous gallantry. Of course, these are all awarded in your real names, but you won’t be able to tell anyone how and when you won them, and your records are now assigned to Sam’s care and keeping. I’m sorry you won’t receive the real honor due you, but you know the reasons why that’s not possible."

Then he turned to Sandy. He walked over to her and smiled at the pretty princess. It had finally sunk into his unconscious as well as conscious mind that this lovely young lady was really a man under her captivating finery, so his earlier reactions were no longer a problem, but it’s just not possible for a man to look at someone that pretty, appearing that innocent, and not smile.

"Sandy Beech," he couldn’t suppress his own obligatory snicker, "for your actions, there’s really no reward, no honor that would be sufficient even if we could make them public. As the standard phrasing goes, you went far above and beyond the call of duty, suffering in ways that are so foreign to our way of life that those who weren’t there cannot even begin to appreciate your sacrifice, let alone show their appreciation properly. Nonetheless, it honors me to be able to present to you, the Congressional Medal of Honor. Your citation is sufficiently vague that I was able to let a few legislators see it without compromising security. Needless to say, it had my highest personal recommendation. In some ways I don’t think I ever understood the concept of Duty, Honor, and Country that motivates the military mind until in my own mind’s eye I saw you accept the invasion of your body by that despicable device. I know that I could not have done it, not even for the life of my nation. I respect you. Thank you."

Sandy’s blush looked so perfect on her young face that even Marilyn almost forgot this was really a twenty-year old male army private. When the President reached to shake her hand, her delicate gesture once again almost had him bowing to kiss her slim fingers. Once again he recovered though, and then smiled at the memory of his earlier interest. That was the end of their interview. He suggested that they return to the dinner, but all the girls were saturated with the intensity of maintaining a perfectly feminine persona in such a glittering environment, not to mention the thought of once again returning within reach of the lecherous bureaucrats. They headed to their limousine instead, though Marilyn trailed behind and spoke with Sam Gates. In a few minutes she caught up and they embarked on a short trip to a local hotel.

"Team meeting in ten minutes," Marilyn announced. "Get comfortable, then come to my room."

The team assembled as ordered, then a glorious smile brought Marilyn’s face to life as she made a further announcement that was really no surprise, "Well, we’ve got another mission. Everybody get a good night’s sleep, then we SMITE the wicked again."

 

Finis

 

 

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© 1998 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.