Archive-name: Changes/abfh1d.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Anderson's Training

Keywords: trans


    Sherry went to the pharmacy and had the prescription filled. 
The prescription called for taking Premarin and Provera on a 25-
day cycle.  She realized that she'd have to make a schedule of some
kind to keep track of what day to take what.  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 pill.  It was almost a disappointment that nothing
happened right away.
    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 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 oet a
.380 automatic to drill a 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 professional, which resulted in Sherry's opening
up completely.  Janet also reviewed the surveillance reports on
Sherry for any discrepancies.  She was coming along fine.
    Sherry had continuing appointments with the electrolysis team,
normally once a week.  They went after follicles that were dormant
during the initial process along with the ones that had survived. 
The sessions didn't take very long, but 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 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.
    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
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?"
    "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.
    She 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 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 wnet
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 someone 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 eated 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 rigouroes training.  None of her
new wardrobe fit, she wore sweats and pulled the drawstring tight. 
It would probably be a temporary loss.

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