I'M FEMALE, I'M MAFIA

LUNA TIC

The training was intense. Even though Jade’s knowledge of intaglio printing had slated her to work in the Anti-Counterfeiting Division, she was required to pass the same stringent requirements as any other Secret Service agent, including those who protected the President of the United States.

“By mid-term, half of you will have dropped out,” the leather-faced instructor barked the first day, “and the other half will sorely wish you had." He glared out at the trainees, his eyes mere slits. “Those of you who survive until the very end will know how to protect this country against terrorists, threats against critical infrastructures, including our financial system.” He chuckled. “You’ll also learn how to kill a potential assassin three different ways before his body hits the ground.”

One of the things Jade quickly learned to loathe were the simulated attacks on presidential motorcades, on a just-landed presidential airplane or chopper, or on buildings where the highest government officials were being protected. The attacks would begin with “flash-bang” bombs, simulating sudden, unexpected gunfire. Computer-controlled cardboard cutouts of people would jump up in windows and on the street, some wielding various deadly weapons, and others who were merely innocent civilians holding a wallet or a telephone, caught up in the havoc. Agents had to react with split-second precision, without thinking, knowing exactly what to do in each and every scenario.

If there was one motto that the Secret Service lived by, it was - Expect the unexpected.

A key part of the training involved replacing instinctual human responses - such as flinching at the sound of a gunshot - with practiced responses that were designed to neutralize the attacker and protect the intended target from harm.

Of course, firearms and marksmanship training was fundamental. Jade had never liked guns, and the first time she held a pistol in her hand, she flashed back to the day her father committed suicide and she carried his gun to the Next Superstar Modeling Agency offices, intent on teaching Romeo Estella a lesson.

Jade struggled to achieve the high marksmanship standards that the Secret Service demanded. At night, she tossed and turned, the instructor’s voices still in her ears. Come to the ready position! Lock the slide to the rear. Decock - reholster with one hand. Check the chamber and magazine well. Check, check, check twice!

It seemed that Jade’s ears rang all the time with the sounds of gunshots, even though she wore ear protection. The pungent odor of gunpowder permeated her hair and clothes.

She had to qualify on a .357 caliber pistol and a shotgun, and be functionally familiar with virtually all other weapons known to man. There was a gun vault on site where they were shown a wide range of weapons, including those made from the latest technological advances, such as cellphone guns. She had to learn how to shoot in the darkness, from a moving vehicle and how to accurately hit moving targets from a variety of positions. She had to learn to draw her gun in a split second, to click off the safety, and to fire with pinpoint accuracy.

The training device Jade dreaded most was The Dunker. The horrid contraption sat in a huge swimming pool that was in simulated sea crashes of Air Force One and Marine One. Strapped into the seats near an instructor who posed as the President, the machine was slammed into ice cold water at a random angle. Underwater, often upside down, you had to orient yourself and then release your safety belt and rescue the “President,” who was unconscious. You had to swim him safely to the surface and protect him from harm. Like many of the students, the first time Jade was dunked, she inhaled half a lung full of water. She was sure she was going to drown.

The Dunker alone caused six students to drop out of the program.

By the end of the fourth week in Laurel, Jade was telling herself that if she had any sense, she ought to drop out, too, that she should abandon this crazy idea of being a Secret Service agent. She could use her RISD degree to get a mundane job at a copy shop designing stationery and business cards. But then, in her mind’s eye, she would see Romeo Estella’s sleazy face, and she would find new resolve.

* * *

Jade’s worst nightmare came in the form of her martial arts instructor. All the instructors used pseudonyms. This particular woman called herself Luna Faye.

Luna Tic, Jade thought, would have been more appropriate.

Luna was a jet black, five foot ten inch tower of power. She had a face like a viper, with triangular jaws and beady eyes. Her voice was an octave lower than Jade’s. She sported a man’s figure, her trunk-like legs tapered up to a stocky torso. Her breasts like two flattened cupcakes riding on fifty pounds of chest muscle.

Jade was about the only trainee who looked, dressed, and acted like a woman, or who at least tried to. This seemed to infuriate Luna.

The first day, in front of all the other trainees, Luna gently raised Jade’s arm by the wrist. “Your nails are so beautiful,” she cooed in her husky voice. “Do you do them yourself, or do you have them done at a salon?”

There was a lot of laughter.

Despite Luna’s ridicule, Jade actually did well in the course, at least in terms of learning the basic martial arts moves. All her aerobics and swimming and running she did at RISD kept her in great shape, and she easily mastered difficult moves that made other students sore for days, such as some of the more challenging Tae Kwon Do kicks.

Jade’s problem was that after spending so many years in sports facilities, she had developed a habit of gazing at her own reflection in the wall mirrors to make sure she was moving correctly. And, if the truth be told, to see if she looked good.

Luna picked up on this the third day. “You just can’t stop watchin’ your pretty self in that mirror, can you, honey?”

All the other trainees laughed.