Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: redragon@interserv.com
Subject: The Transference [1/4]
Date: 1 Oct 1995 21:32:08 GMT

			   The Transference
			       Part One

	Anderson asked the logical question: "Now what?"

	"We'll handle this just like a standard set of permanent
orders." 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 day 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
day's 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 knew
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 Langley 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 tail-wheel airplanes in one place; 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. Everything 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 Reeboks 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 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 techniques. 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 novacaine inside his mouth. She had him lie on a
table, then after about 30 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 occasional `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 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 refrigerator 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
electrologysts had worked. He soon fell asleep wondering what tomorrow
would bring.

	Tomorrow brought 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 a solid month: electrolysis one day,
flight training the other. As Doris had promised, all the course work
was on a computer database, so Anderson was able to work on the rating
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.
The electrolysis was a lengthy affair, Anderson sometimes had several
technicians working on his body: they removed all the hair from his
face, the back of his neck, his arms, legs, chest, and back. The
process was always accompanied by localized painkillers. They thinned
his eyebrows to ones that could be either masculine or feminine.

	By the end of the month, Anderson had an instrument airplane
rating and the body hair of a woman.

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: redragon@interserv.com
Subject: The Transference [2/4]
Date: 1 Oct 1995 21:33:12 GMT

			   The Transference
			       Part Two

	Things began to change a little in the second month. Doris
took Anderson to a hairdresser. No names were mentioned, but she
clucked with disapproval at the military haircut. Anderson thought his
hair was long; it was longer than the uniform regs allowed, but still
short. The stylist re-cut it into a hairstyle that was short but
fairly feminine. 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." She 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 also were: 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 log
books."

	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 to become. 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 prosthesis. She had him try on
a number of different bras, then camisoles and slips. After that, she
brought in a hounds tooth 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 business woman. 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. As before, you'll be flying every other day. 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 mail
slot.

	"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
classroom phase was over quickly, most of the material was the same as
the instrument course, so they went through it at a fast clip.

	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 occasions, 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 seven miles.

	The course work 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 was 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 Meigs Field
right downtown. They went shopping on Michigan Avenue and in
Watertower Place. The high point 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 over-prime a radial," Craig
admonished. She learned about engines that measured their oil levels
in gallons, not quarts.

	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 pure 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. 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?"

	"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 unusual," 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 changeable. 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."

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: redragon@interserv.com
Subject: The Transference [3/4]
Date: 1 Oct 1995 21:37:50 GMT

			  The Transference
			      Part Three

	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 down
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 out a

	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 accommodate 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 leveled 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 appointment 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 you
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 conscious. 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 log book 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 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 training 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-ounce 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.

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: redragon@interserv.com
Subject: The Transference [4/4]
Date: 1 Oct 1995 21:36:17 GMT

			  The Transference
			      Part Four

	Sherry found herself in La Crosse, Wisconsin. The routine was
simplicity 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-
frequency 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 news magazines in Portuguese 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 DC-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 taxied 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 explanation that the surgery was not reversible with
any current or foreseen technique. She barely noticed the takeoff roll
and climb out 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 qualified than Sherry for
it.

	Sherry found a Portuguese version of Louis L'amour's "The
Sacketts." It was easy reading.

				* * *

	The jet landed and taxied into a hangar. Sherry wasn't allowed
to leave the airplane until the hangar doors were shut. The three
women then got into a limousine 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
following 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 deodorant, 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 headsets and the intercom.

	Julia was silent for a minute, then said: "When I borrowed
your deodorant, I found a dilator 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 `dilator.' "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 dilator in her suitcase; she uses it
to make sure her vagina stays open. Her dilator 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 slightly 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 pock marks 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 one 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 restaurant, but not much of one. They
shared food, like most people 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
alignment. 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 said, "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 with 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.