CIA SAFE SEX PRACTICES 163At some point, being older than the rest of us, Lance excused himself
to heed nature’s call. In the few minutes that he was away, my classmate
the Interceptor—whom you met in chapter 6—moved in to take over for
Lance. Whether the Interceptor had his eye on Heather all along and
struck while the iron was hot, or simply happened to sit his lucky ass down
at the right place and the right time, we may never know. I’m guessing the
latter, since luck seemed to follow him wherever he went. The Interceptor
is the same charmed guy whose reserve chute saved his life just before he
was about to “scream in” during jump school. He’s the guy you want to be
next to when things go sideways overseas.
Heather picked up right where she left off with Lance, and the Inter-
ceptor did an admirable job of emulating if not slightly outdoing Lance’s
boffo performance. In fact, Heather and the Interceptor then stumbled off
to his room for a little well-deserved privacy.
When Sir Lancelot—or, as it turned out, Sir Lance-Alone, aka Sir-
Not-Lancing-A-Lot-Tonight—returned from the latrine, he was under-
standably upset that the young Interceptor (with the more elastic bladder)
had encroached on and made off with his target. Commendably, Lance did
not resort to violence and resisted the undoubtedly strong urge to retrieve
some of the aforementioned securely stored explosive devices. A trained
professional, Lance knew that revenge is best served cold.
After disappearing again for about ten minutes, Lance returned to
those of us still awake and watching the movie and told us to follow him.
In his hands was a pair of NODs, very expensive night-vision goggles that
were the property of the US government. Accustomed to blindly following
orders, several of us struggled to our feet and followed him, like wobbly
baby ducks after their mother, to the trailer that had been the cozy home
to the Interceptor during the previous two weeks of demolition training.
As we approached the trailer, we could all hear the unmistakable
sounds of two very drunk people loudly expressing their affection for one
another. Increasingly more desperate shouts of “Harder, bitch!” flowed
from Heather’s sweet mouth like so many rose petals, wafting away on a
midsummer’s night breeze. At this point, we decided to turn around and
head back to our movie, but Lance was having none of it. He cracked
open the door to the Interceptor’s hooch and donned his NODs, for a clear
view of the action—action that was taking place about five feet in front of