Meeting Doug Boyce, CIA, NCIS
I had what many might consider an interesting career.
And then I had a set of interesting experiences that challenged my perception of the narrative of my life. I was in manner most odd given a key or perhaps a prism, a device of a sort that let me decode a level of encryption that coded the narrative of my life.
My career has its roots as it has for any man back in childhood and those formative teen years spent in a place of socialization we call high school.
Using my earlier unaided set of perceptions, the world was a jumble of random events, actors, places, coherent, related, though with little oversight. The mess that appeared to meet was a world industrialized, capitalized, commercialized. Institutions such as companies and corporations existed as did universities, militaries, churches, as well as local rotary clubs. And into this world so perceived I emerged from southeastern Massachusetts having been born in a town settled by Pilgrims in 1620, Plymouth, Massachusetts. That was 1964. Born to a 727 pilot and his wife, my mother a gal who for six months or so held the position of stewardess. Both employed by a corporation entitled American Airlines. My father, this pilot had earlier been employed by another corporation, one named Alaska Airlines, who in manner likely unusual though knowable picked up a contract just after the second world war with the US government to provide transport services in a project known as Operation Magic Carpet. The things to be transported were people, Jews, from places where they were reportedly under threat such as Yemen and Ethiopia to a new homeland named Israel, a place formed on a Mediterranean coast in a territory called Palestine.
My father, Herbert Frederick Mary Jr. led a life in the late 1940s that for his time was unusual for as a pilot he flew to places like Cyprus, Tripoli, Tel Aviv, even Bangkok. My estranged half sister wrote a book ‘Many Years, Many Worlds’ based upon letters from his second wife, her mother (mine was his next, his third wife) that bear these travels out.
My father not only was a pilot, but also a mason. Of what level or degree, I know not. For he never introduced me to either flying or masonic ritual. In hindsight I find that odd, as I was his first son, told he had desperately wanted a son having by then already sired four girls and adopted one more.
We were never close but for perhaps two periods that I recall. The first during my April school vacation in 4th grade he took me to Washington D.C. for a week, rented a cab with a black driver who took us all around the city. I hadn’t had reason to reflect much over this choice of destinations or the mode of travel until years later, largely in part due to the aforementioned key, prism, or decrypting algorithm given me in circumstance bizarre. The driver had a teenage son who accompanied us for that week. I recall he was older and bigger than me with what in 1974 would have been standard fare for an Afro-American teen of that time, an afro. I was ten. I was happy to be with my dad, to travel with him and to have his attention. I would never get so much attention from him until a few months before I left home for the Navy at age 19, some more the before he would die a relatively young man at 65 in that same hospital, Jordan where I had been birthed years earlier.
In those months, I worked at a local Drive In movie theater and would come home smelling of grease and sweat and he would be sitting at our large round wooden kitchen table with a scotch and his cigarettes, Marlboro, the 100s, in gold packages. I held my father then in a sort of awe for I could not imagine how he shouldered the responsibility to fly 727s loaded with passengers for years and years, deadheading it from Boston Logan to the main hub of American Airlines in Texas from where he would fly hither and you, becoming in large part something of an absentee parent. So we would sit, he would talk and I would listen. He never told me about the birds a day the bees, mother had in a very dry performance sketching a woman’s genitals and describing three orifices in manner somewhat unappealing. I made up for that with my son years later describing to him not only the matters schematic, but the things more important, what it is like to have feelings for a woman, how to treat, even manipulate her so as to be a man in ways my parents never shared with me. I had always written off their less than full instruction to the times, their generation, their inhibitions. I would learn that my conclusion in that matter as in so many others was incorrect, was false. For there was a place I knew not of in those days, and of men whose hearts were dark. The place Langley. The men employed by our CIA. And I would learn to what depths they would stoop, and how I in response would raise self and game so as to respond accordingly. Remarkable.
In our evenings together the old man told me a story of his time after the war in the middle east. He told me how he had gone for a walk and had with him a walking stick, unusual for a man in his 20s I would think, but for some guidance I would receive from an acquaintance employed then by the NCIS and earlier by the CIA. That acquaintance, Douglas Boyce. That guidance, in areas potentially dangerous, carry something unobtrusive that might be used as a weapon. Doug’s example was a baseball bat. He made his point. My father’s walking stick, I learned, as the story progressed was lead handled. This not a mistake. And in an alleyway unknown, my father told me he was laid upon by an unknown man, an Arab. My father defended himself and struck the man in the head with the lead weighted handle of his walking stick. The Arab man died in that alleyway. My father seemed by this disturbed. I wondered why he told me this tale. I think he rather would have liked to have told me much more. I don’t think he could. I think something restricted him from being the father I needed, that he had earlier sought to be.
My mother told me a thing several times growing up. I would repeat it at her funeral service in the fall of 2011. She told me that her hope for her children is that none of us should go to jail. I had always thought this an odd wish, a rather low expectation for we were from what would be described as a mildly upper middle class family in that New England town of Kingston, Massachusetts. Our family never had trouble with the law, on the contrary, my father was on the planning board, my mother on the board of health, and my older sister Susan worked for many years as a police dispatcher for the local town police. I made a joke of her wish at her funeral service, questioning this wish, asking the crowd hadn’t she set the bar rather low. Most parents of that time and economic level would have voiced a desire for their offspring to go to college. My mother no. Why?
Not perceiving the mystery that surrounded, indeed engulfed my life, I whistling past the graveyard, enlisted in the US Navy where I would be selected as honor recruit in boot camp, and be top graduate from the Navy ‘A’ school in field that I had selected, Electronics. I left home. This made me different than all my siblings who remained at home and never strayed further afield than New England.
I strayed. I traveled. 70 countries, 17 years living in of all places Russia. OMG. What buttons had been pushed to make this so, to cause my behavior to be so unusual and so different from that of my siblings? My paradigm had always been, these choices mine, my path my own, I had neither asked for nor received any guidance or assistance in these matters of my life. And in time, I would learn that in this I was wrong.
From my perspective my career was somewhat straightforward, six years in the Navy, a year at General Electric awaiting a Top Secret clearance, 4 years at the company that made the receiver that listened to the Watergate bug, and whose top customer was the NSA, Watkins-Johnson Company, in two roles, two years as a technical publications specialist, responsible for writing technical manuals and providing operations and maintenance courses for the customers of the spook radios that factory produced, and two years as an applications engineer, a lofty description of a salesman, traveling abroad selling those same spook receivers. Unknown to me, my first sales territory was much the same as the territory I later learned that my father had worked as a pilot, the Middle East and North Africa. My first significant sale would be to the Kuwaiti Ministry of Interior, a contract of approximately $670,000 for specialized receivers called direction finders that operated in the VHF and UHF frequently bands. These were to be used to focus on their Northern neighbor Iraq who had once invaded their oil rich land. Like my father before me I traveled to Tell Aviv and to Turkey. And I traveled and sold to Latin American and Far Eastern countries as well, selling cellular intercept receivers to military intelligence agencies in Venezuela, Chile and Thailand.
I left W-J as we called her to join a larger defense manufacturer, this one named Harris Corporation. I was given the title Area Sales Manager with responsibility to sell throughout Scandinavia, Finland, Turkey and Greece. And in some months time, my boss a bright man, though morally questionable, Dana Mehnert would assign me the former Soviet Union as well. I then traveled to Russia, sold the first contact to a Russian client for that division of Harris a digital imaging radio system for approximately $230,000, met a Russian prostitute, fell in love, left my wofe, my job, my career, my life in order to pursue a relationship with this Slavic beauty, a girl from the formerly closed Soviet city of Gorkiy, now known as Nizhniy Novgorod, Russia’s third largest city. That was 1995/6.
Before leaving Harris for Russia, I had been the second top selling sales manager, having sold $6,500,000 of green radios to the Special Forces of Denmark, the Navy of Greece, and a handful of other contracts to clients in Norway and Russia. The top seller was a Massachusetts born and bred older fellow named Berge Mangerian, who had the benefit of being the account manager for the Kingdom, for Saudi Arabia. He pulled in $30,000,000 that year in sales, outpacing my meager results by quite a lot. And Dana Mehnert largely hated him for it, and would in short order put Berge out to pasture as he made deep strives in promoting himself and his own career at Harris. Dana has been in this effort remarkably successful, rising to the ranks of Division president and earning last year a respectable $3,200,000 in compensation. When I first met Dana he had just been promoted to the position of Director of European sales; he had hired me to replace him as Area Sales Manager for the territories aforementioned. And working with Dana I always got this odd vibe that I ignored. I had not much with which to compare it. Years later I’d learn why this was.
And so I had met Svetlana Borisovna Chuloshnikova, single child of divorced Soviet parents. Her father a functional alcoholic and interestingly a radar technician, not too dissimilar from the role I had in my time in the Navy, and mother a quite overweight gal who perhaps was more girl than woman. And Svetlana herself the most remarkable of girls, a true Russian beauty, pale blue eyes, golden skin, light brown hair. Words now as then remain inadequate to describe her beauty. She was elf like in some way, a magical forest being, though her body fertile and majestic, the sort of which a man lusts after.
I took a job in order to be with her. She spoke no English and I no Russian. The company Millicom International Cellular, the hiring manager a yank named Jonathan Sparrow who today holds a high position at Cisco in Russia, and unless I miss my guess also works for the aforementioned organization that apparently has played unknown to me but for these past few years, an organizing role in my life, the CIA.
Million was in those days setting up joint Ventures with local Russian partners to establish cellphone companies. I was employed, put to work as the commercial director for one located in the heart of Siberia in the Capitol of the Kuzbass region of Russia, Kemerovo. I was responsible for the settings get up, organization and day to day running of the sales, marketing, and customer service functions. This was a two year contract, and as at Harris, I succeeded, turning the third market entrant to first place in a matter of four months.
A headhunter from London named Jill Capadose called one wintry night in early 1998 and I was hired away to perform the same task but for a fixed line phone company in Russia’s Northern Capitol, Saint Petersburg. Her name was PeterStar and she is no more having been bought and merged into national Russian cell phone company Megafon. And just as Dana Mehnert had once hired me to replace him, an American not much dissimilar from Jonathan Sparrow in some ways, a UCLA grad named Stephen Gardner hired me to replace him so that he like Dana might be promoted in the organization. Steve today interestingly sells weed for Israeli company Tikum Olat. And Steve when I knew him was likely also in the employ of CIA, as well as his day job at PeterStar shareholder PLD Telekom, later to be bought by Metromedia International Telecommunications, Inc. (MITI) hence his interest in hiring me.
I remained with MITI for five years. And in those years, without my knowledge I was targeted, gangstalked, manipulated, made a victim of advanced psy ops techniques using NLP tactics and more to nudge me towards and down a road of debauchery. Awaiting me, unknown to me, were prostitutes, orgies, gangbangs and narcotics, all paid for by US taxpayers, and provided to me by the dear folk at the CIA. They had and have a program of engineering what we call Manchurian Candidates and I was one. These lucky souls, blessed like me, were to have roles most notorious on the world stage as ‘patsies’ for false flag terror events and assassinations. If I knew then what I know now…
In my time working for Stephen Gardner, I made the acquaintance of other expatriates, Americans, Brits, Canadians, Germans and more. I found these men and women invigorating. They seemed to like me, to befriend me, to welcome me into their worlds. I was happy and grateful. My world seemed rich in Saint Petersburg. My salary high, my living arrangements paid for and covered by my employer. I had status as Chairman of the Executive Committee of the American Chamber of Commerce of Saint Petersburg. On that committee were other American expats like Dave Eggers of Ford Motor Company, Jim Hitch of Baker and McKenzie, J. Christian Moore, of Coudert Brothers, and a man who would reveal to me only years later, in the spring of 2014, that he in those days had been in the employ of the CIA in addition to his day job as director of the Lomonosov Porcelain Factory. His name was and remains Douglas Boyce. And in 2014 in the privacy of his Virginia Beach house, Douglas told me that he had been in the employ of CIA when we met in Russia in 1999. Based on this and so much more, the individuals listed in this post were likely most to be if American also in the employ of the CIA, British, MI6, etc. Russian exwife honeypot trap Svetlana Macy told me in December 2015, "Rick didn't you realize that 80% of your expat friends in Russia were actually intelligence agents?" I hadn't, but once Omar Gonzalez scrambled over that 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue fence on his way to the White House, so much became clear. CIA had planned to kill Obama in 2014 just as they had killed JFK'S in 1963.
And then I had a set of interesting experiences that challenged my perception of the narrative of my life. I was in manner most odd given a key or perhaps a prism, a device of a sort that let me decode a level of encryption that coded the narrative of my life.
My career has its roots as it has for any man back in childhood and those formative teen years spent in a place of socialization we call high school.
Using my earlier unaided set of perceptions, the world was a jumble of random events, actors, places, coherent, related, though with little oversight. The mess that appeared to meet was a world industrialized, capitalized, commercialized. Institutions such as companies and corporations existed as did universities, militaries, churches, as well as local rotary clubs. And into this world so perceived I emerged from southeastern Massachusetts having been born in a town settled by Pilgrims in 1620, Plymouth, Massachusetts. That was 1964. Born to a 727 pilot and his wife, my mother a gal who for six months or so held the position of stewardess. Both employed by a corporation entitled American Airlines. My father, this pilot had earlier been employed by another corporation, one named Alaska Airlines, who in manner likely unusual though knowable picked up a contract just after the second world war with the US government to provide transport services in a project known as Operation Magic Carpet. The things to be transported were people, Jews, from places where they were reportedly under threat such as Yemen and Ethiopia to a new homeland named Israel, a place formed on a Mediterranean coast in a territory called Palestine.
My father, Herbert Frederick Mary Jr. led a life in the late 1940s that for his time was unusual for as a pilot he flew to places like Cyprus, Tripoli, Tel Aviv, even Bangkok. My estranged half sister wrote a book ‘Many Years, Many Worlds’ based upon letters from his second wife, her mother (mine was his next, his third wife) that bear these travels out.
My father not only was a pilot, but also a mason. Of what level or degree, I know not. For he never introduced me to either flying or masonic ritual. In hindsight I find that odd, as I was his first son, told he had desperately wanted a son having by then already sired four girls and adopted one more.
We were never close but for perhaps two periods that I recall. The first during my April school vacation in 4th grade he took me to Washington D.C. for a week, rented a cab with a black driver who took us all around the city. I hadn’t had reason to reflect much over this choice of destinations or the mode of travel until years later, largely in part due to the aforementioned key, prism, or decrypting algorithm given me in circumstance bizarre. The driver had a teenage son who accompanied us for that week. I recall he was older and bigger than me with what in 1974 would have been standard fare for an Afro-American teen of that time, an afro. I was ten. I was happy to be with my dad, to travel with him and to have his attention. I would never get so much attention from him until a few months before I left home for the Navy at age 19, some more the before he would die a relatively young man at 65 in that same hospital, Jordan where I had been birthed years earlier.
In those months, I worked at a local Drive In movie theater and would come home smelling of grease and sweat and he would be sitting at our large round wooden kitchen table with a scotch and his cigarettes, Marlboro, the 100s, in gold packages. I held my father then in a sort of awe for I could not imagine how he shouldered the responsibility to fly 727s loaded with passengers for years and years, deadheading it from Boston Logan to the main hub of American Airlines in Texas from where he would fly hither and you, becoming in large part something of an absentee parent. So we would sit, he would talk and I would listen. He never told me about the birds a day the bees, mother had in a very dry performance sketching a woman’s genitals and describing three orifices in manner somewhat unappealing. I made up for that with my son years later describing to him not only the matters schematic, but the things more important, what it is like to have feelings for a woman, how to treat, even manipulate her so as to be a man in ways my parents never shared with me. I had always written off their less than full instruction to the times, their generation, their inhibitions. I would learn that my conclusion in that matter as in so many others was incorrect, was false. For there was a place I knew not of in those days, and of men whose hearts were dark. The place Langley. The men employed by our CIA. And I would learn to what depths they would stoop, and how I in response would raise self and game so as to respond accordingly. Remarkable.
In our evenings together the old man told me a story of his time after the war in the middle east. He told me how he had gone for a walk and had with him a walking stick, unusual for a man in his 20s I would think, but for some guidance I would receive from an acquaintance employed then by the NCIS and earlier by the CIA. That acquaintance, Douglas Boyce. That guidance, in areas potentially dangerous, carry something unobtrusive that might be used as a weapon. Doug’s example was a baseball bat. He made his point. My father’s walking stick, I learned, as the story progressed was lead handled. This not a mistake. And in an alleyway unknown, my father told me he was laid upon by an unknown man, an Arab. My father defended himself and struck the man in the head with the lead weighted handle of his walking stick. The Arab man died in that alleyway. My father seemed by this disturbed. I wondered why he told me this tale. I think he rather would have liked to have told me much more. I don’t think he could. I think something restricted him from being the father I needed, that he had earlier sought to be.
My mother told me a thing several times growing up. I would repeat it at her funeral service in the fall of 2011. She told me that her hope for her children is that none of us should go to jail. I had always thought this an odd wish, a rather low expectation for we were from what would be described as a mildly upper middle class family in that New England town of Kingston, Massachusetts. Our family never had trouble with the law, on the contrary, my father was on the planning board, my mother on the board of health, and my older sister Susan worked for many years as a police dispatcher for the local town police. I made a joke of her wish at her funeral service, questioning this wish, asking the crowd hadn’t she set the bar rather low. Most parents of that time and economic level would have voiced a desire for their offspring to go to college. My mother no. Why?
Not perceiving the mystery that surrounded, indeed engulfed my life, I whistling past the graveyard, enlisted in the US Navy where I would be selected as honor recruit in boot camp, and be top graduate from the Navy ‘A’ school in field that I had selected, Electronics. I left home. This made me different than all my siblings who remained at home and never strayed further afield than New England.
I strayed. I traveled. 70 countries, 17 years living in of all places Russia. OMG. What buttons had been pushed to make this so, to cause my behavior to be so unusual and so different from that of my siblings? My paradigm had always been, these choices mine, my path my own, I had neither asked for nor received any guidance or assistance in these matters of my life. And in time, I would learn that in this I was wrong.
From my perspective my career was somewhat straightforward, six years in the Navy, a year at General Electric awaiting a Top Secret clearance, 4 years at the company that made the receiver that listened to the Watergate bug, and whose top customer was the NSA, Watkins-Johnson Company, in two roles, two years as a technical publications specialist, responsible for writing technical manuals and providing operations and maintenance courses for the customers of the spook radios that factory produced, and two years as an applications engineer, a lofty description of a salesman, traveling abroad selling those same spook receivers. Unknown to me, my first sales territory was much the same as the territory I later learned that my father had worked as a pilot, the Middle East and North Africa. My first significant sale would be to the Kuwaiti Ministry of Interior, a contract of approximately $670,000 for specialized receivers called direction finders that operated in the VHF and UHF frequently bands. These were to be used to focus on their Northern neighbor Iraq who had once invaded their oil rich land. Like my father before me I traveled to Tell Aviv and to Turkey. And I traveled and sold to Latin American and Far Eastern countries as well, selling cellular intercept receivers to military intelligence agencies in Venezuela, Chile and Thailand.
I left W-J as we called her to join a larger defense manufacturer, this one named Harris Corporation. I was given the title Area Sales Manager with responsibility to sell throughout Scandinavia, Finland, Turkey and Greece. And in some months time, my boss a bright man, though morally questionable, Dana Mehnert would assign me the former Soviet Union as well. I then traveled to Russia, sold the first contact to a Russian client for that division of Harris a digital imaging radio system for approximately $230,000, met a Russian prostitute, fell in love, left my wofe, my job, my career, my life in order to pursue a relationship with this Slavic beauty, a girl from the formerly closed Soviet city of Gorkiy, now known as Nizhniy Novgorod, Russia’s third largest city. That was 1995/6.
Before leaving Harris for Russia, I had been the second top selling sales manager, having sold $6,500,000 of green radios to the Special Forces of Denmark, the Navy of Greece, and a handful of other contracts to clients in Norway and Russia. The top seller was a Massachusetts born and bred older fellow named Berge Mangerian, who had the benefit of being the account manager for the Kingdom, for Saudi Arabia. He pulled in $30,000,000 that year in sales, outpacing my meager results by quite a lot. And Dana Mehnert largely hated him for it, and would in short order put Berge out to pasture as he made deep strives in promoting himself and his own career at Harris. Dana has been in this effort remarkably successful, rising to the ranks of Division president and earning last year a respectable $3,200,000 in compensation. When I first met Dana he had just been promoted to the position of Director of European sales; he had hired me to replace him as Area Sales Manager for the territories aforementioned. And working with Dana I always got this odd vibe that I ignored. I had not much with which to compare it. Years later I’d learn why this was.
And so I had met Svetlana Borisovna Chuloshnikova, single child of divorced Soviet parents. Her father a functional alcoholic and interestingly a radar technician, not too dissimilar from the role I had in my time in the Navy, and mother a quite overweight gal who perhaps was more girl than woman. And Svetlana herself the most remarkable of girls, a true Russian beauty, pale blue eyes, golden skin, light brown hair. Words now as then remain inadequate to describe her beauty. She was elf like in some way, a magical forest being, though her body fertile and majestic, the sort of which a man lusts after.
I took a job in order to be with her. She spoke no English and I no Russian. The company Millicom International Cellular, the hiring manager a yank named Jonathan Sparrow who today holds a high position at Cisco in Russia, and unless I miss my guess also works for the aforementioned organization that apparently has played unknown to me but for these past few years, an organizing role in my life, the CIA.
Million was in those days setting up joint Ventures with local Russian partners to establish cellphone companies. I was employed, put to work as the commercial director for one located in the heart of Siberia in the Capitol of the Kuzbass region of Russia, Kemerovo. I was responsible for the settings get up, organization and day to day running of the sales, marketing, and customer service functions. This was a two year contract, and as at Harris, I succeeded, turning the third market entrant to first place in a matter of four months.
A headhunter from London named Jill Capadose called one wintry night in early 1998 and I was hired away to perform the same task but for a fixed line phone company in Russia’s Northern Capitol, Saint Petersburg. Her name was PeterStar and she is no more having been bought and merged into national Russian cell phone company Megafon. And just as Dana Mehnert had once hired me to replace him, an American not much dissimilar from Jonathan Sparrow in some ways, a UCLA grad named Stephen Gardner hired me to replace him so that he like Dana might be promoted in the organization. Steve today interestingly sells weed for Israeli company Tikum Olat. And Steve when I knew him was likely also in the employ of CIA, as well as his day job at PeterStar shareholder PLD Telekom, later to be bought by Metromedia International Telecommunications, Inc. (MITI) hence his interest in hiring me.
I remained with MITI for five years. And in those years, without my knowledge I was targeted, gangstalked, manipulated, made a victim of advanced psy ops techniques using NLP tactics and more to nudge me towards and down a road of debauchery. Awaiting me, unknown to me, were prostitutes, orgies, gangbangs and narcotics, all paid for by US taxpayers, and provided to me by the dear folk at the CIA. They had and have a program of engineering what we call Manchurian Candidates and I was one. These lucky souls, blessed like me, were to have roles most notorious on the world stage as ‘patsies’ for false flag terror events and assassinations. If I knew then what I know now…
In my time working for Stephen Gardner, I made the acquaintance of other expatriates, Americans, Brits, Canadians, Germans and more. I found these men and women invigorating. They seemed to like me, to befriend me, to welcome me into their worlds. I was happy and grateful. My world seemed rich in Saint Petersburg. My salary high, my living arrangements paid for and covered by my employer. I had status as Chairman of the Executive Committee of the American Chamber of Commerce of Saint Petersburg. On that committee were other American expats like Dave Eggers of Ford Motor Company, Jim Hitch of Baker and McKenzie, J. Christian Moore, of Coudert Brothers, and a man who would reveal to me only years later, in the spring of 2014, that he in those days had been in the employ of the CIA in addition to his day job as director of the Lomonosov Porcelain Factory. His name was and remains Douglas Boyce. And in 2014 in the privacy of his Virginia Beach house, Douglas told me that he had been in the employ of CIA when we met in Russia in 1999. Based on this and so much more, the individuals listed in this post were likely most to be if American also in the employ of the CIA, British, MI6, etc. Russian exwife honeypot trap Svetlana Macy told me in December 2015, "Rick didn't you realize that 80% of your expat friends in Russia were actually intelligence agents?" I hadn't, but once Omar Gonzalez scrambled over that 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue fence on his way to the White House, so much became clear. CIA had planned to kill Obama in 2014 just as they had killed JFK'S in 1963.
Comments
Post a Comment