by Sandra Hill
“Would you two shut up before you get us all in trouble?” Louise “Loozie” McKay remarked from behind her.
They ignored her. Loser Loozie was such a goody-goody.
“Maybe he’s gay.” Wendy never skipped a beat, continuing her conversation about JAM. “Maybe that’s why he’s not interested in any of the Viking babes. Maybe that’s why he’s friends with you . . . a smoke screen. Maybe he’s just not into you because maybe friends with benefits doesn’t fit his agenda, if you get my meaning.”
“There are a lot of maybes in there.” She chuckled as she glanced over at a scowling JAM.
Wendy didn’t realize that JAM had come up and was jogging beside them. “Maybe you’d like to do a week of Gig Squad, Patterson. I’m thinkin’ you’re a tadpole with too much attitude.”
Gig Squad was the SEALs method of torture . . . uh, punishment. It involved doing various embarrassing, muscle-wrenching exercises after dinner in front of the officers’ quarters while everyone passed by on their way out of the chow hall. Like duckwalking in a squat position.
Wendy jerked with surprise, then turned red with embarrassment. “Ooops!”
Rita was laughing so hard she almost lost her balance under the boat.
“You, too, Sawyer. I’m thinkin’ your butt muscles need a workout.” JAM gave her behind an exaggerated survey.
“My butt is just fine, thank you very much,” she muttered under her breath.
“What did you say, Spidey?”
Bite me.
“What?”
“Nothing, sir. Not a thing. Sir.”
“Be careful, newbie,” JAM said to her. “You’re still working off punishment for last week’s stunt. Only an idiot would hand walk on the parallel bars.”
She couldn’t help but grin. She had been unabashedly showing off at the end of a day that had seemed like endless harassment from their instructors.
“Boats down,” JAM hollered then. Instructors always hollered, even when they were right in your face.
When the two boats were lowered to the ground, and twenty women were bent over at the waist, trying to regain their collective breaths, JAM jerked his head toward the next evolution, the Dirty Name, which prompted a collective groan.
Rita had had problems with this one in the beginning. There was a series of three horizontal logs, the first one foot off the ground, the second, six feet high, and the third, twelve feet, all of them six feet apart. The trainees needed to climb to the top without ever touching the sand. Every muscle in the body was stretched at the end, including the buttocks, which was clearly JAM’s evil intent.
She mouthed to him, “Rat!”
He just grinned. As she hung back while the others began the new evolution, he asked, “Pick you up at seven?”
She nodded. “What should I wear? It’s a barbecue, right?”
“Stilettos, garter belt, thong, black stockings, spandex dress with a plunging neckline, and, oh, yeah, red lipstick, the glossy screw-me-silly kind.”
“Are you pulling rank on me, sailor?”
“You bet your ass,” he replied. “Don’t forget the thong.”
“Dream on,” she replied with a laugh. “How about shorts, a tank top, and sandals?”
“Works for me.”
Yeah, but where’s MY love connection? . . .
She didn’t wear shorts and a tank top, after all. Instead, she opted for a strapless sundress with bright Hawaiian flowers. Fitted to the waist with a wide straw belt, then flaring down to the knees. Flat-heeled sandals, not stilettos. And no red lipstick, either. Just pink lip gloss.
Even so, JAM whistled when he picked her up. “Methinks the lady is lookin’ to get laid tonight.”
She laughed. “Maybe the lady is just looking. Period. And, hey, you don’t look too shabby yourself.”
He was wearing khakis, a black T-shirt, and loafers without socks. His designer stubble highlighted his dark blue eyes. Too bad he didn’t turn her on. He certainly had all the ingredients.
When they arrived at the party, they found that the rest of the company was already there. About fifty people. Half couples. Most of the men sported high and tights, the traditional military haircut, except for some of the SEALs, who weren’t required to adhere to that standard. They often had to infiltrate foreign countries and needed to blend in.
People were standing about in small groups on the wide, low veranda of the huge oceanfront home of Commander MacLean and his gorgeous wife, Madrene, or were down on the beach playing volleyball. What had started out as a cottage a few years back, according to JAM, was now a palatial, three-story, glass-and-cedar mini-mansion, as befitted their growing family. Apparently, Madrene’s father had money, lots of it. No way could a Navy man, even an officer, afford digs like this.
Sipping a sour apple margarita and listening to the sound system playing an old Beach Boys song, she watched, bemused, as JAM, at her side, kept casting hungry looks at Kirstin Magnusson, a professor at San Diego State. So much for his avoiding the Viking women thrown his way! He was the one looking to make a Viking connection, if the sizzle these two created was any indication.
“We know each other from way back,” JAM offered defensively when she elbowed him in question. “We’re just . . . uh, friends.”
“Yeah, right. You two are so hot for each other you put this steaming California sun to shame.” She motioned with her margarita to the evening sun that continued to warm them all.
“Do you really think she’s attracted to me?”
“Blind! Men can be so blind.”
He blushed. JAM actually blushed. “I’ve been kind of in love with her for a long time.”
She rolled her eyes. “Kind of?”
He shrugged.
“How long?”
He muttered something.
“What?”
“Five years.”
“Unbelievable! Does she know?”
He looked horrified. “Hell, no!”
“It’s obvious she feels the same way about you.”
He turned to look at the woman, who was blonde, in her thirties, pretty, but nothing spectacular . . . except to him, apparently. Rita noticed immediately that Kirstin’s lower lip was trembling, and her expression said “crushed.”
“She thinks you’re with me,” she deduced.
“I am with you.”
“You are an idiot. You’re not with me that way.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Go over and talk to her. Her feelings are hurt.”
“By me? No way!” He studied Kirstin, who studiously avoided his gaze. “What if she’s not interested? What if she cuts me off at the knees? What if I make a fool of myself?”
“You’re making a fool of yourself by not trying. Go ahead, sailor, make your moves. You do have moves, don’t you?” When he hesitated, she asked, “You’re not a virgin, are you?”
“I’m thirty-five frickin’ years old!” He gave her such a blistering glower you would have thought she’d asked if he was an axe murderer. Putting his beer down on a table, he stomped away toward Kirstin, whose heart was in her pale blue eyes as he approached.
Good for him, she thought, not at all offended by his deserting her. She was comfortable in this crowd, and it was true, as she’d told Wendy earlier, JAM was just a good friend. In the year and a half she’d known him, this was the first she’d seen him exhibit any real interest in a woman. Obviously because it was this particular one he’d had in his sights all along.
“Hey, darlin’.” Justin LeBlanc, a SEAL best known as Cage, drawled in his deep Cajun accent as he looped an arm over her shoulder and gave her a light kiss on her cheek. “You are lookin’ good, chère. How come yer standin’ here all alone?”
“JAM went over to try his moves on the Viking chick.” She motioned with her margarita across the veranda.
“About time,” remarked K-4, Kevin Fortunato, another SEAL who had been following Cage but had stopped at the bar to get them both longneck bottl
es of cold beer. “He’s been crazy in love with her, like forever.”
“You noticed?” she asked.
“Everyone noticed,” K-4 replied, while he gave her a slow head-to-toe survey, then grinned his appreciation.
K-4 had asked her out on a date several times, but somehow their schedules always conflicted. Maybe it was time. Oddly enough, she couldn’t garner any great enthusiasm, despite his being an attractive man, and nice, too. Maybe that was the problem; he was too nice.
No, it was something else that kept her from forming any relationships, and not just her disillusionment with two-timing men in the vein of her father and ex-husband. It was as if she were waiting for something to happen. As if her body and her heart were in a self-enforced limbo. A holding pattern, waiting for the big bang.
She smiled to herself. Big bang? The last time she’d been banged, it hadn’t been all that big of an explosion. Maybe she should lower her expectations to a soft ooomph.
“I’m intrigued by your work as a stunt double, Rita,” said Sly, another SEAL, who just joined the group.
She shrugged.
“Lots of SEALs and Special Forces guys go into private security when they leave their teams. Like Blackhawk,” Sly continued. “But being a stunt double sounds kind of cool.”
“A lot of it is just boring, but, yeah, it can be cool on occasion.”
“Like?”
“Being set on fire.”
“Whaaat?” all three men exclaimed.
“There’s a special retardant gel, but it dries quickly, so you have to complete the scene in less than five minutes, or you really will go up in flames. Plus, the Nomex suits are kept in a freezer to withstand the heat. You’d shiver to death if you had it on too long.”
“Still sounds dangerous,” K-4 said, taking a long draw on his beer.
“It isn’t if all the precautions are followed.”
“I like to see those car chases,” Cage remarked. “Ever done those?”
“Yep. And crashed against a concrete wall. Or so it would appear. It’s all in the training.”
“Can anyone apply for those jobs?” Sly wanted to know.
“They can apply, but they won’t get them. It takes a special kind of highly skilled person. Most of the men and women I’ve worked with, the top-of-the-line stunt doubles, are unusual, and I don’t just mean their extreme athleticism. They have to be able to perform dangerous things under pressure, and have trained over and over to master a particular feat. No fear, or being able to do the stunt despite the fear. It takes a hell of a lot of courage to do some of the dumb-ass things we’re asked to do. Persistence, too, if you want to make it in the business. And discipline. Always, always, honing your craft.”
The guys all looked at each other, then said as one, “Sounds just like SEALs.”
They all wanted to know about some of the stars she’d worked with. As old as she was, compared to the younger sexy starlets, Demi Moore got high marks with the SEALs. Probably because of her portrayal of G.I. Jane.
Soon the guys went off to join the volleyball game, K-4 promising to be back soon, but Rita realized that she wasn’t really in a party mood. Setting her empty glass down onto a low table, she drifted through the crowd, stopping to talk occasionally to folks she knew, then found herself in front of the house, wondering if she could call a taxi to pick her up. JAM was clearly on a roll with Kirstin, and she didn’t want to stay and cramp his style.
A woman she’d met before was getting into a car out on the street, along with her husband and young son. It was Lydia Denton-Haraldsson, who owned a dance studio in Coronado.
“Hi, Rita,” Lydia called out. “Do you need a lift?”
“Could you? I would really appreciate it.”
Before she got in the backseat, Lydia introduced her. “Have you met my husband, Thorfinn Haraldsson? And my son, Michael.” Michael, about six years old, whose grayish blue eyes were already fluttering sleepily, was strapped in the car seat next to where she would be sitting in the back. “Finn, this is Rita Sawyer, she’s a WEALS trainee.”
Rita shook hands with Finn and noticed his heavy gold ring etched with writhing serpents or dragons or something. Although they’d never actually met, she recognized him from the SEALs training compound. He was a new SEAL, still in training, but having graduated recently into the teams. Thus far, he hadn’t been assigned instructor duty.
He smiled at her from his great height. She was tall for a female, but this guy had to be six foot three, at least. His black hair was longish, and his eyes were the same compelling shade of silvery blue as his son’s.
“Thorfinn Haraldsson, huh? Another Viking!”
“To the bone,” Lydia agreed with a smile at her husband, who didn’t appear to appreciate her remark about “another” Viking.
“Are you one of the Magnussons?” she asked.
“Nay, I am not,” he snapped, as if that were an insult. Then he softened and conceded, “Magnus is my uncle.”
As they were driving along, Rita asked, “When is the baby due?”
Lydia, who had a nice-sized bump sticking out from her maternity top, put both hands over her tummy and looked lovingly at her husband before revealing, “Babies, not baby. We’re expecting twins before Christmas.”
“How nice!”
Finn took a hand off the steering wheel and squeezed one of his wife’s hands.
“How’s the WEALS training going, Rita?”
“Grueling but fun. I might change my mind after Hell Week, but for now, I enjoy working my body to the max.”
Finn made a snorting sound of disagreement.
“What?” she asked. “You don’t think physical training can be fun?”
“Nay, I do not think for females there is any enjoyment to be found in muscle-punishing exercises. Holy Thor! The only way a woman’s body should be worked to the max is beneath a man. Women in this country do not know their proper place.”
Lydia made a choking sound.
“Oh, and where do you think a woman’s place is?” Rita asked, not at all surprised by Finn’s attitude. Lots of SEALs ... heck, men in general . . . believed that women in the military was an oxymoron.
“In the bed furs with her man and in the birthing hut providing a husband with heirs.”
Lydia’s choking sounds turned into groans.
Bed furs? Birthing hut? What century is this bozo from? “Is he for real?” Rita asked Lydia.
“Oh, yeah. My very own male chauvinist Viking.”
Finn glowered at his wife.
She patted him on the arm, then told Rita with a wink, “My Finn gives male chauvinism a good name.”
If you say so, Rita thought, but what she said was, “Isn’t that nice?”
“I saw that wink,” Finn said. “You will pay later for making mock of me, sweetling.” Then he was the one who winked. At his wife. And flashed her such a hot look the air practically sizzled inside the car.
Rita couldn’t help but be a little envious of the loving relationship these two clearly shared. Maybe she should look for her very own Viking.
Then, reminding herself of the dinosaur attitude this man displayed, she immediately corrected herself. Maybe not.
Chapter 3
Hell Week was hell! . . .
Hell Week began with a bang. Literally.
It was almost over now, and it had been Satan’s play-ground, to be sure. Just one more day. In the midst of a heat wave, the scorching California sun beat down on them like the devil’s own barbecue pit. Not surprisingly, Satan’s minions had been a bunch of Navy SEAL instructors who were surely descendants of Lucifer himself.
There were thirty-five helmets lined up starting at the bell sitting on the corner of the Grinder. Ten more WEALS trainees had dropped out this week. That left only forty of them to complete the course, God willing. A nice even number to fill five IBSs.
The week from hell had started with Breakout while it was still dark on Monday. The women in the barracks
were awakened by loud shouts from bullhorns in their faces, men clanging trash can lids together, the sounds of AK-47s firing blanks, and what appeared to be actual explosions outside.
Once mustered on the Grinder, which resembled an eerie horror movie set with its dull lighting and colored smoke and constant loud noise, she saw a scene of orchestrated chaos meant to intimidate the trainees into quitting. While male SEAL trainees might not mind having no showers or change of clothing since Hell Week started, the women did not like reeking, not one bit. To them, that was as painful as the muscle-wrenching exercises.
While the goal of Breakout had been to scare the crap out of them, the goal of the entire week was to make them as wet, cold, exhausted, and miserable as possible. And smelly.
JAM had told them at one point, “Eventually you’ll be able to recognize the distinctive body odor of your teammates.”
To which one astute woman had replied, “Oh, that’s something to look forward to. I much prefer Obsession.”
“News flash to swabbies. While you’re out on a black op, perfume attracts gnats . . . as well as tangos. You wanna be bug . . . or bin Laden . . . bait, that’s fine with me.”
The trainees had become used to instructors being bent over, in their faces, shouting orders. And they never referred to them by name. It was maggot, or swabbie, or tadpole, or newbies, or slugs, usually preceded by the F-word. Or sometimes it was the colorful, “You pukes!” Speaking of which, they’d also become used to puking their guts out in the sand and water when pushed to their limits.
“Surf Appreciation, ladies,” F.U. yelled, now that they’d completed a round of Helen Kellers, the politically incorrect name for a particular rotation. The SEAL instructors rarely called them ladies, and when they did, it usually presaged some form of torture in the name of exercise, which Surf Appreciation was.
“Come on, come on, drag your sorry asses out into the water, darlin’s,” Cage prodded in a slow Cajun drawl.
They knew the drill. Their sorry asses, covered by filthy BDUs, stomped out into the pounding surf in heavy boondockers and sat down with their arms linked together. In the cold, cold water of the Pacific, they faced the shore where the Marquis de Sade’s men stood watching them with arms folded across their chests. While waves as high as ten feet broke over their heads, their bodies kept being sucked backward. Teeth chattering, it was a constant fight to hold their ground, and the rotation lasted until they were almost at the point of hypothermia.
