by Cindy Dees
Since he seemed to be in a mellow mood, Sherri risked confessing, “A female SEAL. If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t especially happy to hear that, either.”
His gaze snapped up to hers. “How’s that?”
“Even if I legitimately make it through BUD/S on my own merits, I’ll still be the girl SEAL the system was rigged for.”
His eyebrows arched as if he was surprised to hear her admit that.
She leaned forward. “Do you know what my job was in Washington DC before I came here? I gave press conferences. I dressed pretty and wore makeup, went to cocktail parties, and did interviews with news outlets on behalf of the Navy. Assuming I’m the one who gets thrown to the wolves in BUD/S, what do you want to bet that’s exactly what the brass will expect me to do after I graduate from SEAL training?”
He pulled a face. “That’s not a bet I would take.”
“Nobody wants me to be a real SEAL.” She looked at him bleakly. “Including you.”
He said nothing.
“I’m the one Kettering is planning to put into BUD/S, aren’t I?”
“What makes you say that? You’re performing at the same level the other women are. Honestly, all three of you are performing more or less identically. You each have your own strengths and weaknesses, but they’re about a wash, overall.”
“I’m the only one of the three women with experience being a public figure. I’m the obvious choice to play poster child. Anna and Lily will get to finish training here and go out and do real missions. But I’m so blasted hard to miss that I’d make a terrible field operator.”
He shrugged. “I can’t deny that you’re hard to miss. Especially the way you look tonight. But if SEALs are doing their jobs right, no one sees them at all. In those circumstances, your looks shouldn’t be a factor. And you can always cover your face.”
Huh. That actually hadn’t occurred to her.
She took another bite of gumbo and, since talking seemed to be the purpose of this little tête-à-tête, decided to go for the gusto and share her greatest fear with him. “I’m going to end up being trotted out, wearing perfectly pressed and starched uniforms, looking like a recruiting poster and acting like a trained monkey, sporting a gold trident I won’t have earned and won’t deserve. You’ll know it, and I’ll know it. And every man who’s ever been a SEAL will know it. That offends me.”
Griffin was silent for a long time. His face passed through several expressions, settling on something very close to reluctant respect. Then he said very quietly, “What are you planning to do about it?”
“I have an idea. But I’m going to need your help.”
Chapter 8
Griffin stared at Sherri. Yet again, she’d shocked the living bejeebers out of him. Never in a million years would he have guessed that she would see through to the heart of the matter like this.
Profound relief flowed through him that she at least understood now what a Budweiser stood for. If the past two months had accomplished nothing else, at least he’d done that.
Of course, she was dead right in her prediction. The brass would make a performing monkey out of her. They might send her on the occasional tightly controlled mission—with a cadre of embedded journalists and cameramen in tow to record it—but nobody was going to let the first female SEAL come anywhere near harm’s way, let alone die in the field.
“What’s your idea?” He was interested to hear what she’d cooked up. She knew how the Navy senior leadership rolled better than most and would know how to get around them if anyone could.
She leaned forward. “I want to—”
The door behind them burst open, and Grif was out of his seat, facing the threat and reaching for the Ka-Bar knife strapped to his right ankle before the door hit the wall.
He noted in a detached corner of his mind that Sherri had come out of her seat almost as fast as he had. In her case, though, she held her hands in front of her in a classic martial arts stance. Not accustomed to being armed, yet. The detached instructor part of his mind made a mental note to fix that deficiency at the earliest possible time.
It was Ken Singleton who raced through the open door. Griffin stood down.
Kenny blurted out, “Cal’s office, stat. Both of you.”
Griffin swore under his breath. Surely Cal wasn’t busting up a simple supper between him and Sherri. He knew his boss was deeply suspicious of Griffin’s feelings for Sherri. But he was allowed to talk with his trainee from time to time, wasn’t he?
Griffin hurried for the door with Sherri on his heels. He asked Ken tersely, “What’s up?”
“I don’t know. Boss told Jojo and Trevor to head down to the airstrip and put out flares. And then he called for an emergency briefing. Apparently, there’s a plane arriving in the next hour or so.”
Disgust exploded in Griffin’s gut. “Please God, tell me it’s not some congressional delegation coming to check out the progress of the golden girls.”
Kenny answered as the three of them sprinted for Kettering’s office. “Nah. Something’s happened downrange. Cal’s laptop exploded with message traffic when I was having a drink with him. He took one look and started spouting orders.”
Normally, SEAL platoons were texted several hours before the show time for a mission brief. Not only the operators but also the full support team that would be sent out with them were all briefed at once.
What could be so important that he and the other Reapers were being brought into the loop so urgently? They might be training future women SEALs, but the operative word there was training. Their whole platoon was down for a training rotation. For the next three months, it was not their turn at bat to deploy.
Kenny and Sherri entered the conference room attached to Kettering’s office ahead of him. Cal was already seated at the table, looking even grimmer than usual. Not good. Actual alarm started to buzz in Griffin’s gut. Something bad was afoot. Something Cal didn’t like. And that man’s instincts were never wrong.
Over the next few minutes, Sam, Axel, and the other women joined them. Pregnant silence settled. No one engaged in the usual chatter as they waited to find out what crisis had exploded and where.
Jojo and Trevor burst into the room, and Kettering ordered tersely, “Close the door, gentlemen.” Cal stood up and said without preamble, “A few hours ago, Abu Haddad was sighted by an American drone in the Kirdu province of Pakistan.”
Abu Haddad? Griffin swore silently and violently. Haddad was only the most wanted terrorist on the whole planet.
“Is he dead yet?” Griffin asked tightly. Haddad, a tribal terrorist leader who’d risen to power at the highest levels of the Taliban, had been a pain in the U.S. military’s ass for the past decade. The bastard was responsible for the deaths of hundreds, possibly thousands of Americans, soldiers and contractors, good men and women all. He’d been at the top of the SEAL hit list for a while.
Irritation passed across Cal’s face. “It was a surveillance-only drone. By the time armed assets could be brought to bear, Haddad had retreated into a mountain cave complex.”
“But we have a rough location, right?” Axel asked eagerly. “Can we encircle the SOB and nail his ass?”
“That’s the idea,” Kettering replied.
Griffin’s pulse leaped. Finally. He and every other operator he knew had wanted a piece of Haddad for pretty much forever.
Kettering interrupted Griffin’s racing thoughts. “The Reapers have been called in as SMEs—that’s subject matter experts, ladies—to accompany the kill team. Our platoon has logged more time in pursuit of this particular target than any other active SEAL unit.”
“When do we leave?” Griffin asked eagerly. He would, with great pleasure, come off a stateside rotation months early if it meant a shot at Abu Haddad.
“Support team’s due here”—Kettering glanced down at his watch—“in about twenty minutes. K
enny, Jojo, Sam. You’ll be going with them. It’ll be a direct flight, air refueling en route, to Bagram Air Base. You’ll deploy by chopper to a forward location, where you’ll receive a final briefing and then head out on the hunt with members of SEAL Team 8. You’ll be guided by a squad of DEVGRU guys who’ve been doing reconnaissance in the region.”
DEVGRU was a highly classified SEAL group within the general SEAL population. Griffin had served a tour with them until he broke his back a few years ago. They specialized in counterterrorist operations and were generally a badass bunch of guys. Topnotch operators. Best of the best. Fun to work with.
Grif leaned forward. “What about me? I’ve been hunting Haddad for the past half-dozen years. I know the bastard cold. No offense to Jojo, Sam, and Ken, but I know the target better than they do. I should be on that plane.”
Kettering looked down the table in his direction but didn’t quite meet Griffin’s gaze. “We all want in on this one, Grif. But you have your orders. I need you here to see Operation Valkyrie through. I’m keeping you, Trevor, and Axel here for now to continue working with the ladies.”
Griffin surged up out of his seat, swearing luridly.
Kettering cut across his epithets sharply. “Sit down.”
Damn it! Griffin knew a direct order when he heard one, and he dropped back into his chair, furious. It didn’t help one little bit that Sherri was gazing at him sympathetically. She had no idea what it meant to him to get left out of this absolutely critical mission.
Because of her.
Because he was being forced to babysit a woman who wanted to play at being a SEAL.
Bile burned like acid in his throat, and it took every ounce of his self-discipline to remain seated, to hold his tongue and not rage against the unfairness of it. One of the first lessons he’d learned as a SEAL was that life wasn’t fair. But this one stung. Bad.
He’d dreamed for years of bringing in, or bringing down, Abu Haddad. The smug son of a bitch needed his face blown off in the worst way. The Reapers had tracked Haddad to hell and back over there. They’d had too many near-misses to count with the slippery bastard. He and his guys had earned the right to be the ones to capture or kill Haddad.
“You three, go pack,” Kettering ordered briskly. “Your kits will be on the C-130. Raid the armory here as needed to supplement your gear.”
Kenny had the decency to meet Griffin’s despairing stare across the table and murmur, “Sorry, man. I’ll put an extra bullet in him for you.”
“You do that,” Griffin replied bitterly. Then, with slightly better grace, he added, “Good hunting, brother.”
“Will do.” Then Kenny was gone in a rush of premission adrenaline. The guy’s thoughts would already be turning to which weapons he wanted to carry. How much ammo to pack. It would be high-altitude terrain. Rough, rocky, and cold as a witch’s tit. Extra thermal underwear. A second balaclava to protect his face from frostbite. Altitude sickness pills. Sleeping pills for when the oxygen deprivation made sleep come hard—
Damn it all! Griffin wanted to be there in the thick of the action. Instead, he was stuck here with a pack of damned minnows who thought they could grow up into sharks.
“Grif.”
He looked up bleakly at Kettering. “Yes, sir?”
“If you can think of any intel that would help with this mission, go share it with the boys, eh?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He pushed up from the table, irritated all to hell, and stomped across the street to the barracks, where Jojo, Sam, and Ken were already almost finished packing their shit.
Of the three stooges, Kenny had been on the teams the longest. Kenny had been fresh out of BUD/S, and Griffin had been coming off the layoff for his back when they both joined the Reapers. They’d been deployed together in Afghanistan and Pakistan at least a half-dozen times.
Truth be told, Kenny knew as much about Haddad as anyone. The guy didn’t need any tips from Griffin on catching the bastard. Kettering had said what he had about sharing intel to get Griffin out of the room. The boss didn’t want to listen to any more whining about being left behind and had given him something to do rather than sit around bitching about it.
Grif couldn’t blame Cal. But he didn’t like this. Not one damned bit.
“You got this, Kenny?” he asked his longtime brother.
“Yup.”
“Look out for Sam. He’s the least experienced in that theater.”
“Hey, man. I’m right here,” Sam griped.
Griffin grimaced at their youngest team member. “Just be careful, and don’t underestimate Haddad. He’s a sly bastard. Trained by ex-Russian Spetsnaz dudes. He’s smart and a total slimeball. Won’t hesitate to throw women and children, or even his own men, under a bus to save his own ass.”
“I know, Grif,” Sam answered quietly. “I’ve read the reports on him. I hate it that we’re not all going on this one together. But I promise, we’ll get our man. And all of the Reapers will share credit for it.”
That was big of the kid to say. A kill was a personal thing. Not something men like them shared easily or often.
Kenny added, “We’ll all share a bottle of whiskey to toast the kill.”
A faint buzz of noise became audible. An airplane was approaching Camp Jarvis. Griffin tried to smile and failed. “Ride’s here. Time to rock and roll.”
Sam flashed his boyish grin. “Let’s go kick some ass!”
Everyone let out a hooyah, but their overall enthusiasm was dampened by the splitting up of their squad. They’d lived, worked, and played together practically nonstop for the past two years.
Grif picked up a couple of bags and humped them out to the Jeep Sherri had waiting out front. He swung into the front seat, and Sam and Jojo jumped in the back. Cal drove the second Jeep, and Kenny rode with him. No doubt getting a few last-minute instructions as the most senior member of the three-man team.
The trip to the airfield didn’t take nearly long enough for Griffin to come up with a reason to get on that plane. Sherri parked at one end of the runway, and they all piled out to await the aircraft.
He stood there, agonized, listening to the roar of the C-130 landing. He couldn’t be left behind. He couldn’t. But neither could he find a way to buck Kettering’s direct orders.
The plane came to a stop in front of them. The rear ramp dropped down, and a familiar face jogged out of the plane.
“Leo?” Griffin blurted. “What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home with Janine?”
Lipinski grinned. “I pulled some strings and got put on the op. Janine’s fit to be tied, but no way was I missing out on this one.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“You’re not coming?” Leo asked, surprised.
“Nah. Working on something classified here.”
Lipinski eyed Sherri appreciatively. “Classified, huh? Looks like a miserable assignment.” The guy waggled his eyebrows in Sherri’s direction, and Griffin felt her tense beside him.
“You still Smurf blue under that uniform, Lipinski?” Griffin asked.
Leo exploded with “You cock-swinging motherfucker piece of shit. Was that your idea? I’ll kill you, man.”
“It’s a good look on you…Smurfy.”
“I swear to God, if you guys start calling me that, heads are gonna roll—”
Kenny strolled past Griffin, bags in each hand. “What’s that, Smurfy? You think you can take me and the boys?”
Trading insults, Leo and Kenny strode up the ramp and disappeared into the belly of the cargo plane.
Jojo and Sam paused for a moment beside Griffin, and Jojo murmured, “Don’t worry about us. We’ll get our man.”
“We always do,” Griffin replied bleakly. “You got all the gear and intel you need?”
“Yuppers. We’ll bag the tango and be back here t
o give the minnows hell before Christmas.”
“You do that. And keep an eye on Lipinski. Janine will kill us all if something happens to him.”
Jojo shook his head. “There’s a reason I never put a move on her. That woman’s scary as hell when she’s pissed off.”
Sam grinned. “Smurfy’s welcome to her, man.”
“Be careful, kid,” Griffin tossed at Sam.
The team’s baby member told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with himself while they were gone, and Griffin was still smiling as Sam and Jojo disappeared inside the C-130, too.
In a matter of seconds, the plane was buttoned up and taxiing away, sending a wash of hot engine exhaust at him.
Griffin turned his back to the force of the blast and let it blow him over to the Jeeps. He climbed into the one Sherri was driving.
Jet engines screamed to full power, turbo props cut into the air with a deep, rhythmic thrumming that went right through him, and the red and white lights of the military transport lifted away into the night.
That was it. His teammates were gone, and he was stuck here. Left out of the most important mission of his whole freaking career.
They sat at the end of the runway, watching until the plane became just another speck among the stars. Silence fell around them as Kettering’s Jeep headed back to the compound, leaving him and Sherri alone.
Gradually, the crickets and frogs resumed their nightly chorus, but subdued at this time of year. Or maybe they sensed how colossally, royally pissed off he was at being here to hear them.
Sherri murmured, “I’m sorry. I know how much that meant to you.”
He whirled to face her, enraged. “No. You fucking don’t know. You have no possible way of knowing.”
Sherri looked stricken. Which was weird, considering all of the insulting, degrading, awful things he’d hurled at her the past few weeks. Of course, the difference was none of that had been personal. And this was.
She knew it, and he knew it.
He sighed hard. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“Apology accepted.”
