“The chief was right. I am trained for combat. I also have a yearlong immersion course in Pashto. I hope to be of help in different ways to you. I’d much rather be a terp, translator, for you, or another gun in the fight, than have to save your hide once you took a bullet out in the field. But I can do that, too. Like you, I’m multiskilled and consider myself an asset.”
Opening her hands, Bay said, “I come from hill people. I was born in the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia. I grew up barefoot, learned to hunt in the woods starting at age six with my pa. My mama is a hill doctor and she’s saved many people’s lives and delivered a ton of babies. I know how to track, shoot and heal. I hope you’ll let me prove myself over time. I promise, I won’t be a pain in your collective butt. I will never put any of you at risk for me. Instead I’m trained to take the risks for you.”
The sincerity in her eyes and voice deeply affected Gabe. He looked around and saw about half his team bought her explanation. The other half didn’t.
“Okay,” Hammer said, “so you’re a friggin’ hillbilly. So what? What did you do, shoot squirrels and possum for your mama’s soup kettle?”
A snicker went through some of the team.
Hampton opened his mouth to chastise the squad, but Bay cut him a glance. He closed his mouth.
Giving the SEAL a loose smile, she said with humor, “Yes, I’m hill stock, for sure. And it’s true what we shoot, we eat. Squirrel ain’t all that bad,” she teased, dropping more into her dialect. “Tastes a little like the dark meat of a chicken or a wild turkey.” She saw Hammer’s eyes fill with disgust.
“We don’t need no hillbilly in our squad. Hell, I’ll bet you can’t hit the broadside of a barn!”
Gabe roused himself. He saw Chief Hampton ready to pounce on Hammer. He didn’t take guff from any of them, and Hammer was way out of line. “Hey,” Gabe called to Hammer, “why don’t you ask Doc what her longest shot was to kill an animal?”
Bay blinked. The SEAL in the back had a feral grin on his face as he challenged Hammer. What was this guy up to? She felt protectiveness emanating from him toward her. It was nothing obvious, but she picked up on his energy, anyway.
Hammer nodded. “Damn good question, Doc Thorn. What’s your best shot out in them thar woods?”
A number of the SEALs chuckled as he mimicked her dialect.
Bay shrugged. “I bagged an eight-point buck at twelve hundred.”
Half the SEALs burst into laughter, their collective guffaws echoing around the room. Bay frowned, saddened that they didn’t want her in the squad. Except for the SEAL in the back and maybe three other guys who were impressed with her medical training. The SEAL in the back was looking directly at her now. Their gazes locked. She felt the intensity of his slitted green gaze, a one-cornered smile appearing on his weathered face. In that moment, she felt the full power of his invisible protection.
When the laughter died down, Gabe called, “Doc, was that twelve hundred feet or twelve hundred yards?”
Hammer twisted around. “Oh, come on, bro! You know damn well it has to be feet, not yards! What fairy-tale world are you livin’ in?”
Bay suddenly understood what the SEAL was doing. She gave him a nod of thanks for having her back in this melee. Shifting her gaze to Hammer, who was dramatically rolling his eyes, she remained serious. “I sincerely apologize to y’all. I thought you knew I meant twelve hundred yards.”
The room went completely silent. Gabe lowered his head and hid his smile. Finally, he swallowed his grin to surface and he called out, “Hey, Hammer. You got wax in your ears? Did you hear her say yards, not feet?” He enjoyed Hammer’s glare as he twisted around and stared at him.
Snorting, Hammer jerked his head toward the woman standing relaxed, her hands clasped in front of her. “No friggin’ way, sweetheart, have you shot anything, much less hit anything at twelve hundred yards. That’s sniper-quality shootin’ and I don’t care how long you ran around barefoot in those woods growing up shooting squirrels out of trees—no woman can hit anything at that range. Not one.”
Chief Hampton sighed. “Doc? I know you’re pretty wiped out by the flight from Iraq, but are you up to a little range shooting this afternoon? You need to zero in your rifle, anyway.”
“Of course, Chief. My pa began teaching me to shoot at age six. We didn’t have any boys in our family, and I was the oldest girl, so I learned to do what the boys did.”
Hammer shook his head. “What a load of shit.”
“We’ll see,” Hampton murmured. He straightened and looked over the group of men. “What kind of rifle are you wanting to use, Doc?”
Bay heard the wry humor in the chief’s tone. “Well, sir, if someone has a .300 Win Mag, I’d like to try my hand at that. Of course, with their permission.”
Hammer howled with laughter, leaning over, his hands against his belly. Everyone in the front row joined him. The SEALs in bench two were seriously digesting her request. The Win Mag .300 was one of the rifles used by the SEAL snipers. The SEAL in the back stood up. He picked up his ruck sitting on the bench beside him.
“Chief, I’ll loan her my Win Mag to settle this,” Gabe called.
Surprised, Bay watched as he stood and slowly walked toward her. He had a loose kind of walk, a man with confidence to burn. There was a rifle strapped to the outside of his rucksack. This SEAL was a sniper, no question. Bay saw humor lurking in his eyes as he approached her with his boneless grace. He immediately made her think of the mountain lions she’d seen stalking prey. It was that kind of silent, lethal walk.
Gabe halted a few feet from her, set his ruck down on the concrete floor. He leaned down and pulled open the Velcro straps that held his sniper rifle in place. Pulling it out of the straps, he said, “Here you go, Doc. I’ll be your spotter if you need one. I’m Gabe Griffin, by the way.”
When their fingers met as he handed over his rifle to her, Bay gulped. The SEAL was tall, probably six feet or more. There was warmth in his green eyes as he smiled down at her. She took the rifle, allowing it to hang, barrel down, beneath her left arm and rest against her hip. “Thank you,” she said, meaning it. “And I could sure use your help with this beautiful rifle.” Her voice turned soft with humor. “I’m used to my dad’s Winchester to bring down game. This one is a lot different feeling. Lighter.”
Gabe turned, standing beside the combat medic. Hammer was giving him a look of utter disbelief. “Hammer, let’s meet out at our shooting range, say at 1300?”
“You got it. You’ve picked the wrong side of this contest, Griffin.”
Shrugging, Gabe said, “Hey, I was born in Butler, Pennsylvania. I grew up with a few hill people who lived up in that neck of the woods. They were all crack shots.”
“A hundred bucks says she can’t hit any target at twelve hundred yards,” Hammer said, grinning over at his buddies.
Gabe rested his arms across the front of his H-gear around his chest. “I got a hundred that says she can nail the target dead center every time.”
Hooting and hollering broke out excitedly among the team. SEALs got easily bored, and a rifle competition whetted their weapons appetites. There was heavy betting going on, mostly against the new doc. Chief Hampton raised his hands.
“You just got back off a twelve-hour patrol. Get cleaned up, eat, write up your reports and we’ll meet at the shooting range at 1300.” Chief looked over at Bay. “You all right with this, Doc?”
Bay kept a serious face. “Yes, sir, I am.”
“I’ll collect her winnings,” Gabe told the chief, his grin widening. His team was in for one helluva surprise, he hoped.
“On that note,” Hampton said, sliding off the stool, “I’m assigning you to be her mentor, Gabe.”
More hollers and laughter broke out in the room. Hammer was gloating. “Glad it wasn’t me having to train in a
cherry!” he yelled at Gabe. “You poor sorry son of a bitch.”
Gabe took the gibing good-naturedly. Cherry was a slang term for the new guy coming into the squad. He saw Bay give him a confused look.
“That means,” he told her, “I’ll integrate you into the team. It will be my responsibility to show you the ropes, teach you how we patrol. Stuff like that.”
Relief fled through her. “That’s great, Gabe. Thank you.”
Hampton gave Gabe a hard look and lowered his voice. “Give the team time, but don’t take any shit off any of ’em, either. She’s our medic. They shouldn’t care if it’s a man or woman saving their ass. Understand?”
“Yes, Chief, I do,” Gabe replied, reading between the lines. Gabe knew half the team wasn’t happy about having a woman assigned into their ranks. The only thing to do now was for her to earn their respect. Turning, he looked down into her wide, innocent-looking blue eyes.
“Can you really hit a deer at twelve hundred yards?”
Bay remained humble. She lowered her voice so only he could hear her. “Actually, I’ve dropped a couple of deer at fourteen hundred yards, but I didn’t want them thinking I was tellin’ them a big windy.”
Gabe picked up his ruck and slung it over his shoulder and gave a soft chuckle. “Come on, I need to show you where our shooting range is located.”
Grateful he didn’t hate her as half the team did, Bay carried his sniper rifle easily beneath her left arm. The rest of the SEAL team was up, walking toward the doors with them. There was a lot of laughter and ribbing going on. Mostly about her. Bay had been hazed before and tried not to take it personally.
As they left the building, Gabe Griffin at her side, the sun had risen more, taking off the chill. Automatically, Bay slipped on her sunglasses, just as he did. At eight thousand feet on a mountaintop, the sunlight was brutal. Without sunglasses, it would be hard to see enemy at times, especially in the glare. That could cost them their life.
“Down this unnamed street,” he said, gesturing down a row of tan canvas tents sitting up on plyboard platforms.
The SEALs split up, going their separate ways. Most would put their weapons in their tents and then hit the chow hall, starved. Gabe took her over to his tan-and-gray tent he shared with Phil Baker. He decided to use the tent next to his. “Doc, this is a catch-all tent for our equipment. You’ll find SEALs are real good at getting creative. I’ll rustle up a cot for you after we eat.”
“May I give you back the Win Mag? I want it kept safe.”
“Sure.” He took the weapon and placed it on his cot inside his tent. Gabe questioned why he wasn’t upset about training in the newbie, man or woman. Because of his recent divorce, he’d stepped down as LPO, lead petty officer, of the team. He’d asked the chief to assign it to Philip Baker, who was content to take over the position. The chief probably figured this was a good way for Gabe to get back into the saddle as LPO at some point in the future.
Knowing Chief Hampton as he did, going on fourth deployment with him, Gabe understood he was a wily people manager, got that he was hurting. Focusing on a newbie would take his mind off his cheating ex-wife. Gabe wasn’t at all sure, however, that dealing with another woman right now was a smartest decision, but Hampton had good insight into people and situations. Lily, his ex-wife, had broken his trust, broken his heart and broken any good feelings he had toward women in general.
In a way, he felt sorry for Bay, because she seemed sweet, unassuming and terribly innocent. Maybe looks weren’t everything, Gabe decided. He’d fallen for Lily’s blinding beauty, and look where it got him. When he emerged from the tent, Bay was waiting for him. She had an M-4 looped in a black nylon sling across his chest and right shoulder. He took her rifle and laid it on his cot next to the Win Mag. “Let’s go eat,” he said.
As they walked down through the avenues of tents toward the chow hall, Gabe knew Baylee-Ann Thorn had just stepped into a pack of alpha males who didn’t tolerate incompetence of any kind, at any level. They were hardened warriors who knew what it took to survive, and right now half of them had their new doc in their gun sights. Could she stand the heat in the kitchen? Could she measure up or not? They’d find out soon enough.
CHAPTER TWO
“THERE ARE A LOT of women in here,” Bay noted as they sat opposite from each other at a long, wooden table at the busy chow hall. The noise was high, a lot of laughter, ribbing and joking going around.
Gabe nodded, glad to get a plate of eggs, bacon, toast and grits. “You see that group of ladies over there in those tan flight suits?”
Bay looked to her left. There were at least eight women sitting together having breakfast. “Yes. Are they pilots?”
“Not just any pilots,” Gabe said, savoring the salty bacon. Out on patrols, they sweated so much they lost electrolytes. Bacon helped replace the salt in his body. “They’re from a black ops group known as the Black Jaguar Squadron. Been here for four years. It’s an all female Apache helo combat group.”
Eyes widening, Bay said, “That’s terrific. How are they doing in combat?”
Gabe smiled a little between bites. People in the military usually gulped and ran. They didn’t spend time lingering over a meal. She was the same.
“Let’s put it this way. When our comms man calls for Apaches to come and help us out, we don’t care who’s flying them. All we care about is if they can hit the target.” He rolled his shoulders after sitting up to take a breather. “Those gals can nail targets.”
“Not even Hammer and his group are unhappy with them?” As they were unhappy with her.
“Not a peep.” Gabe picked up his mug of coffee. “Hammer and a few of the other guys are worried that you won’t keep up on patrols. Or you’ll cost one of them their lives because they have to protect you instead of knowing you’ll have a gun in the fight like them.”
Nodding, Bay finished off her scrambled eggs. She reached for the strawberry jam and a knife. “That’s fair.”
“Since I’m going to be acclimating you to our team, can you tell me about working with U.S. Army Special Forces over in Iraq?” Gabe was more than a little curious about her background. Bay looked as though she belonged in a hospital. Maybe as a doctor or nurse. Not a woman in a combat zone.
“I ran patrols with them for six months during my last deployment. Most of the time we worked along the Syrian border area with Iraq. Sometimes we came back to the green zone in Baghdad for a rest.” Wrinkling her nose, she said, “It’s a terrible place, Gabe. You can’t trust anyone. They all lie to you. My captain was always pulling out his hair, trying to figure out who was lying and who wasn’t. One group would tell you that another group was al Qaeda. He learned a long time ago not to believe any of them. This was his third deployment and he knew the dance.”
“Did you perform many walking patrols?” Gabe knew the SEALs would be out on foot patrols for up to twelve hours sometimes. If Bay couldn’t, that would pose a helluva problem for all of them.
“I’m fit enough, Gabe. We’d range out on foot for eight to twelve hours. Our team was always moving along the border at night with NVGs on. That was when the Syrian smugglers would try and get past the official highway entrance gate in and out of the two countries. We’d be on patrol from dusk until dawn. Sometimes, depending upon who we ran into, we’d cover fifteen klicks.”
“Any problems with those kinds of physical demands?” Gabe asked, holding her blue gaze. There was such seriousness to her expression as she considered his question. Gabe didn’t want to like her, and he fought it. Hadn’t he had enough woman troubles the past year?
“None. Now,” Bay said, reaching for her coffee, “I treated a lot of heat exhaustion cases, muscle cramps and things like that with my team. You know how you get focused on the mission. You’re chasing the bad guys and you forget to drink water from your CamelBak? Some of th
e strongest, most fit Special Forces dudes would keel over out there. I learned to carry a lot more IVs in my pack to rehydrate them. Otherwise, we’d be calling in a medevac every time to lift them out.”
Nodding, Gabe knew the hydration problem. SEALs dealt with the same issues. “When I was LPO for my team, I was always on my guys to keep drinking water out on patrol. Everyone forgets. Especially when we’re engaged with the enemy.”
“Yup,” Bay said, smiling a little. She liked looking at Gabe. He was rugged looking, had high cheekbones and she liked his mouth best of all. The corners moved naturally upward and his lips were even and very kissable. His beard was fairly well trimmed, unlike with some of the other guys on the team.
Bay especially liked the keen intelligence she saw in Gabe’s eyes. This guy was no slouch. He had broad, capable shoulders beneath his dusty cammies. She liked his hands, now curved around the mug in front of him. He had long, spare hands, large knuckled, burned dark by the sun, a smattering of dark hair on the backs of them. They were beautiful hands for a man. Her mind turned back to their conversation about desert environs. They were out on the front lines in one of the most inhospitable climates on earth.
“Okay, so you can keep up with us,” Gabe murmured, mulling over her answers. “Are you at all familiar with our patrol tactics?”
She shook her head. “Not at all.”
“Then you need to shadow me. We use the L and diamond formation most of the time, and I’ll show you what that means. When I get a chance, I’ll lead you through what I do and what the team does if we get into a firefight.”
“Sounds good. That’s where I’m weak, Gabe.” Bay held up her hands and laughed a little. “I can cut, operate and stitch with the best of them in a firefight, but I’m an ignoramus when it comes to your patrol methods. I know they aren’t the same ones used by the Special Forces guys.”
He stared at her slender, beautiful hands. Gabe could believe she was a healer. He saw a number of calluses across her palms. That was a good sign because it meant she was in top shape, was carrying fairly heavy loads out on those patrols. “You said your mother was a hill doctor?”
Breaking Point Page 2
