“Welcome to joint training, gentlemen,” our commander, Colonel Jim Marshall says, which is always how he begins his little speeches for these things. “The next three days will be a grueling, competitive session designed to train the current joint SEAL and pararescue unit operation for its upcoming mission while on deployment, and they will cumulate the final test for the new recruits to the unit.”
“Boring,” whispers Harlow, while Jensen pretends to snore.
“After 48 hours of intense field simulation, if you can pass the upcoming close air support training test, you will be accepted as a member of the United States Air Force Special Operations team, in the pararescue division of the Control and Command unit, and will be assisting the Navy SEALs and the Air Force fighter pilots in this special mission,” Colonel Marshall continues.
He’s been using the megaphone so that everyone in our large group can hear him. He acts like we’ve never been to one of these trainings, or heard these tough- sounding instructions before. They’re mostly to scare the newbies. But we still have to listen to them every time there’s a joint training.
I look around at everyone gathered on Johnson Field, the largest open training area on Kirtland Air Force Base. I’m glad to be surrounded not only by my two actual brothers, but also my many figurative brothers, fellow members of my SEALs unit, as we work to help train the Air Force recruits for the joint mission.
We only have about a month left before Harlow and I ship off with the rest of our SEALs unit and the Air Force pararescue unit that makes the cut to join us. Although the upcoming training is no joke, it’s a breeze compared to being deployed. The calm before the storm, so to speak.
I’m so glad Harlow is coming with us, as it didn’t look like he would be at first. After suffering catastrophic injuries when our helicopter went down over enemy territory, he underwent facial reconstructive surgery and physical therapy. He’s back with us, and good as new.
Harlow is my youngest brother— I practically raised him— and I was really worried about him for a while. But now he looks to be doing well, and even has a girlfriend: Whitney is a physical therapist who helped him get back to active duty status, although now she’s headed to medical school to become a doctor.
Jensen isn’t being deployed with us, because he’s no longer a SEAL. He works for a private contractor who trains the Air Force’s new pararescue recruits to do the same things we’ve done in the SEAL unit, although the stuff that we did was a lot harder.
Jensen’s men are being put to the test today— hopefully they all make it through, since they’ve already been weeded down significantly since their first day of training. One of them, though, whom everyone calls Pipsqueak, might not make it. I’m not even sure how he got this far, but I assume Jensen has his reasons for passing him through.
Jensen, man. He’s right smack in the middle of us Bradford brothers. And he’s worried me recently almost as much as Harlow worried me after the helicopter accident. Jensen did some punk ass shit— in his defense, though, it was all for the good of our mother— and got himself into trouble.
His lawyer, Riley, helped him fight the charges and he was so appreciative he fucking fell in love with her and married her. He seems to be in a better place now, and I’m happy to see that both of my little brothers have figured out their shit, even if it did mean breaking The Pact.
Now it’s just down to me. The last man standing. We’d all promised each other not to fall for the bullshit that is love, marriage, commitment. Our mom left our dad when we were young— for some no good loser addict and then a string of men just like him throughout the years.
It killed our dad, literally. He died young of undiagnosed cardiac hypertension. None of us understood why he would hang on for a love that was never returned to him. We were determined not to let it happen to us.
And yet, first Jensen and then Harlow fell. It’s almost like it’s contagious or something. But not me. I’m only interested in casual flings.
I like to take home a random woman and fuck her brains out, until she’s moaning, “Oh Ramsey, don’t stop, keep making me feel this good with your big cock, over and over and over.” I usually give into her request for the night, but by the next morning, I’m bored and already ready to start the hunt for my next conquest.
I don’t have time for anything serious anyway. I’m too busy looking after my brothers, and our mom.
And fighting for my country. Not to mention some side interests I’ve recently picked up. Some people think they should go see a shrink about their problems. Me, I’d rather play my guitar or learn martial arts. My schedule is packed these days. There’s no room in my head— or heart— for anything or anyone else.
“As some of you may know,” Colonel Marshall continues, “We’re teaming up with the Air Force fighter pilots, as well as with the Navy SEALs, for this close air support training. I’d like to introduce our latest fighter plane, the F-35 Lightning II jet.”
As if on cue, a plane begins descending from the sky, and as it gets closer, everyone’s faces express more and more awe. The F-35 is an impressive beast, from its expansive bird-like wings to its pointed bird-like tip.
Once the plane lands, we all gather closer to get a better look. But as the door swings open, we have a new sight to behold.
“It’s a fucking woman,” someone beside me mutters, under his breath.
I turn slightly to see Jerry, a fellow PJ.
“Holy shit,” Harlow exclaims.
“I’d also like to introduce Lieutenant Colonel Monica Carrington of the 33rd Fighter Wing,” Colonel Marshall announces. “She is the first woman to fly the Lightning II jet. Prior to doing so, she has had extensive experience flying combat missions in the F-15 Strike Eagle plane in Afghanistan. She fulfills an important role in her unit, which is charged with training pilots, maintenance and support crews for the F-35 in all its variants. As part of her job duties, she has come here to help train all of you in this mission.”
“Yeah right,” Jerry laughs. “Like this girl could teach us anything.”
“The Air Force and all other branches of the military need battle-tested pilots to help put the F-35A through its paces and ensure we have a trained and ready force of F-35 pilots to feed into our combat air forces,” Colonel Marshall continues. “Therefore, everyone here is grateful for Lieutenant Colonel Carrington, and glad that she’s able to join us for this joint training session.”
“Speak for yourself,” someone yells from the back.
I look over at him but don’t recognize him— must be a newbie, one of Jensen’s trainees.
I glare at Jensen, disapprovingly, wanting him to get his man under control, but he has a slight smirk on his face, and says nothing. He seems rather shell shocked that a woman is flying this impressive beast. Although I can’t blame him— it is surprising— I do expect him to keep his troops in order and impress upon them the need to respect this pilot.
Monica steps down from the plane, and she’s immediately greeted by hoots and hollers and whistles from among the crowd. I feel embarrassed to be part of this drooling circus crowd, but I have to admit that she’s super fucking hot.
Blonde hair tumbles down around her shoulders as she lifts her helmet. And when she removes her glasses, she reveals two sharp blue eyes. She’s obviously in shape, but even in her flight suit, her striking curves are gorgeous. She’s a specimen impressive enough to match the plane she flew in on.
“That’s enough, gentlemen. We are going to give Lieutenant Colonel Carrington the respect she deserves,” says Colonel Marshall. “She has had the unique experience of being part of the first all-female combat mission in Afghanistan, in 2011. The pilots and weapons officers aboard two F-15s, as well as the planners and maintainers, were all women.”
“Yeah, and they all sucked,” Jerry says, in a tone slightly above a whisper.
I roll my eyes. The political climate has stirred up strong feelings and harsh resistance towards women in combat posi
tions, especially in any branch of the Special Forces. A fairly recent presidential directive mandated that the Direct Ground Combat Assignment Rule, which barred women from serving in combat units below the brigade level, be slowly dismantled, so that females could now begin serving in combat positions.
The directive doesn’t apply to the close combat occupations and skills that comprise the Special Forces, so neither the SEALs nor the Air Force pararescue unit were affected. While women can accompany these units, they usually do so as “Cultural Support Teams,” who clear civilian women and children away from battle areas and communicate with Afghan women in a way that male service members cannot.
Still, many of my brethren are of the opinion that women should not be involved in any kind of combat at all, especially not the highly stressful and technical operations that we carry out, and they wish to keep them far away from our unit. Since they’re not used to working with women in most training situations, it’s surprising to have one among us— as a fighter pilot no less.
So, this particular training session— run in part by a woman— should be interesting. To say the least.
I’m sympathetic to Monica’s situation, even though none of my bonehead teammates seem to share my feelings. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a woman in this field, but I’m sure it has to take a lot of “balls,” or the female equivalent anyway.
“Is there anything you wish to say to the unit and trainees before we continue the instructions?” Colonel Marshall asks Monica.
She takes the megaphone from him.
“Just that I’m excited to be here working with all of you,” she says. “And I ask that you not allow my status as a woman to intimidate you.”
“Hardy har har,” smirks Jerry, and even Harlow and Jensen roll their eyes, as if to say, “How could we be intimidated by you?”
“It’s been great to get airborne in this new jet. She flies like a dream,” Monica continues. “And I’ve found that the plane doesn’t know or care about my gender as a pilot, nor do the ground troops who need my support. I just have to perform my job as well as I can— just as all of you do. That’s all anyone cares about when I’m up there— that I can do my job, and that I happen to do it exceptionally well. In that way, we’re exactly the same.”
Except that you’re smoking hot, I think, as I realize I can’t stop staring at her. The other guys are upset that they have to work with a woman, but I can’t seem to be anything but hot and bothered.
I adjust my pants, since my cock seems determined to rise up to half mast status. I wish I could rip off Monica’s uniform and bend her over that plane that’s almost as gorgeous as she is.
I remind myself to listen to my own internal advice to my fellow service members and be respectful. That’s hard to do, though, when all I really want to do is grab her ass while I fuck her pussy. I just can’t help it— she’s seriously one of the hottest women I’ve ever seen, and my cock doesn’t seem to care that my head is telling it to sit the fuck down and behave.
Chapter 2 – Monica
After my dramatic entrance and impromptu speech, I join the crowd of troops to listen as Colonel Marshall continues to fill us in on the upcoming training session. I stand close to— but a bit behind— a Navy SEAL whom I had noticed staring at me while I gave my speech.
At over six feet tall with a head of dark, curly hair and piercing green eyes, he was definitely worth staring back at. The name tag sewn onto his uniform said “Bradford”— but then again, so did the name tags on the uniforms of the two men standing close to him, who look nearly as handsome as he does, and who are obviously his brothers.
Three brothers working on one joint task mission together? I guess stranger things have happened.
I want to concentrate on Colonel Marshall’s words but I know the drill of these training sessions by now— I’ve helped lead plenty of them myself— and I can’t help but let my curiosity get the better of me.
I realize that one of the brothers is in a different uniform, and appears to be a private contractor. He’s probably not being deployed. But to have obtained such a job, he had to have vast prior experience, likely working alongside his brothers.
Brother fighters, I think. Fighting brothers. How perfect.
Commander Marshall talks about the procedures and protocol for the training mission.
“Starting tomorrow morning, and for forty-eight hours straight, you will be in simulated enemy territory with simulated battlefield conditions.”
He explains that some of the men will be on the ground with lasers, showing me and some other fighter pilots where to land. Still others will be jumping out of the planes, climbing up and down mountains and finding simulated crash victims to rescue, all the while surviving in the mountains in simulated active combat conditions.
“We are lucky to have the F-35 Lightning II jet for this training, as that model will be one of the planes going to Afghanistan. It won’t be flown by Lieutenant Colonel Carrington, but by any number of other similarly qualified fighter pilots involved in the joint mission.”
“Thank goodness the girl’s not coming with us,” says one of the guys standing near the Bradfords.
“Yeah,” says another guy. “Shouldn’t her plane be painted pink, anyway?”
“With Hello Kitty decals prominently displayed,” someone else chimes in.
“It’s probably a mess inside, since women can never take care of their vehicles.”
“She’s too busy texting, applying makeup and drinking sparkling bottled water while driving it.”
I just roll my eyes, although I don’t think they even notice me amongst them. I’m used to such remarks in my career. I’ve had to deal with them since I first started out. Such comments just make me even more determined to prove myself and to do my job to the best of my ability.
These are just little boys who don’t know how to compete against women, I remind myself. In fact, I’m used to the teasing since before I even joined the Air Force. I grew up with three older brothers, and a competitive father. Everything was some sort of game, and I often ended up winning.
I know how to deal with fellow co-workers who happen to be men, but sometimes the problem is that they don’t know how to deal with me.
I notice that the one Bradford brother who had been staring at me isn’t chiming in. In fact, it looks like the comments from his buddies upset him. His handsome, chiseled face is scrunched toward its center, his lips puckered and his eyebrows curled in disapprovingly.
Oh honey, I want to say to him. Don’t get upset on my behalf. I can handle myself. And don’t ruin your pretty face about it. You should smile more often— you look better when you smile.
Honestly, though, he looks good no matter what he’s doing. I wouldn’t mind kissing those thick lips of his, or reaching my hand down to feel the package in his pants.
One of the men, breaking me out of my fantasy land thoughts, calls out, “How many tampons do you think are strewn around in the back of that plane?” and the object of my attention seems to just snap.
“Hey, Buddy,” he says, taking several steps forward to the guy who had made the comment— obviously a new recruit— and giving him a not-so-gentle shove. “How about you just shut up with those sexist comments?”
“Whoa, a social justice warrior!” The new recruit remarks, rather loudly, causing several other people to turn and pay attention. “I didn’t realize you were so politically correct. I’ll try to keep my realistic comments to myself and otherwise like-minded…”
“Airman O’Connell,” a stern voice says, and everyone in the vicinity turns and looks at the authoritative person.
It’s another one of the brothers— the private contractor one. He must be in charge of the trainee.
“Did you forget your rank? Your respect?”
“No Sir,” says the trainee, his head hanging down like a regretful puppy who had upset its owner. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“I don’t want to hear an
yone here backtalk anyone who is ranked above them,” the brother continues. “And that’s enough of the annoying and sexist comments as well.”
“Finally,” says the brother with the thick lips and big package. “I thought you’d never step in, Jensen.”
“Let’s just pay attention to what we’re here for, shall we?” says the other brother— whose name is Jensen, apparently— and they turn back to Colonel Marshall’s instructions, which he had continued to explain despite the slight interruption of the kerfuffle.
I suppose I should be grateful that my knight in shining armor rescued me. That I should be swooning and begging for him to take me on a date.
But all of this is commonplace to me, and the only thing that surprises me— and, I have to admit, impresses me— is that he or his brother said anything at all. It takes balls to stand up for a woman in a traditional male environment.
And in another lifetime, I would definitely be interested in the hot SEAL who can’t keep his eyes off me and who jumped to defend me. But I’m not that kind of girl.
I don’t date military guys— even if I were allowed to date an enlisted man as an officer, which I’m not— and I don’t have much time or interest in dating much in general. Ever since things ended badly with Peter, my ex, I’d rather stay single than risk heartache.
I just fantasize about them and sometimes I hook up with civilians, but they’re never very good in bed. I want a man who is strong and in charge, but the guys I’ve been with lately seem to be intimidated by me.
Once the instructions are over, Colonel Marshall tells everyone to report at oh-seven- hundred on the dot, and to be certain to get enough sleep since it will be non-existent for the next two days. I start to head back to my plane, but someone taps me on the shoulder.
I spin around to see him— the hot SEAL— so close that I almost literally jump. My heart definitely does leap out of my chest, in the figurative sense.
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