by Zoe Dawson
There were no cheat codes in BUD/S. He was in this on his own, voluntarily playing the game and keeping his focus on the ball.
BUD/S would be a tough endurance fight against…himself.
He intended to win.
He got out of the Gladiator and went inside, took care of the admin stuff where he signed a paper listing all the things he couldn’t have at BUD/S including over-the-counter drugs, caffeinated products, multivitamins, pain-killers or anti-inflammatories and headed back to his vehicle. Taking a deep breath, he drove back toward Silver Strand Boulevard and across to the BUD/S training area on Trident Way.
Still in his uniform with his duffel slung over his shoulder he headed to muster at the infamous BUD/S Grinder. It’s where they would spend the first three weeks considered Basic Orientation or BO doing PT and generally getting a beat down by the instructors. He felt a chill go down his spine when he stepped onto the frogman hallowed ground.
The courtyard was a square expanse of black asphalt where generations of sailors had ground sand into many parts of their bodies while performing PT soaking wet. Around several sides were the pullup bars and the notorious bell where candidates would ring out when they quit.
He wasn’t going to touch the polished brass bell but gave it the respect it was due. When a student DOR’d or Dropped on Request, he must ring the bell three times to show that he was a quitter, then place his helmet to the left of the bell. Hemingway was in this for the long haul and nothing was going to get him to quit. He was not ringing that bell.
As in any introduction to a group, there was a jumble of faces, but Hemingway realized right away these would be his “teammates” through this ordeal. There would be time to meet them and get to know them later, especially when they were assigned their rooms.
He got into line, setting the soles of his polished shoes over the painted white frog feet with the rest of the class, standing at parade rest as the third sailor in from the left in the second row.
An instructor stood on a raised platform of wood. His order was loud and harsh through a bull horn. “Dump out your duffel.” Hemingway didn’t pause, he reached down and dumped as he was told, the feeling of urgency in everything he did. The items were read off: inspection uniforms, Underwater Demolitions Team or UDT khaki shorts, knife, mask, UDT vest, fins, wetsuit, articles of underclothing and boots. There was also his green BUD/S helmet stenciled in white with the class number. A few trainees had additional items not on the inventory list, and the instructors scowled as they dumped the contraband in the trashcan.
Once that was done, they were given their barrack assignments. They would have Friday night and the weekend to get squared away, including stenciling their gear with their names. Hemingway broke ranks when the order was given. After stuffing everything back into his duffel, he headed toward the barracks, a squat long building behind the grinder.
The door opened and men came shuffling in carrying their duffels. Hemingway chose a bunk nearer the head and stowed his gear in the box at the end of the lower of the two-man bunk. A guy passed him and took the next lower bunk. He was just a bit shorter than Hemingway’s height, with the same lean build and a shock of sandy brown hair.
“Hey,” he said, setting down his duffel and reaching across the expanse. “Milo Prescott.”
“Atticus Sinclair,” Hemingway said, shaking the guy’s hand and noting his strong grip.
“Like the book?”
“Yeah, my dad loved To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Mine, too. Sad she wrote so little, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re like the moral hero?”
“I’ve got my principles,” Hemingway said. “And what’s a hero anyway?” He shrugged.
“A dumb fuck who runs into all kinds of danger when it matters?”
Hemingway laughed. He had a feeling he was going to like Prescott.
More guys filtered in. A dark-haired guy took Prescott’s upper bunk. He was taller than Prescott, but a tad shorter than Hemingway. He eyed the two of them, then broke off contact as he snagged the bunk. He didn’t say anything to them as he started to unpack his duffel. Hemingway exchanged a look with Prescott, who grinned, then said to the guy, “Milo Prescott and Atticus Sinclair.”
The guy glanced at them and grunted, “Daniel Wilson.”
Suddenly there was a press of bodies and a guy stumbled and rammed into Wilson. “Oh, sorry,” the guy mumbled.
Wilson shoved back, sending the guy and all his stuff toward the floor. Hemingway reached out and caught him before he could fall.
“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Wilson growled, then seemed to settle himself as if he was surprised he’d had such an outburst. Without an apology he went back to his rack and unpacking.
“You like to make an entrance,” Prescott said good-naturedly. “The cranky guy is Daniel Wilson. I’m Milo Prescott and this is Atticus Sinclair.”
“Like the book,” the kid said, and Hemingway could see he was young—a baby-faced, blue-eyed kid.
“Yeah, like the book.”
“William Brown, but most people call me Will. Sorry for being so clumsy. I’m not the best coordinated guy, but I don’t let that stop me.” He took the upper bunk above Hemingway.
“Hoo-yah.”
After his bunkmates had stowed their gear, they went to chow, then back to the barracks. As the lights went out, he, Prescott and Brown were getting to know each other better, but Wilson wasn’t interested and spent most of his time either with his head down or in a book. Hemingway had to wonder how this guy even got into the training when he was clearly not interested in bonding with anyone.
As far as Hemingway was concerned, he intended to crush all the evolutions to the best of his ability. Getting by wasn’t in his DNA and having a couple of SEAL teams full of guys who knew the score training him had made him understand how much more he wanted to become a part of that brotherhood. Especially after experiencing his time with Dodger.
As he was drifting, his thoughts involuntarily wandered to The Babe. He had to admit that even throughout the day, she was a soft presence in his mind, one he’d tried often to push out, but she refused to go.
He figured he would only find her in his dreams.
Shea curled into the couch with the instructions for the camera. She read it over for the fifth time to make sure she knew how to operate it, so she didn’t make a fool of herself. Tomorrow, she was supposed to report to the base to be introduced to the class, and it was game on. She had to be ready. Her cell phone rang, and she looked down to see it was her brother. She didn’t hear from him often since he was in the Marines.
“Jason. Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m getting deployed.”
“Where?”
“In Argentina near Laguna Blanca. There’s been an earthquake, and we’re going in to help. We should be there about two weeks to a month, depending how it goes.”
“I saw the news about the earthquake. There was a lot of damage.”
“Yeah. We’ll do the best we can. How are things with you?”
“I’m okay. I keep busy.”
“Yeah, you still seeing someone?”
“No. I stopped several months ago.”
Seeing a shrink hadn’t helped in the short-term. It wouldn’t help in the long term. Finding and ending the man who had murdered her sister in Thailand would be the only justice she needed.
“Because you feel better?”
“Sure,” she said, knowing that she didn’t, but to spare her brother the worry, she kept her pain to herself.
“I can tell you’re lying. Why can’t you let it go?” The three of them had been a united front against their Navy Admiral father who had expected so much from them. Her brother had joined the Marines, but he was appeased when her sister went for the Navy. Her father’s biggest disappointment was that Shea hadn’t joined the Navy. Serving as an undercover agent for NCIS didn’t count.
“You mean let someon
e else do my job?”
“Tracking down that dirtbag has nothing to do with your job and we both know it.” His voice grew rough. “She was my sister too.”
“Then you should understand why I have to do this.”
“Is the admiral on your back?”
“Dad dutifully calls me once a week for progress,” she bit out. He would have been much happier if Shea and her sister Madison had been sons. Shea believed he could have handled it if Madison had died a male hero, instead of by drowning after someone hit her on the back of the head.
When I get back, we’ll have lunch, okay?”
“Sure, that sounds great. Be safe and call me when you can.”
“I will. Bye, sis.”
She disconnected the call and turned on the television. The news about the Argentinian earthquake was all over the screen. Her gut clenched thinking her baby brother was going into such an unstable place. She rubbed at her temple, leaning over and grabbing the bottle of wine. Pouring herself a glass, she took a few sips.
Her brother had it so wrong. She wasn’t doing this for her father or for her family. She wasn’t doing it for NCIS or even for justice. At this point, that word had lost its meaning.
She was doing this for Maddy because her sister was the only one who mattered.
Mad Max opened his eyes and smiled softly, wincing a bit from moving his injured shoulder, the painkiller he’d been given wearing off. The warmth of Jugs lying against him gave him comfort. He heard the nurse, who was taking his vitals sigh heavily, and he opened his eyes. He’d expected that she was disapproving of having Jugs in bed with him. But this was a Navy hospital, and Max wouldn’t rest until Jugs was settled. The Malinois had been franticly barking, causing distress and mayhem until he was reunited with Max.
Juggernaut didn’t take no for an answer when it came to protecting his partner.
But when Max met the pretty blonde’s gaze, there was appreciation in her eyes.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Max said, his voice a gravelly rasp.
Something started beeping, and he looked down to see the pulse monitor had been dislodged from his index finger. She flushed and smiled.
“Carter,” a starched voice snapped out, and the young woman stiffened, turning. He leaned slightly to see his drill sergeant nurse standing there. She was a small woman in stature but what she lacked in height, she made up in sheer personality. “What are you doing?”
“Checking his meds.”
“I didn’t know that checking meds came with a side of ogling. Off with you for God sakes. Can’t you hear that he has lost contact with his pulse and heart monitor?”
She backed up as Lieutenant Marion Murphy looked at the level of medication and reattached his monitor clip. “Get on with your rounds.”
The woman scurried out of the room and Max smiled.
“What’s so funny?” she said, adjusting his IV.
“Nothing, ma’am.”
“Don’t think I don’t know you’re one of those smart aleck warriors strutting around thinking they are indestructible. You and your little dog too.”
He chuckled, and she covered up a smile as she fluffed his pillows and arranged his blankets.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Max stretched out and Murphy muttered under her breath about the inappropriateness of having a dog in a hospital. She gave Max a narrowed look and said, “Jugs. Down.” Max turned a laugh into a cough when Jugs obeyed her, and with whatever bravado he had left, went to the edge of the room and nudged at his ball. “Later, you silly animal,” she said as she turned to him. “Let’s take a look at your wound and get your dressing changed out.”
Jugs might be one of the most aggressive dogs on the planet, but Nurse Murphy certainly knew how to project that alpha dog vibe. “How is Mak…Agent Ballentine?”
“She was treated and released last night. Needed a few stitches was all.”
He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Wasn’t your fault your through-and-through hit her.”
“You trying to make me feel better, Lieutenant?”
“Who me? Just stating the bare facts. You got me mixed up with someone who cares.”
He chuckled again, then grunted softly as she gently pulled away the dressing and studied the wound. So, he was protective of women and children, animals and the downtrodden. There was no crime in that.
“Dr. Hunsecker does some nice work. You’ll barely have a mark.”
“Aw, that’s too bad. Us strutting warriors like to impress the babes with our battle scars,” 2-Stroke said as he entered the room with a takeout bag and the rest of the team trailing behind.
Maybe she wasn’t affected by Max, but 2-Stroke made her fingers tremble a bit on the tape as she bandaged him back up. 2-Stroke was in his customary leather, his chestnut hair gleaming against the overhead lights. He was a pretty boy, and that apparently did it for the middle-aged crowd. Not that Lieutenant Murphy didn’t look good in her starched uniform, her serious bedside manner nothing more than her way of keeping her caring nature from overwhelming her. He was sure she’d seen a lot more than his simple injury. There was not only an age gap there, but a military line she couldn’t cross. 2-Stroke was all of twenty-one-years-old and she was pushing forty at least. Maybe it was something about his teammate that made the forty-somethings remember their distant youth.
Max was already thirty and had been operating for a long time. Like the lieutenant, he’d pushed away something permanent for the good of his career, and he thought in another ten years, he’d be where she was now. Thinking about settling down had been something foreign to him, even with five nagging sisters who were taking the plunge. He was a guy with no limits. The brotherhood was all he’d really needed, but he was starting to empathize with his tough-as-nails nurse. Maybe he was going soft.
Pitbull let go of his daughter Samantha’s hand and wrestled a bit with Jugs. Dragon was carrying Ceri, and he set her down next to Samantha. Ceri picked up the ball and threw it. The dog bounded after the bouncing rubber. “This isn’t some backyard, young lady.”
Samantha looked sheepish and smiled winsomely. “She’s just a little girl,” she said, a tiny perfect mini-SEAL protecting her teammate. Murphy gave her a knowing look, telling Sam that she wasn’t moved by cute and adorable…much. Murphy finished up the bandage and headed for the door. “Not too long,” she said, tousling Samantha’s soft blonde hair as she left the room.
“That woman scares me,” Dodger said, coming over to the bed.
“Me too,” Fast Lane said, and everyone laughed.
“She’s all bark and no bite,” Max responded as his other teammates crowded around the bed.
2-Stroke set down the bag on the rolling L table and started passing out breakfast burritos. Max took one and said, “I’m starving. The food in here sucks.”
“Give me MREs anytime,” Saint said.
“Yeah, peanut butter and jelly,” Dodger said. “Good stuff.”
“Not as good as the real thing, but pretty darn close,” Saint agreed.
Samantha climbed up onto the edge of the bed, pulling Ceri up with her. “We did your pony profile, Uncle Max.”
Pitbull chuckled, and Dragon grinned.
“You what?” Max said, not sure he’d heard her right and maybe his meds were mixed up.
“P-o-n-y p-r-o-f-i-l-e,” she said again more slowly, as if that was going to help. “You go first, Ceri.”
Ceri shrugged off a small backpack and unzipped it, pulling out a tablet. She turned it on and consulted it. “Your pony name is Music Lightning. You are an earth pony born in Ponyville.” She gave him a cute smile. “You are the luckiest pony this side of The San Palomino Desert! Your best friend is a bunny named Snapper.”
Sam pulled off her backpack and rummaged inside to come out with a bunch of papers. She handed him a drawing in crayon of a strong pony with a black mane and tail. “Your cutie mark is paw prints because you love Jugs.”
On his fla
nk was a set of black pawprints against his green coloring. Beside him was a rabbit with attitude. He laughed and then winced. “Thanks, Sam and Ceri.”
“He’s ponylicious,” Dodger said, and everyone laughed.
“I have one for you too, Uncle Oliver.”
His teammates laughed even harder.
Pitbull cleared his throat. “She has one for each of us.”
“Even Fast Lane?” Saint asked.
“His is the best because he’s so fierce,” Sam said. “Daddy said you’re a tough so and so.”
Fast Lane gave her his sternest look. “Let’s have it, young lady.”
“Coco Hazel. You are a crystal pony born in The Crystal Empire. You are the most soft-hearted pony this side of the Everfree Forest. Your best friend is a buffalo named Whizz.”
At first there was nothing but the rustle of paper as Samantha handed over his drawing.
He had a flowing deep purple mane with orange through it, his body a pristine white with dark splotches of black.
“Don’t leave us in suspense, LT,” 2-Stroke said. “What’s your cutie mark?”
Max coughed and worked at keeping his laughter under control but sobered when he saw his usually stoic commander’s face was moved by the girls. “It’s three tattered pink hearts.” Max looked at Samantha. “Why are they so ripped up, Sam?”
“Because he has to see hard things, do hard things, and make all the hard decisions. It hurts his heart.”
“But he has his guys to help him,” Ceri said. “Just like the ponies. Friendship is magic.”
Out of the mouth of babes. Max pulled both of them into a hard hug. Yeah, that was one thing he could agree with. “Hoo-yah, ladies,” he murmured as all the guys echoed his sentiment.
Then Fast Lane hugged them, and Pitbull and Dragon took them over to the corner to pass out the rest of the pony pictures.
“How are you doing, Max?”
“I’m great, LT. It was a through-and-through, going to be some pain, but no nerve or muscle damage. Might as well have been a flesh wound.”
“But it wasn’t, and I’m not going to downplay this incident as humble as you are. You saved Mak’s life by catching those rounds in your vest. Your back has to be bruised and sore, so let’s cut the crap.”
