by Zoe Dawson
“She’s one of the team,” he said, thankful that Mak had survived with such a minor injury.
“Yeah, well command disagrees. You’re on medical leave for a bit. They need an instructor over at BUD/S. You report there after you’re discharged.” He lowered his voice. “Keep your eyes peeled. We’ve got ourselves some slime that might have slipped through the cracks. Bring your mad skills to our up and comers.”
Max remembered the sight of the O-course from the open helicopter doors. “I’ll plug up the cracks, sir.”
“Hoo-yah,” LT said with a knuckle bump.
The last evolution of BO came early. A powdered haze hung over the Naval Amphibious Base on Coronado as a chill air mass snuck in from the Pacific, smothering the stars. The lights along Guadalcanal Road were fading, golden light melting into harsh day. The base was eerily silent. The hands of the clock on the cinderblock slipped to 5:00 a.m.—0500, or zero five hundred, in military lingo. Hemingway pressed his damp chest to the back of the man in front of him as they all huddled for warmth on the concrete pool deck, everyone fresh from a shower. Behind a chain-link fence slatted with diagonal privacy strips, his class waited with bated breath for it to finally begin, the test of their lives. There was only one thought in each of their heads. Stay the course. Precision rows of duffel bags stuffed with uniforms, boots, and training gear divided each line of human muscle. The pool—officially called the combat training tank, or CTT—had already been prepared for this trial.
“Feet!” The barked command sent every student upright into groups made up of seven BUD/S trainees. The chill air robbed Hemingway of the warmth that had helped to keep the shivering at bay.
“Instructor Taylor,” the class leader yelled. In BUD/S all instructors were identified by name when they gave an order. If the class leader got it wrong, there would be payment.
“Hoo-yah Instructor Taylor.”
“Wrong, sir!”
Training had begun and the class leader had forgotten that Instructor Wyatt Taylor wanted to be called Instructor T.
“Assume the position, gents,” he said into the pin-drop quiet as many of the men realized their leader’s gaff was going to cost them all. “Count them out. Music to my ears.”
Hemingway battled for the real estate to perform his push-ups in the press of male bodies. Assuming the position meant they would hold their bodies in leaning-rest, plank straight on their arms and toes waiting for the command to start. Any violation, big or small, would get them push-ups and the day would grind out either with the class performing well or screwing up. He bet their class leader, Ensign Adrian Lane was kicking himself right now.
They’d all met over the weekend to practice muster and headcount. Hemingway could tell right away that the big Texan from San Antonio was brilliant. He was calm, collected and soft-spoken, with a twang that Hemingway found good-ole-boy easy. The guy was married to his high school sweetheart for God’s sake. That impressed Hemingway, as he’d never been able to plot his path forward while handling a relationship.
The SEALs lived and died by headcount. It had been ingrained into their leaders, who had to be tougher, faster and better than any of their subordinates to even make the cut, that it was the most grievous of infractions to leave a man behind.
He had emphasized to the class to get muster right, keep him informed and they would all avoid as much punishment as possible.
Their LPO, or Leading Petty Officer, Seamus Hollister, was another story. He was stocky, lazy and often relied on paying his fellow students to do his dirty work. They all called him Blue Smurf, not in relation to their already blue skin, but because he always had a hang-dog expression on his long face.
“Push ‘em out.”
“Push-ups,” Lane yelled. He started counting, and they started pushing them out. After twenty, Lane called out, “Instructor T!” returning to leaning-rest. The class repeated his preferred name and a slight smile slipped across Instructor T’s lips. He looked off in the distance as if daydreaming while the class waited. After five minutes, Hemingway’s arms and shoulders were starting to burn, but he resisted twisting and turning like others around him, trying to ease the pressure. Sweat slipped off his forehead into his eyes, making them sting, but he couldn’t wipe them away. If he broke ranks, they would all pay. It was a good lesson in making a trainee think about how his actions affected everyone on his team, and for all intents and purposes, this class was his team.
“Push ‘em out,” he ordered again and as they counted, he yelled, “If you can’t get a simple name request right, this is going to be a long day. I’d suggest you get your shit together because it’s not going to get any easier. This is orientation, the simplest part of BUD/S, and I say that with the utmost tongue in cheek because nothing is easy about this training. We won’t give you a trident. That is earned, but it’s months away and for some of you, it’ll be nothing but a fleeting memory after you quit.” He crouched down, the aquamarine of the pool behind him looking inviting right now. “Push ‘em out.” After those were finished, he said, “Recover.”
Everyone rose and reformed into their boat crews.
“We’re going back to basics, since this is the end of basic orientation. You’re all going to take the screening test and if you fail, I will wipe your baby tears and pat your back as you get booted out of here.”
Hemingway performed well, his five-hundred-yard swim done in just over seven minutes; a hundred sit-ups, ninety push-ups, and twenty pull-ups put him near the top of the class. After the screening test, they ran to chow and ate, but Hemingway was still hungry as they filed into the classroom for an introduction to procedures, protocols, customs and to start understanding the ethos of this warrior class.
Taking a seat near the front, Hemingway pulled out the required paper and pencil to take notes. The room reeked almost instantly of sweat, chlorine and soggy clothing. Instructor T entered, calling them to their feet with an echoing shout from the class.
“Drop.”
Hemingway once again fought for real estate in the crowded room. In the future, when the class started thinning, there would be fewer men to battle with. After completing their twenty, T allowed them to recover and take their seats with a resounding hoo-yah.
The sound of the door opening, followed by cool air filtering into the room, made Hemingway shiver. The measured footsteps down the row was met with silence. Why wasn’t Lane shouting out the instructor’s name? Hemingway saw more push-ups coming his way.
Then Instructor T spoke just as an appreciative murmur fell over the room.
“Class. This is videographer Shea Palmer. She will be going through this training with us to film for a documentary on SEAL training. She will be treated with all due respect as she works among you. You are free to answer her questions, but don’t let me catch you goofing off or slacking in any way. Is that clear?”
“Hoo-yah, Instructor T.”
The sound of her footsteps faltered as she came abreast of him. He turned his head as the scent of her perfume washed over him in a sensual rush. Looking up, he collided with her wide-eyed gaze.
Oh, fuck me, he thought. It’s The Babe.
She’d just walked into his reality right out of his fever dreams.
4
She shouldn’t have been looking for anything the night she slept with him, but she’d needed what he’d given her. Now, here she was, locked up with the man she’d had sex with. For several seconds they stared at each other. Shea averted her eyes and continued to the front of the room, Instructor T giving her an interested stare. Every male assessed her, looked her over, and made their own on-the-spot snap decision about her. Maybe her one-night stand didn’t even remember her.
“Muster numbers, Mister Lane.”
“One hundred and forty-seven assigned, Instructor T. All present minus two at medical and three DORs after the screening test,” the man said, and she could only guess he must be the OIC, Officer in Charge of the class. She knew DOR meant “Drop on
Request” where the candidate said he wanted to quit, then rung the bell three times.
This was a big class, and she could identify the ones who thought she was a babe and couldn’t get past her looks, the ones who wondered if this chick could keep up with them during grueling hours of training, and the rest held their judgment. There had been no woman ever to set foot on these hallowed male beaches.
The only exception was the man she’d given her body and gone all the way. There was nothing but a light of awareness, curiosity and anticipation in his eyes, dosed with a healthy amount of wariness. And his name stenciled on his white shirt…Sinclair.
She didn’t blame him. What he was about to go through would take all the concentration he had. She had her own agenda, and she did her own assessing for who in this room could be one of the New World Order just waiting to do harm to these guys who wanted nothing more than to become SEALs and serve their country. She was going to make sure they got that chance.
“Okay, guys. Pay attention. This is your final BO briefing. You’ve worked hard through the past three weeks. You’re ready for First Phase. From now on it’s going to get even harder than you could imagine. But you’re vying for a slot on one of our elite teams, and you need to be as tough as the guys already serving.”
“Hoo-yah!”
She noticed after Instructor T’s statement how they all looked around to see who might quit and how it may affect their teams or friendships. They all looked tired as hell.
“It’s official. You’ll be starting First Phase with one hundred and forty-nine men.” The class cheered and the instructor smiled as they made some noise. “Work hard not only to make me proud of you, but to make yourselves into the hardcore SEALs you want to be. When Hell Week is over and we see who’s left standing, there’s pool comp in Second Phase and tactical and weapons in Third. I will be there at graduation to congratulate you and wish you well on your journey. Remember that your training for the teams is ongoing, and we never rest on our laurels.”
There was another outburst from the class, and to Shea, it seemed affectionate. She had to agree with them, a tough instructor who worked a trainee hard was more respected.
In the back of the room a man entered, dark hair pulled back off his face, stunning blue eyes and a face to match. He was fit and muscled. Just standing there, he commanded the room. Talk about alpha.
None of the candidates saw him because they were too focused on her.
“Drop,” came his quiet baritone.
There was a flurry of activity and the entire class echoed his order. He moved through the prone bodies of the men who were leaning on their hands in a Pilates plank position. She knew it well. She’d sweated through many.
When he reached the front of the room, Instructor T was already on his way out. “I’m Petty Officer First Class Maximillian Keegan, but you can address me as Instructor Mad Max. I’ve been serving in the SEALs on active duty for six years. Doesn’t make me the new guy, but it sure as hell doesn’t make me a seasoned guy. In fact, I just consider myself a ‘team guy,’ always learning. I have six deployments under my belt and have done one stint as a BUD/S instructor, but this is my first time as a proctor. I’m also the dog handler on my squad.” He crossed his ankles with the white socks folded over polished black military boots. He was wearing a blue T-shirt and khaki shorts just like Instructor T.
“I will be your proctor through this BUD/S cycle and be there at the end to shake the hands of whoever makes it through. It will be considerably less than the numbers here today. Two thirds of you will be gone by the time your classmates don their military dress to accept the honor of graduating. Of not quitting.”
He sat down in the chair, giving her a glance. Rebecca had called only an hour ago to let her know that Max was aware of her undercover status. She and her superiors thought it was a good idea when the CO of Team Seven suggested he be part of the operation, giving Shea some much needed backup in a pinch.
He looked a bit pale beneath his tan, making her wonder if he’d been injured recently. He moved slow and deliberate as if trying not to jostle his right side.
“Recover,” he said.
The candidates moved into their chairs with barely a rumbling noise. She couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off Sinclair, his shirt and cammie pants were wet, his hair damp. The strands glinted off the lights in the room, a burnished gold, and she couldn’t help remembering how she’d had her hands buried in it and demanded more from him.
“This is what is called throwing you all into the deep end of the pool, but with each evolution, you’ll either sink or swim. There’s a lot expected of you, many off-hours stuff that has to be completed, areas to keep neat and tidy. Swabbing the deck and all that jazz has to get done.”
There were a few chuckles, and Shea found that Max Keegan had a wicked smile. But her attention slipped from him to Sinclair. She wondered absently what his first name was and if she’d get a chance to find out. Maybe she should just leave it alone.
Commitment, relationship. Those were words that didn’t fit into her vocabulary. As an in-demand agent for all types of covert ops, she traveled a lot. She didn’t have time for getting close to anyone. Besides, a Navy SEAL was deployed a good part of the year, and this guy would be much too busy with all his training for the next several years to worry about a one-night stand with an NCIS agent. She shifted. She also had a personal agenda to fulfill as her gut clenched with the anger that was just below the surface, festering.
She had no intention of telling him that she was undercover. She hated to admit it, but he could be part of the NWO terror cell. This time when she looked over the seated men, she scrutinized them a little closer. Maybe if she could vet Sinclair, she could pump him for information about the class.
Somewhere amongst these men were terrorists who meant them harm. It was her job to discover who they were and make sure each of them had no chance to hurt any of these courageous guys.
“Be on time. Stay aware every moment. Take responsibility for your actions whether in uniform or not. If the officers look out for their guys, your guys will follow you anywhere. This is where your reputation begins and as your proctor, it’s a reflection on me. It’s a small community and your character and integrity will define you and follow you wherever you go. You will start that on Monday morning at zero five hundred.” Every man was paying attention to every word Max spoke. “Telling you the teams are all about brotherhood are just words right now. Only after you’ve worked together, frozen your asses off in the surf, PT’d your little hearts out and broken down in Hell Week will you understand this. There is nothing that even comes close to what we share, what we build every day when we go down range, nothing like knowing the guy next to you will die for you and you for him. You think you know what brotherhood means, but you don’t. You will and the experience will change you.”
He paused and let his words sink in.
“Finally, I’m not a hardass, but I can be a butthead. Come to me about pay problems or personal or family issues, but don’t cry and whine about the training or the evolutions or your chits for screwing up. I’ll beat your asses even harder. I’m not your nurse either. Get to medical if you need medical. You’re grown men and need to act like it. I’m your instructor, not your nursemaid.”
He rose and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Okay, get out of here and get wet and sandy, pump out forty push-ups and then you are secure. Make sure your new rooms are spotless, paint your helmets and stencil your numbers. I’ll be over to the barracks at ten hundred and give you a quick and dirty on how to get ready for inspection.”
The candidates were out of the room at a very fast pace, but her gaze went to Sinclair. He nodded to her then sprinted out of the room. Max turned to her with a slight frown. He walked over and offered his hand.
“Max Keegan.”
“Shea—”
“Palmer. NCIS agent undercover to weed out NWO terrorists targeting our boys.”
“I
see you’ve been briefed.”
“I was wounded in the raid on their second compound a few weeks ago, so I’m well aware of what’s going on.” He shifted and looked back to the open empty door. “Anyone look good?”
“I’ve just gotten here and haven’t had a chance to make any kind of decision yet on who to take a closer look at.” She lifted her chin and said, “You think that group is tough enough to send guys who can hack this training?”
“They had an O-course on their training’ grounds, so I say they were drilling them. There’s plenty on BUD/S to research and training their recruits to get them ready is definitely possible. If they’re determined enough, I’d say yes. They could get through.”
Shea scowled. “Okay, that might make it more difficult, but I’ll be watching them all for now.”
“Me too. I’ll give you a heads up if I see anything suspicious or if any of the instructors mention someone being off.”
“Thanks.”
“What about Sinclair?”
Singling out the man she’d slept with jolted her, and she hesitated in answering.
A slight smile touched his mouth.
“I met him off base.”
“I see. Personal?”
“Very,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Why? Do you think—”
“No. Definitely not. That kid is as straight as an arrow.” He turned to go. “I should know. He was recently working with our squad and held his own.” He stopped at the door. “You will be a powerful distraction. Probably not something he needs right now,” he said with another of those smiles. “Have a good day, Shea.”
Mad Max disappeared out the door, and after a moment, Shea followed. SEALs…so damn secretive. She exited the building and headed for her car. He was right. She would have to find the internal discipline to stop staring at the man or there would be more speculation neither of them could afford or wanted.
