“As in the blind leading the blind,” she muttered.
“Are you listening, Seaman Austen?” the General barked at her.
“All ears, sir.”
His lips twisted into a sour grimace.
Major Curtis turned a dark look on her as well. “You are partnered with the man who has chosen you. You will remain his partner throughout the next seven days. If you lose your partner, participation in the training op is complete.
Lose him! How the hell was that going to happen?
“There is no doubt you will become close.”
Close as in…?
Major Curtis continued with a somber note tied to every word. “By the time this op is finished, you will know each other’s worst fears and weaknesses. You will probably know each other better than anyone knows you beside yourself, because without it, you will fail.”
“Pass or fail, huh? No A pluses or B minuses?” she muttered.
Damon shot her a look, and she was pretty sure it meant hush up. There wasn’t a glimmer of humor. In fact, he looked about as severe as a man could look.
Admiral Paulson stepped up. “Many are expecting failure, but I believe they’re wrong.” He swept his gaze over the crowd. “I believe you men are the finest warriors the United States Special Warfare Command has in its defense of this country. Instinctively, each of you selected a woman sensing her strengths and attributes. Remember, you are her partner. You are a team. Work with her. Listen to her.” The Admiral gazed across their faces and stalled on Sloane.
She could read his look loud and clear, and he was hesitant of whatever they had in store for them.
“It will take all your will to make it to day seven, but I believe all of you can accomplish the challenges ahead, no matter how extreme.” Admiral Paulson paused his gaze on her once again.
“You will be separated for the next hour while you each receive your debriefs. The women will fall out and follow Ensign Reid,” Major Curtis ordered, looking toward someone behind them.
Sloane twisted to see a mulish looking woman standing by the door. She stood rail straight in her summer dress uniform, her hair tied back so tight, the tips of her brows lifted.
“One more thing,” the General said, sounding like a blob of phlegm remained stuck in the back of his throat. “You SEALs thought your Hell Week was bad. This will be ten times worse.”
The SEALs in the group scanned each other. Damon seemed to inflate, his stance rock solid.
“What the fuck is this about?” he asked, aiming his question at the General. “If you want us to play in your Black Op exercise, then you better start sharing details.”
A tiny quiver of fear streaked through her, staring up at Damon. She was used to tough growing up with the Admiral, but this man beat her dad hands down. His gaze turned deadly, his expression taut as marble. If he were a nuclear reactor, red lights would radiate from him. A timer would be counting down and people would be running away in every direction like a Godzilla movie.
The General took a step toward them and Damon shifted to position himself in front of her. “I have about as much respect for CIA as I do an Al-Qaeda rebel. Whatever it is you have planned, it’s got two meanings, both of them bad. This facility is used for torture and POW training. Whatever you have devised better not have that on the agenda. These women, at least most of them, are not operators. They haven’t had the training we’ve had.”
The General let him speak, and when he was finished, he gave Damon a hard, thoughtful look. “That is exactly the point, Lieutenant Stone.”
Damon’s brow rippled, as did hers.
“You will fail. I guarantee it, SEAL.”
Damon’s expression hardened. “I wouldn’t go to the wicket and put money down on that horse, General. You might lose your shirt.” He pressed a warm hand to the hollow of her back. “I’ll see you in an hour, Sloane.”
Chapter Nine
The heat of the July afternoon struck the women as they followed Ensign Reid onto a rutted, worn path leading through the trees. Twenty minutes later, they stopped in front of a large field tent set in a clearing with two transport trucks sitting idle close by. Prompted to form a line behind the truck, the tailgate dropped open with a bang.
Each of them was given a set of fatigues and told to change. There wasn’t anywhere to change except the tents, but they weren’t permitted to enter. Two Army soldiers in the back of the truck stared, waiting for a cheap thrill. Sloane darted behind a tree and quickly pulled on the durable clothing. Jewelry and personal possessions were removed, including cell phones, and bagged, then they were ushered into the tent. At least the beating sun was off their heads.
Chatter remained at a minimum, but energy pulsed between the fifteen women crammed together. Dropping to their asses on the ground, they waited.
“This looks more like a concentration camp setting than an all-inclusive,” she said to a blonde gal sitting cross-legged beside her.
“Think you’re right. No all-day buffet and free massage with this excursion,” she quipped with a nervous smile, holding a hand out. “Charlotte.”
“Sloane. Who are you here with?”
“A Marine by the name of Benson. He said he was on the Marine Recon training program. Can’t believe they yanked him. He’s been enlisted for three years, and he’s done two tours over in the Middle East. How about you?”
“He’s a BUD/s instructor, Damon Stone.”
“Oh yeah, I know him. Decent guy.”
Sloane nodded, but her inner Miss Hoochie-Mama snorted. Decent guy! Try smokin’-someone-hand-me-a-fire-extinguisher hot.
When Damon had shown up at her condo door, her knees had weakened and her stomach had flipped with excitement. Regardless of their first introduction, with him verbally ripping the flesh from her bones, she’d been attracted to him instantly. When he’d apologized like a true gentlemen, her bones turned to pudding. She’d thought he was sincere, but more so the man’s aura flared with strength and assuredness. Standing her ground on not dating military had been damn hard but as it turned out, she was right.
Damon’s chemistry burned like hot oil on soft skin. He was a beaker of Love Potion Number Nine, and she’d wanted to march him down her hallway and toss him into her bed. Instead, she’d imagined him caressing her body while she’d relieved her carnal pressure that morning.
Coronado was known for rippling muscles and alpha males, but Damon had something else going on that Randy didn’t. She hadn’t identified it yet, but her female bits certainly had. Even from the drive up here, her panties were saturated. Nice way to start an op—not. Reminding herself of the poor girl who’d come apart seeing them together on the beach, leveled her yearning.
The entrance to the tent flapped opened and two more females joined them. One looked like a sour old bat, and no doubt belonged to the General. The second, thank God, was Navy. It didn’t take a wunderkind to figure out who was the weight behind this exercise.
“At ease, ladies,” the Army chick ordered. I’m Warrant Officer Deneuve. That’s Lieutenant Milstrom,” she introduced the woman from the Navy. “Have any of you got your period right now or about to get it?”
Okay, excellent way to start off a debrief. What the fuck?
Sloane and Charlotte mirrored wrinkled brows, and the redhead on Sloane’s left looked warily across her shoulder at them. Two women in their group raised their hands.
“Right, on your feet. You’re going home,” Deneuve said briskly.
What the hell!
WO Deneuve gestured toward Ensign Reid to lead them away. The old bat turned her attention back on the rest of them. “All your files have been reviewed in the last hour. None of you have any serious allergies. You’re all in reasonable health.” She turned a look toward Lieutenant Milstrom to initiate her own introduction.
“Good afternoon, ladies. I’m the Emergency Room Registered Nurse in charge at NAB hospital. I’ll be monitoring you over the next seven days. Unless you are in imminent
distress, you will not be pulled from the exercise.”
Maybe Sloane should have put her hand up indicating she had her period, and she and Damon would be released from this foolishness.
Deneuve thrust her hands behind her back and gazed at each of them. “What I am about to say is for your ears only. You will not share the information with your partners.”
The WO waited as if wanting ascent from each of them. Sloane didn’t give it. If Damon was going to be her partner in Club Hell, she’d decide what would be shared, not Eva Braun here.
Deneuve’s gaze stalled on her, and she stared back. Deneuve didn’t like her, but guess what? The feeling was mutual.
Straightening her shoulders, Deneuve continued, “The debate on women in forward combat has waged on for twenty years.”
“Ah, shit,” a woman blurted to Sloane’s far left, making every head turn. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“She’s a Marine,” Charlotte whispered to Sloane. “We were in the vehicle together driving up here. She’s on the Marine Special Recon Training course.”
The Marine looked fit and sleek, a tall African American woman with a scowl covering her features. “This is backroom crap by the CIA to sabotage the lift, isn’t it?”
“Pipe down,” Deneuve ordered. “I’ve been in service for thirty-five years and I follow orders, even if I don’t agree with them. This training op has been created to test how men will operate in the war zone if a woman is along for the ride.”
“Jesus,” the Marine grumbled. “We’ve been along for the ride for years. The Brass can use us as examples.”
Lieutenant Milstrom stepped up. “Yes, you have. Women have proven themselves many times over, and the defense administration has been watching closely. Now, we have been ordered to reevaluate. I’m on the fence with this exercise. I worked in the field for many years. Ordinates and the enemy slow men down, not women. I’m not convinced this exercise will prove anything. You are about to be challenged to the extent of your limits and probably beyond. The men on this exercise are all veterans to varying degrees. Follow their lead.”
Sloane was getting the gist of what was going on, and it stank with set-up.
Deneuve interrupted. “The focus is not whether you give in, but how the men will perform under pressure. Will they put a woman before duty? Save her instead of fulfilling their mission?”
“This is flawed from the start,” Sloane piped out, not able to hold her tongue. “Female Marines have proven themselves in combat. Why isn’t the administration using those statistics? They’re trained like the men, and I would assume if they fight beside them with the same qualifications, they hold their own. Most of us here are not trained like a Navy SEAL. We are not involved in combat.”
“But you will be shortly,” Deneuve said sharply. “Each of you will be given a safeguard in the form of a word. If you want to bail on this exercise, you will tell your partner the word and ring the bell. Immediately, you will be removed from the op.”
Sloane listened with grim reservations. Deneuve was handing them a load of crap. This wasn’t only about the men. It was about the future of women and combat. Although Deneuve was trying to convince them otherwise, they were lab rats.
Be damned their Black Ops and behind the door, one-sided opinions. This exercise was already slanted toward failure. The CIA wanted to prove a point through this exercise they controlled.
Damon would not fail because of her; Sloane would make damn sure of it. She might be a pencil pusher for the Navy, but she was also an admiral’s daughter, and not just any admiral—a legend.
Bring it on, bitch. “What’s the word?”
Lieutenant Milstrom stepped up, gripping a handful of small papers. She stopped in front of her. “You’re Admiral Austen’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A small almost imperceptible smile hovered on the woman’s lips. “The only easy day, was yesterday,” she murmured.
“Hooyah,” Sloane whispered back.
“Admiral Paulson gave me a message for you. ‘Delta, it’s for Romeo,’” Milstrom said, mouthing the words instead of giving them volume.
Sloane’s blood ran cold, but she kept her expression benign. She’d only heard that phrase twice in her life and both times her father uttered it. Admiral Paulson and her father went way back. They were in the teams together, and fought beside each other. Paulson was taking a long shot, thinking she may have heard the term growing up, but he must have felt it was important enough to try.
Glancing down, the word “Faith” beamed back at her from the paper. Good word. She had faith in Damon, even though she really didn’t know him. There was no doubt the chemistry between them had to be stowed for the next seven days. Damon couldn’t have a single soft spot for her during this exercise or they’d both be washed out or killed if she understood the Admiral’s message correctly.
If anything—she wanted to show General Craggy Face, he was wrong. She knew he was a supporter of their failure and dead against women in combat. He was just the type of conservative, back-bencher, stuck-in-the-dark ages she abhorred.
“The men are being debriefed at this moment. In ten minutes, you’ll be driven to the site where the exercise begins, and released to your partner,” Deneuve said grimly. “You could be seriously injured during this exercise. You will be hurt. You will be tested to the max, but remember if you want to fall out, all you have to do is tell your partner the word and both of you ring the bell.”
Fuck the bell. There is no bell, Sloane said to herself.
Delta, it’s for Romeo, be damned.
She saw the worried glances from the other women. Now was the moment for doubt, because the second they walked out of this tent, doubt, fear and the option for failure would have to be crushed from existence.
Seven days. She could do seven days.
She locked eyes with the tall, lanky Marine. “No giving in,” Sloane mouthed.
More than one of them would fall by the end of this, but all they needed is one to remain standing.
The Marine nodded harshly, but a flicker of doubt sat in her eyes as well.
Chapter Ten
The men sat silently listening to the General. The reason for their presence still unexplained, although they’d been told the women had been given something that would end the exercise if the men wanted to bow out.
Damon sat next to a Marine Recon recruit named Benson, who seemed determined to view the next seven days as an extended portion of his training. Resolute as hell, something told Damon, they’d all have to approach this exercise with the same degree of determination.
Why the fuck had he chosen Sloane and drawn her into this? Again, he owed her an apology. If it got too extreme, he’d make sure she’d pull the plug. Regardless of why they were here. Her safety came first.
Ten minutes later, they regrouped. The women lined up facing their partners, and the General stood at the head of the row.
“The exercise begins now.” And the General walked away.
Sloane stared at Damon with a grim look on her face. He couldn’t blame her. They stood in the middle of a large, open plain, under the blistering sun with nothing but themselves to fend off what lay ahead, and they didn’t have to wait long.
The ordinate dropped less than a hundred feet from them, exploding sand and stone from the ground. A second one hit the dirt, closer this time. He broke rank and ran for Sloane. He grabbed her hand, and headed for the closest cover, a mound of dirt hilled up a hundred feet away. Sloane ripped her hand from his. The woman ran like a frickin’ deer.
“Move it,” she yelled, seeing where he was headed.
They both rolled behind the mound and were joined by four others, two of them SEALs, Petty Officers Winston and Randeen.
The ordinates continued to fall.
“Those are live rounds,” a small redhead lying beside Winston yelled over the loud blasts.
Sloane’s gaze surveyed the drops, but she r
emained silent.
“Sloane.” Damon touched her shoulder, and she gave him a harsh look. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Stop apologizing to me. Seven days, Lieutenant Stone. We can do seven days. Just keep your focus.”
The incorrigible, spicy woman was gone and she’d turned tough as nails, reminding him of her father. It told Damon her debrief held more details than what he’d received. She was definitely pissed. Was it at him or what she’d learned?
“Lieutenant, tree line is about two hundred yards behind us,” Randeen, a sniper from Team Three said, keeping his head low and covering the petite blonde’s head he’d chosen at the same time.
Damon was the ranking officer amongst all the Navy SEALs present. He’d have to lead them blindly through this, decision making with little hesitation. At least the SEALs in the group would be able to keep up. He’d treat this like a retrieval op. The women were the recovered hostages in this situation, and seeing them to safety was something they were all capable of handling.
“Stay close behind me, Sloane,” he ordered. “Where I step, you step.”
She nodded her ascent, the determined look on her face cemented in place.
More ordinates dropped, each one walking toward them. They were being flushed out.
“Eyes on the sky. Ready?” he ordered.
Everyone rose to their haunches.
They ran like hell while the ground exploded on either side of them. The little redhead with Winston lost her footing and went down. Winston stopped to retrieve her, and she barked at him to get his hands off her. He picked her up, threw his arm around her waist, and helped her run for the cover of the trees.
Sloane followed Damon’s lead, staying behind him. Cutting through the trees, slow and watchful, he aimed for an overhang of rock jutting from the hillside. The blasts of the ordinates slowed but didn’t stop. It meant there were people still caught out there.
Code Name_War 0f Stones Page 10
