The Valkyrie's Guardian
Page 1
The Valkyrie’s Guardian
Moriah Densley
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Amber White
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5157-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5157-4
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5137-5
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5137-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com; istockphoto.com/Julia Savchenko
Guide To Military Terminology Used In This Book
BDU: Battle Dress Uniform, camouflage button-up shirt, brimmed cap, and cargo-style pants tucked into combat boots.
Boat crew: Platoon-sized team of SEALs, also referred to as a squad. A boat crew uses teamwork to complete training evolutions in BUD/S. The term is also used in SEAL teams to denote a platoon.
Booger-eater: Bad guy, enemy.
BUD/S: Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL, 8-month training course for Navy SEAL candidates, culminates at the intensive “Hell Week.” Survivors graduate to Advanced Operator Training before earning the trident and being placed on a SEAL team.
Budweiser: Nick-name for SEAL Trident pin, stems from the unfortunate resemblance to the Budweiser logo.
Bullfrog: An exceptionally skilled operator, or a SEAL with the most experience.
Chief: Chief Petty Officer, commands a platoon of approximately 12 SEALs.
CO: Commanding Officer, usually the rank of captain, commands a team and staff of approximately 300.
Enlisted: Non-officer soldiers, “grunts.” Their parties rock.
Frog/Frogmen: Navy SEALs. Also the precursor to the SEALs, the demolition teams of WWII, called Frogmen for their skill in underwater combat swimming and demolition.
Froghog: Female groupie whose goal is to get laid by a SEAL, and any will do.
Fruit salad: The rows of multi-colored ribbons on the left breast of the dress uniform representing a soldier’s qualifications, honors and experience.
FUBAR: F***ed-Up Beyond All Recognition, when an operation goes wrong. Related to SNAFU, Situation Normal All F***ed Up. Like many f-word conjugations, the acronym can function as a noun, verb or adverb.
Hooyah: Catch-all expression of assent, enthusiasm, or respect. Exists in myriad variations throughout the U.S. military.
Leapfrog: Method of moving through hostile territory. One of a shooting pair lays cover fire while the other advances or retreats. They switch roles until reaching the rendezvous point.
KA-BAR: Standard combat and utility knife carried by SEALs and other special ops soldiers. Typically eleven inches long, made of carbon/chromium steel and sprayed with a matte black finish for stealth. You can bet a SEAL carries his at any given moment.
MO: Modus Operandi, or Method of Operation.
MRE: Meals, Ready to Eat. Pre-packaged, often dehydrated and processed field ration provided by the military in the unlucky event a soldier’s only other option is starvation. Often dubbed Meals, Rarely Enjoyed.
Operator: A Navy SEAL with the military designation 5326, combat swimmer.
OpFor: Opposing force, enemy.
Over-under: A combination assault rifle/grenade launcher, often carried by the grenadier (weapons specialist) in a platoon.
NSWC: Naval Special Warfare Command, one of two headquarters for Naval special forces based in Coronado, California, or Little Creek, Virginia.
NV: Night vision, as in night vision goggles. Some amplify light in greenscale, some detect thermal output, and others use infrared. And those are just the unclassified gadgets.
Point/Pointman: Leader of an attack formation. He scouts the terrain and watches for threats. The point is typically the first to engage the enemy.
Platoon: An assault team, or boat crew, typically consisting of two officers and ten to twelve enlisted men, but can be as small as a detachment force of six or as many as twenty.
PT: Physical training, including the customary fourteen-mile run.
Ring Out: At any point during BUD/S training, a SEAL candidate may quit by ringing a designated bell three times. Over eighty percent of candidates ring out of BUD/S for personal or medical reasons.
SH-60 Seahawk: Combat helicopter commonly used by the Navy.
Shooting pair: Unit of two SEALs who operate together and guard each other.
SITREP: Situation report, in fewer syllables, for those intense moments when every second counts.
Six: In the layout of a clock face, six is behind or the rear. “Watch my six” or “cover my six” means to guard the back.
SOP: Standard Operating Procedure.
Sugar cookie: A BUD/S candidate who gets wet in the ocean then rolls in the sand, usually as punishment for unsatisfactory performance in a training evolution.
Tango: from radio letter “T,” for “terrorist,” or generic bad guy.
“The Company”: Nick-name for the CIA, Central Intelligence Agency. SEAL teams occasionally collaborate with the CIA and host agents on attachment, but only when they have to.
Trident: Gold pin worn by Navy SEALS. A screaming eagle in flight grasps a rifle in one claw and a trident in the other.
USMILINT: United States Military Intelligence.
UXO: Unexploded ordnance, incendiary weapons which failed to explode upon detonation. Tinker toys for the demolition team.
Wheels-up: Deploy on a mission.
XO: Executive Officer, a lieutenant or petty officer in rank who assists the chief in leading a platoon.
With utmost regard and heartfelt appreciation
to all U.S. military service men and women:
Thank you, and God bless you for your sacrifice.
Every effort was made to portray Navy SEALs accurately in this work of fiction,
in the spirit of respect for the fine work they do.
Any errors are my own.
Hooyah.
— Moriah Densley
Contents
Guide To Military Terminology Used In This Book
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
About the Author
Also Available
Chapter 1
“God know you escaped from heaven?
You can hang around my place until he calls looking for you.”
—Jack MacGunn, King of the Bad Pick-Up Line
; Cassiopeia Noyon had finally turned twenty-one, only to find herself still being babysat. Worse than that, her bodyguard was a color-blind berserker with a penchant for “extreme cliff diving:” the too-dazzling, immortal Jack MacGunn. She’d healed his bruised ribs yesterday, but perhaps she shouldn’t have, because dawn had not yet peeked over the sandstone canyon walls of Lake Powell, and he jostled her awake so he could ski.
Cassie bit back a smirk as Jack tried to fit his torso into a ski vest. With sixty-eight-inch shoulders tapering into a thirty-eight-inch waist, it was no mean trick. He struggled to adjust the straps and had some serious man-cleavage going on.
“Where is your neoprene vest?”
“Dunno.” He followed her gaze to his chest, then flexed his pecs in a quick left-right-left. “There’s more where that came from, baby, if you ask nicely.” He winked, willing her play along. Girls loved his bad pick-up lines.
“In your dreams, Jack.”
“In yours too, Cass. I can make all your dreams come true.” Jack flashed his shy-guy smile, the one that made him look vulnerable. Yeah, right.
“Tempting.” She ignored the exclamation points flashing in her head, notifying her, Hey, Jack is flirting with you. Flattering, but she refused to fawn over him. So what if he looked like the God of Underwear Models? Cassie ran the bilge and idled the boat in reverse, relishing the distinctive earthy Lake Powell smell: sun-baked algae, gasoline, and soggy tamarack.
She didn’t have the heart to tell Jack that ski vest was hers, purple with teal and pink trim. At least it matched his ridiculous shorts. She gave him a mental nudge and teased, I can’t believe you’re wearing pink trunks. Easier to speak inside his mind than shout over the roar of the 500-horsepower engine.
They’re orange.
Who told you that?
The tag, before I ripped it off. ‘Ripcurl Aloha Coral Sunrise, Size 38.’
Jack, ‘coral’ is a pinkish color. And don’t tell me the flower print escaped your notice.
He stared down at his shorts and blinked. My fire shorts got ripped yesterday. This is all they had in my size at the marina.
Yes, she remembered how his hundred-foot dive into the water had split his absurd flame-printed shorts, drawing attention to the equally absurd plump quadriceps peeking through the tear running the length of his thigh. Crisp bronze hair dusted his leg, and Cassie had noticed his tanned skin went all the way up — meaning every inch of him saw the sun, perish the thought. She slammed her mindshield shut before he heard.
There should be some law against allowing hot men to buy bad clothes.
You think I’m hot?
Jack, everybody thinks you’re hot. Big deal.
He blinked again and scratched the stubble on his jaw. His thoughts shuttered, leaving her to wonder what he didn’t want her to hear. If she came across as jaded, then fine. It was bad enough she had emerged from puberty a low-grade extra sentient with marginal powers; the humiliation could only be eclipsed by having the Jack MacGunn assigned to her security detail.
People tagged him as a steroid junkie, a super-soldier type. The latter wasn’t far off. Jack descended from an ancient line of kilt-wearing, bagpipe-playing, Gaelic-speaking Scottish berserkers. Beyond that, Jack had won the genetic lottery. Or he was a freak of nature, also being an immortal extra-sentient, one in four million with a hyper-evolved brain and seemingly supernatural abilities.
She had grown up admiring him — okay, worshipping him. But he didn’t need to know the “big brother” vibe, for her, had long ago morphed into a desire to get him alone in the dark.
Jack flexed his shoulders and cocked his head. Then go fix my fire trunks. Until then, you can look at my pink-flower-covered arse.
Cassie arched a brow and occupied herself with the controls. Are you going to ski, or not?
Ski.
Maybe she would mend his trunks, but not until he asked nicely. He tossed an avocado slice in his mouth — part of his 4,000-calorie breakfast — and Cassie geared into neutral, brushing him aside. She hefted the opposite seat cushion up and produced Jack’s gray neoprene vest from the storage compartment. She shoved the cushion back into place, rolling her eyes at his silent plea not to dent the chrome trim. Jack scoffed and slapped her backside. No way.
She shot him an icy glare. “Jerk,” she mouthed.
“Brat.”
On a bad day that would be prelude to a nasty fight. But today it felt more like terms of endearment. The smile he flashed her was nothing short of devilish, but at least he put the vest on without complaint. When knocked unconscious, 240-pound Jack felt like double the weight. Cassie knew; she’d once rescued him when his “triple-gainer” wakeboard stunt had disagreed with the canyon wall. That he hadn’t completely crushed his skull was a miracle, but if she knew one thing, Jack MacGunn had a thick head.
I heard that.
Before she could fire back, he sprang from the deck, leaping fifteen feet into the air in a clumsy dive, hitting the water with his rear end sticking up. Of course she laughed, he always knew how to get it from her. Their quarrels never lasted long.
He yelled “Hit it!” before she could scramble back into the captain’s seat. She geared the throttle forward, easing the boat into the insane sixty-three miles per hour speed he loved when skiing slalom. For Jack, a dozen loops around the bay at breakneck speed soothed him like a meditation ritual or yoga stretch.
She drove toward Stateline marina and looked back to check on him. He dragged his back foot on the surface of the water, spraying a cloud behind him. Cassie chuckled as he explained, My foot itches, feels good.
Cassie compensated with the throttle as Jack tugged on the rope, preventing him from pulling the boat backward. She turned to watch as often as she dared and studied his form. She liked to ski too, but she couldn’t do that near-horizontal trick he did when he cut. His extended arm made a straight line from his fist down to the ski, his body suspended horizontally only inches from the water. And then he snapped back so fluidly, the transfer of balance made a fan of water spray from the side of his ski in impressive rooster tails. Art in motion.
Whoa. What — Another boat careened across the bay, heading straight for them. Cassie turned to give them room, and they followed. She didn’t like how they closed in, chasing her and pushing her closer to the canyon walls. The prow jerked every time the boat changed course, as though a toddler was driving. She maneuvered in sharp loops to get away, but they kept trying to corner her, pinning her against the wall of the canyon.
What’s wrong with these people? Cassie waved her hand horizontally from the wrist to warn Jack they approached a set of rollers, leftover wake from the other boat. She swerved as the yellow boat t-boned across her path. If this was some sort of prank, it wasn’t funny. Jack was getting dangerously riled, on the edge of a berserker rage. He cursed and thrashed, gesturing at the other boat. If he lost control, the situation would turn ugly for everyone.
Let me at ’em, Cass.
No way. She didn’t say, “Are you crazy?” because they both knew he absolutely was.
I’m not gonna wait until someone gets hurt. Either you give me a tow or I’ll get there myself.
Reluctantly she looped around to face the opposing boat, a flashy yellow Mastercraft Jack was sure to find inferior to his maroon and silver custom Nautique. He pulled hard against the rope to increase the momentum, swinging like a wrecking ball, then leaned on the back rudder to cut even with the boat, spraying a wall of rooster tail right into the yellow Mastercraft.
“Good mornin’,” Jack’s voice boomed over the dual roar of engines. “The way ye drive, it’s dangerous. Not to mention piss-poor. Someone’s goin’ to get hurt. So sod off.”
Finally near enough to hear their thoughts, Cassie recoiled. A wrongness seeped from the boater’s minds, a discordant static-like sensation in
unnatural, stunted rhythms. By all indications the boaters were ordinary — though stupid and drunk — humans, the only extra-sentients here being herself and Jack. Yet something had to be tampering with their heads.
Jack, what is … she trailed, disturbed to find his mindshield completely closed.
Cassie heard a burst of malicious intent from the driver. He yanked the wheel, spearing his prow right at her. She steered at a ninety-degree angle to avoid the collision. It made her hit a four-foot tall roller square on the nose, jarring the hull. The engine whined in protest as she worked the throttle. The two boats churned the water into dangerous white-capped waves, and the canyon walls reflecting them back only aggravated the stew. They could capsize — if they didn’t get battle-rammed first.
She tried to veer left and escape into the open channel, but Jack cut across the wake and jumped, shed his ski, dropped the handle of the rope, and landed squarely on the nose of the yellow Mastercraft with a jarring boom. It cracked the fiberglass — she heard splintering.
The driver startled and dropped the throttle, and Jack made a snakelike lunge to balance himself as the boat sank to the rails then bobbed at the abrupt halt. In comical silence everyone gaped at Jack, who looked like a pissed-off superhero, even in his pink shorts. He dripped water that seemed to evaporate to steam, and his windblown hair stuck straight up like an animé character. With their heads craned to look up at all six-and-a-half feet of Jack, fear seeped through the odd static of their thoughts.
Collectively they startled as Jack leaped from the prow into the aisle. The driver with a scraggly bleached goatee wet his pants, but moments later his arm jerked to aim a pistol at Jack.
Motion blurred as Jack snatched it, twisted the silencer off the barrel, then field-stripped the pistol, tossing each piece in the water. He wore a puzzled expression, as though he expected something other than standard factory pieces inside the Beretta 9mm semi-automatic.
Jack opened the cooler on the back seat, seemingly suspicious of the six-packs of beer and bottles of wine coolers and whiskey. He tossed those in the water too, after crushing them with his bare hands — to prevent them from floating, or because he thought they would explode or something? His dripping blood mingled with water, painting the floor pink. The drunken blond woman in the front seat swayed and whimpered in fright.