“Nope. Just don’t want them getting damaged or lost maybe by accident.” She offered her blandest smile with that.
“They’re that important to you, girlie?”
“Yep!”
He cracked what might have been the start of a grin, but it didn’t get far on that grim face. Then he opened the gate and she idled the bike forward, scuffing her boots through the dust.
From this side she could see that the chain link was wholly intact. There was a five-meter swath of scorched earth inside the fence line. Through the heat haze, she could see both infrared and laser spy eyes down the length of the wire. And those were only the defenses she could see. So…a very not inde-fence-ible fence. Absolutely the right place.
When she went to hold out the orders, he waved them aside.
“Don’t you want to see them?” This had to be the right place. She was the first woman in history to walk through The Unit’s gates by order. A part of her wanted the man to acknowledge that. Any man. A Marine Corps marching band wouldn’t have been out of order.
She wanted to stand again as she had on that very first day, raising her right hand. “I, Carla Anderson, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution…”
She shoved that aside. The only man’s acknowledgment she’d ever cared about was her big brother’s, and he was gone.
The man just turned away and spoke to her over his shoulder as he closed the gate behind her bike. “Go ahead and check in. You’re one of the last to arrive. We start in a couple hours”—as if it were a blasted dinner party. “And I already saw those orders when I signed them. Now put them away before someone else sees them and thinks you’re still a soldier.” He walked away.
She watched the man’s retreating back. He’d signed her orders?
That was the notoriously hard-ass Colonel Charlie Brighton?
What the hell was the leader of the U.S. Army’s Tier One asset doing manning the gate? Duh…assessing new applicants.
This place was whacked. Totally!
There were only three Tier One assets in the entire U.S. military. There was Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, DEVGRU, that the public thought was called SEAL Team Six—although it hadn’t been named that for thirty years now. There was the Air Force’s 24th STS—which pretty much no one on the outside had ever heard of. And there was the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta—whose very existence was still denied by the Pentagon despite four decades of operations, several books, and a couple of seriously off-the-mark movies that were still fun to watch because Chuck Norris kicked ass even under the stupidest of circumstances.
Total Tier One women across all three teams? Zero.
About to be? One. Staff Sergeant First Class Carla Anderson.
Where did she need to go to check in? There was no signage. No drill sergeant hovering. No—
Delta Lesson Number Two: You aren’t in the Army anymore, sister.
No longer a soldier, as the Colonel had said, at least not while on The Unit’s side of the fence. On this side they weren’t regular Army; they were “other.”
If that meant she had to take care of herself, well, that was a lesson she’d learned long ago. Against stereotype, her well-bred, East Coast white-guy dad was the drunk. Her dirt-poor half Tennessee Cherokee, half Colorado settler mom, who’d passed her dusky skin and dark hair on to her daughter, had been a sober and serious woman. She’d also been a casualty of an Afghanistan dust-bowl IED while serving in the National Guard. Carla’s big brother Clay now lay beside Mom in Arlington National Cemetery. Dead from a training accident. Except your average training accident didn’t include a posthumous rank bump, a medal, and coming home in a sealed box—reportedly with no face.
Clay had flown helicopters in the Army’s 160th SOAR with the famous Majors Beale and Henderson. Well, famous in the world of people who’d flown with the Special Operations Aviation Regiment, or their little sisters who’d begged for stories of them whenever big brothers were home on leave. Otherwise, totally invisible.
Clay had clearly died on a black op that she’d never be told a word of, so she didn’t bother asking. Which was okay. He knew the risks, just as Mom had. Just as she herself had when she’d signed up the day of Clay’s funeral, four years ago. She’d been on the front lines ever since and so far lived to tell about it.
Carla popped Clay’s Ninja—which is how she still thought of it, even after riding it for four years—back into first and rolled it slowly up to the building with the pink roses. As good a place to start as any.
* * *
“Hey, check out this shit!”
Sergeant First Class Kyle Reeves looked out the window of the mess hall at the guy’s call. Sergeant Ralph last-name-already-forgotten was 75th Rangers and too damn proud of it.
Though…damn! Ralphie was onto something.
Kyle would definitely check out this shit.
Babe on a hot bike, looking like she knew how to handle it.
Through the window, he inspected her lean length as she clambered off the machine. Army boots. So call her five-eight, a hundred and thirty, and every part that wasn’t amazing curves looked like serious muscle. Hair the color of lush, dark caramel brushed her shoulders but moved like the finest silk, her skin permanently the color of the darkest tan. Women in magazines didn’t look that hot. Those women always looked anorexic to him anyway, even the pinup babes displayed on Hesco barriers at forward operating bases up in the Hindu Kush, where he’d done too much of the last couple years.
This woman didn’t look like that for a second. She looked powerful. And dangerous.
Her tight leathers revealed muscles made of pure soldier.
Ralph Something moseyed out of the mess-hall building where the hundred selectees were hanging out to await the start of the next testing class at sundown.
Well, Kyle sure wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity for a closer look. Though seeing Ralph’s attitude, Kyle hung back a bit so that he wouldn’t be too closely associated with the dickhead.
Ralph had been spoiling for a fight ever since he’d found out he was one of the least experienced guys to show up for Delta Selection. He was from the 75th Ranger Regiment, but his deployments hadn’t seen much action. Each of his attempts to brag for status had gotten him absolutely nowhere.
Most of the guys here were 75th Rangers, 82nd Airborne, or Green Beret Special Forces like himself. And most had seen a shitload of action, because that was the nature of the world at the moment. There were a couple SEALs who hadn’t made SEAL Team Six and probably weren’t going to make Delta, a dude from the Secret Service Hostage Rescue Team who wasn’t going to last a day no matter how good a shot he was, and two guys who were regular Army.
The question of the moment though, who was she?
Her biking leathers were high-end, sewn in a jagged lightning-bolt pattern of yellow on smoke gray. It made her look like she was racing at full tilt while standing still. He imagined her hunched over her midnight-blue machine and hustling down the road at her Ninja’s top speed—which was north of 150. He definitely had to see that one day.
Kyle blessed the inspiration on his last leave that had made him walk past the small Toyota pickup that had looked so practical and buy the wildfire-red Ducati Multistrada 1200 instead. Pity his bike was parked around the back of the barracks at the moment. Maybe they could do a little bonding over their rides. Her machine looked absolutely cherry.
Much like its rider.
Ralph walked right up to her with all his arrogant and stupid hanging out for everyone to see. The other soldiers began filtering outside to watch the show.
“Well, girlie, looks like you pulled into the wrong spot. This here is Delta territory.”
Kyle thought about stopping Ralph, thought that someone should give the guy a good beating, but Dad had taught him control. H
e would take Ralph down if he got aggressive, but he really didn’t want to be associated with the jerk, even by grabbing him back.
The woman turned to face them, then unzipped the front of her jacket in one of those long, slow movie moves. The sunlight shimmered across her hair as she gave it an “unthinking” toss. Wraparound dark glasses hid her eyes, adding to the mystery.
He could see what there was of Ralph’s brain imploding from lack of blood. He felt the effect himself despite standing a half-dozen paces farther back.
She wasn’t hot; she sizzled. Her parting leathers revealed an Army green T-shirt and proof that the very nice contours suggested by her outer gear were completely genuine. Her curves weren’t big—she had a lean build—but they were as pure woman as her shoulders and legs were pure soldier.
“There’s a man who called me ‘girlie’ earlier.” Her voice was smooth and seductive, not low and throaty, but rich and filled with nuance.
She sounded like one of those people who could hypnotize a Cobra, either the snake or the attack helicopter.
“He’s a bird colonel. He can call me that if he wants. You aren’t nothing but meat walking on sacred ground and wishing he belonged.”
Kyle nodded to himself. The “girlie” got it in one.
“You”—she jabbed a finger into Sergeant Ralph Something’s chest—“do not get ‘girlie’ privileges. We clear?”
“Oh, sweetheart, I can think of plenty of privileges that you’ll want to be giving to—” His hand only made it halfway to stroking her hair.
If Kyle hadn’t been Green Beret trained, he wouldn’t have seen it because she moved so fast and clean.
“—me!” Ralph’s voice shot upward on a sharp squeak.
The woman had Ralph’s pinkie bent to the edge of dislocation and, before the man could react, had leveraged it behind his back and upward until old Ralph Something was perched on his toes trying to ease the pressure. With her free hand, she shoved against the middle of his back to send him stumbling out of control into the concrete wall of the mess hall with a loud clonk when his head hit.
Minimum force, maximum result. The Unit’s way.
She eased off on his finger and old Ralph dropped to the dirt like a sack of potatoes. He didn’t move much.
“Oops.” She turned to face the crowd that had gathered.
She didn’t even have to say, “Anyone else?” Her look said plenty.
Kyle began to applaud. He wasn’t the only one, but he was in the minority. Most of the guys were doing a wait and see.
A couple looked pissed.
Everyone knew that the Marines’ combat training had graduated a few women, but that was just jarheads on the ground.
This was Delta. The Unit was Tier One. A Special Mission Unit. They were supposed to be the one true bastion of male dominance. No one had warned them that a woman was coming in.
Just one woman, Kyle thought. The first one. How exceptional did that make her? Pretty damn was his guess. Even if she didn’t last the first day, still pretty damn. And damn pretty. He’d bet on dark eyes behind her wraparound shades. She didn’t take them off, so it was a bet he’d have to settle later on.
A couple corpsmen came over and carted Ralph Something away, even though he was already sitting up—just dazed with a bloody cut on his forehead.
The Deltas who’d come out to watch the show from a few buildings down didn’t say a word before going back to whatever they’d been doing.
Kyle made a bet with himself that Ralph Something wouldn’t be showing up at sundown’s first roll call. They’d just lost the first one of the class and the selection process hadn’t even begun. Or maybe it just had.
“Where’s check-in?” Her voice really was as lush as her hair, and it took Kyle a moment to focus on the actual words.
He pointed at the next building over and received a nod of thanks.
That made watching her walk away in those tight leathers strictly a bonus.
Chapter 2
Day eight and no formation until 0600 hours. Kyle felt like he’d been lazy and slept in. He did a rough head count. From the first day of 104 candidates, they were down by at least twenty-five.
Several hadn’t made it through the day-one PT test, which hadn’t even been hard. The only unusual part of the physical training test had been the amount of it. Most of these guys had been in advanced branches of the military—Special Forces, Special Ops, 82nd Airborne. How could these guys not have been prepared for a round of hard-core PT?
Sergeant Carla was one of only three regular Army. All three of them were still in. You had to be tough to think you could jump straight from Army to Delta without spending a couple tours in Special Operations or as a Special Forces Green Beret first.
He’d won his first-day bet with himself when he watched the Hostage Rescue Team dude nearly drown halfway through the hundred-meter swim in full clothes and boots toward the end of day one—without even a rifle in his hands. He’d panicked, grabbed for the boat moving along beside him, and voluntarily quit.
This was real, not a game. He should have known that before he walked through the gate. Sympathy level: zero.
The first day had cut six; the first week had cut about twenty more. Half of those couldn’t deal with the brutal physical workouts, and the other half couldn’t deal with the rules. He could pick out another twenty he didn’t think would survive much longer for that second reason. Sympathy level: same.
Delta Selection rules were oddly too simple for most. Life in other units of the U.S. military was about explicit orders that told you exactly what to wear, how to make your bed, where to be, and what to do.
Delta rules rarely lasted more than three sentences—for an entire day’s exercise. Last night’s bulletin board had said simply, “0600. No rucks.” That meant no brutal hike with a heavy rucksack, at least not to start the day.
A lot of the guys had cheered when they’d seen that. Assessment Phase had been a week of escalating workouts, lots of PT, and lots of heavy-duty hikes. First day had been an 0200 start, a full ruck, and eighteen miles along the roads of Fort Bragg. They’d also been told that there was an unspecified time limit to each hike, so they shouldn’t dawdle.
Any drill sergeant worth his salt would have added something more. “…Dawdle like a little old ladies’ knitting circle.” Or “…like the lame weaklings we expect from the other services.”
Not Delta. Just, “Don’t dawdle.”
Not real helpful.
Unlike Green Beret assessment and training, no instructor was hovering beside you, yelling at you to dig in and keep up. In Delta, if you lagged, a member of the testing cadre slipped up quietly beside you and asked if you wanted to voluntarily drop out. If not, they let you grind it out against a hidden clock that they never revealed. At times he wondered if the training cadre even knew what the time limits were or if only the sergeant major in charge knew the required maximums.
Whatever was coming, Kyle already knew it would be harder than the day before, heavy rucks on their shoulders or not. No cause to cheer or be depressed. Steady. Just like Dad had taught him.
Without preface, the cadre started calling roll as the sun cracked the horizon, and most guys pulled down their sunglasses. As each man was called, he stepped forward. Per standard practice, they were given a swatch of colored cloth with a number to pin to their uniform and then told to climb into truck number such-and-so.
Today his swatch was “Red 4,” and that’s all any instructor would call him by for the rest of the day. Truck 2 looked no different than the other two. Only three trucks. They were going to be sardined in by the time everyone was called.
He had looked for a pattern to their numbering but found none. That bothered several of the guys; made others a bit paranoid as they were certain it was a reflection on their prior day’s success or failure. Kyle saw no pat
tern, decided it was a mind game, and stopped thinking about it. They clearly didn’t need him to know, so he didn’t worry about it.
He admitted to being pretty pleased when “Green 3” climbed into Truck 2 as well. The trainees filled the side benches of the truck as they climbed in, and Carla Anderson ended up directly across from him. She had kept to herself, ignored the subtle harassments, and put down the more obnoxious ones. In whatever direction the candidates would be dispersed through the day, he’d account starting out across from her as a good beginning.
It had become clear to him after day two that she could handle herself just fine. A brain-dead grunt had grabbed her ass and found himself head down in a toilet—not the flush kind, the slit-trench latrine kind. The aggressor hadn’t been in the barracks that night; she had. No one said a word and everyone left her pretty much alone after that.
Kyle had been pleasantly surprised as Carla continued to survive each day. Woman was damn tough. She might keep to herself, but she gave a hundred percent. As often as not, she’d be on his heels at the end of each hike or exercise. He sure as hell knew where she was at all times, close and moving at full tilt. She pushed him hard and he appreciated the extra motivation.
Also, in this sea of guys, she was a sweet relief to look at, even if the “Don’t Touch” sign was glowing bright above her head.
“Check it out,” she said and nodded toward the rear of the truck. They were the first words she’d spoken directly to him since asking where to check in.
He turned to look. Damn, he’d been staring at her again. He really had to cut that out. Well, if she wasn’t going to complain, maybe he’d just enjoy it while it lasted.
Out on the assembly ground, thirty guys were still standing at roll call when the Sergeant Major closed his clipboard.
The three trucks that the roll-called soldiers had climbed aboard started their engines but didn’t move off. They weren’t packed in any tighter than usual.
“Men.” The Sergeant Major raised his voice.
Kyle could hear him clearly despite the rumbling.
Heart Strike Page 31
