by Cindy Dees
“Good Lord, no. I would never hand them such a powerful weapon to wield against me.”
Griffin traded rueful smiles with Trevor, silently acknowledging that the battle of the sexes was alive and well.
“But I’m told that expressing our feelings is good for us,” the Brit said seriously.
“Speak for yourself,” Griffin retorted. “The only reason you’re thinking about your feelings is because we took a terrible hit last night.”
“That’s precisely what I’m talking about,” Trevor replied. “When we’ve lost a brother in the past, we’ve all gotten stinking drunk, acted macho, and never acknowledged how bad it hurt. But last night, Cal actually cried. I didn’t know the man even had tear ducts.”
Griffin stared. “For real?”
“Yes. For real.”
Finally, the moment broke and they grinned at each other. He muttered, “You’re so full of shit.”
Griffin noticed that Trevor pointedly didn’t ask him if he’d slept with Sherri. But then, he didn’t volunteer the information, either. “In other news,” Griffin said as he stretched out on his own cot, “Sherri’s going to BUD/S in two weeks.”
“No kidding?” Trevor exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and clutching at his skull. “I’m surprised Cal didn’t hold her back to be a functional operator.”
“She volunteered.”
“Did she, now?” The Brit stared thoughtfully at Griffin. “Why do you suppose she did that?”
He shrugged. “She said something about being best suited to deal with the media attention the first woman SEAL will have to endure.”
“So she sacrificed herself for the others,” Trevor said soberly. “That was noble of her.”
Noble, huh? Griffin hadn’t thought of it in that light, but he supposed it was. Funny. He’d never thought in terms of any woman as noble before. But it wasn’t a bad way to describe what Sherri had done.
“We’ll miss her around here,” Trevor commented. He added what sounded like an afterthought: “We’ll miss you, too.”
Griffin grinned. “You’ll be so busy trying to get into Anna’s pants, you won’t notice I’m gone.”
Trevor’s cheeks turned bright red, and Griffin started. He’d meant that as a joke. But was there something going on between the Brit and the brunette that he’d missed? Apparently, yes. Reserved, classy Trevor and fiery Anna with the big mouth and fast wit?
Did Sherri know? Was that part of why she’d volunteered to leave? So Trevor and Anna could have a shot at finding happiness? The phrase noble sacrifice floated through his head.
And he hadn’t even thanked her for giving up her dreams and ambitions for the greater good, which was exactly the sort of sacrifice a SEAL might make.
Well, hell. He’d been outSEALed by a woman.
Chapter 14
Two weeks later
Sherri was met at San Diego International Airport by a public affairs officer who looked about twelve years old and whose name tag said Schneider.
Griffin was on the same flight, but they’d agreed to pretend not to know each other when they arrived in California. He would make his own way to the naval base. Griffin gave her a single terse nod as she followed Schneider outside, and she flashed him a quick thumbs-up. She felt completely naked without him at her side. Now that she was here in California, hours from beginning the toughest training of her life, she was secretly and selfishly glad that Kettering had sent Griffin with her to face this beast.
Naval Base Coronado was comprised of eight separate military installations, and Schneider took her to a large building in the North Island portion of the base.
No surprise, a dozen news vans from various national outlets were already clustered out front, their mobile satellites pointing at the sky.
And the circus begins.
Schneider directed the driver of their staff car to pull around back. The public affairs officer hustled her inside through a loading dock and tucked her in some poor schmuck’s office that had been appropriated for this fiasco.
“Why all the secrecy, Ensign?” she asked her handler.
“The Pentagon wants a big reveal of you, so that’s what they’ll get.” The kid passed her a garment bag and a roll-aboard suitcase.
“What are these?”
“We had your roommate in Washington, DC send this stuff for you.”
Sherri unzipped the garment bag, not surprised to see several of her uniforms inside. She opened the suitcase and stared down in dismay at her entire pageant tool kit. It included hot rollers, makeup bags, a lighted mirror, hair spray, deodorant, even double-sided carpet tape.
“What’s the tape for?” Schneider asked over her shoulder.
“It holds down a bikini bottom or holds up a dress. Or if you’re wearing something with a super-plunging neckline, the tape will keep you from accidentally flashing the audience.”
“Huh. Live and learn,” the guy mumbled.
“A girl’s got to suffer for beauty,” she commented sarcastically.
“You women can have all that primping and hard work.”
Lucky bastard. “Why is all this stuff here?” she asked him.
“They want you to look your best for the cameras.”
“Of course they do.” Even knowing what she was in for, it irritated her to no end. She’d just spent months busting her butt to be ready for BUD/S. Never mind that she was in the best shape of her life, mentally girded for a trip to hell and back, and carrying in her noggin every trick and hint that Griffin could think of to share with her.
Nope. All that mattered to the powers that be was that she look hot on camera. Fine. They wanted the pageant queen? Then the pageant queen they would get. She sat down at the desk, plugged in her lighted mirror, and went to work.
An hour later, she was polished and lacquered to within an inch of her life. Her hair was swept up in a sophisticated French twist, and her makeup was flawless. She’d even taken time to shape and polish her nails.
She had to admit, it felt weird to put on pantyhose and high heels after months of running around in fatigues and combat boots.
Schneider insisted she wear a skirt. Orders from above and all. Must show a little leg for the boys. The higher-ups had also insisted on her wearing service dress whites. No surprise there. Might as well go full recruiting poster with this appearance.
As she slipped into her uniform, it dawned on her why SEALs were forever tugging at their dress uniforms. The heavily starched collar rubbed at her neck horribly after the soft, floppy collars of tactical combat shirts.
She paused in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the office door to give herself a critical once-over. Only thing that would make her look more girlie would be a sparkly evening gown.
Ugh. The press was going to love her. And the SEALs were going to hate her with a fiery passion. She didn’t even want to think about how her BUD/S instructors would retaliate against her for dressing up like this and prancing around in front of a bunch of reporters.
She took a deep breath. Here went nothing. She followed Schneider, her heels clicking loudly, and she caught herself wincing at the noise. She had become adept at the silent heel-to-toe walk of special operators, but it was impossible to do in three-inch stilettos. Mincing along on her stupid heels, she followed Schneider into what looked like the wings of a stage.
“Is this the base theater?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“How many reporters are out there?” The buzz of voices from around the corner was shockingly loud.
“Theater holds 550. Every seat’s full.”
“Bloody hell,” she muttered.
“You’ll walk across the stage to the podium in the middle. There’s a prepared statement waiting for you. I would have run it past you, but I was told you were incommunicado on some secret a
ssignment.”
Yeah. Pretraining to be a SEAL.
Schneider continued, “You’ll take questions for about ten minutes, and then there will be a photo op with you and the Naval Surface Warfare Commander, Rear Admiral Duquesne. That’s pronounced ‘doo-cane.’ Don’t mess it up, or he’ll tear your head off. Got all that?”
She threw the guy a withering look. “I’ve been doing press conferences at the Pentagon longer than you’ve been legal to drink.”
The kid warned, “Heads will roll, starting with mine, if you flub this thing.”
“I got that memo, thanks.”
“All right, Lieutenant Tate. Are you ready?”
She smiled a little. “No. But let’s do it anyway.”
The podium loomed a mile away from her in the middle of the stage. Schneider went out and did lighting and sound checks, and then the lights went on for real. The kid made a short statement officially announcing that the Navy had selected the first female candidate for BUD/S training.
Eyeing that long walk, she threw caution to the wind. Might as well give them her best runway walk. Using her long legs to full advantage, she stalked boldly across the stage.
She glanced down at the prepared remarks and stifled a snort. I’m so grateful to have this opportunity and will do my best to make all women in the armed forces proud…
Blah. Blah. Blah. She could practically recite what the statement said without having seen it. Goodness knew, she’d written enough of these milquetoast statements in her career.
She would dress up for the Navy. She would play along with the whole poster-child thing. But if she had to actually speak to the press, she was not going to be their bubbleheaded mouthpiece. She drew the line at that. Nope, she was going to do this statement her way. She looked up from the notes and smiled at the banks of blinding lights.
She held the smile a moment extra so they could all get their recruiting-poster shots of her.
Then she said into the microphones, “I’m not sure what all the fuss is about, folks, but thanks for this big welcome to my SEAL training. I had no idea you did this for all the trainees who come through here. It’s mighty patriotic of you.”
The press corps chuckled.
From the wings off to her right, Schneider pointed frantically at imaginary notes on an imaginary podium in front of him. Sorry, kid. No can do.
She and Griffin had talked about this, and they both agreed she would be better served not letting the Navy dictate entirely how this whole rigged training gig would play out. Whatever the brass at the Pentagon had planned, it would likely come across as contrived and obviously a setup.
If this was going to appear real, she had to take control of her image and story. It was her only chance not to get eaten alive by the BUD/S instructors, fix or no fix on her passing the course.
To that end, she said briskly and completely off script, “Let’s get a few questions and answers out of way right up front. Am I honored to be here? Absolutely. The finest warriors on earth come out of this place. Am I scared? Of course. Any sane person would be, going into this kind of a test. How long have I trained for this? My whole life. Do I think I’ll make it through the training? I hope I will if I’m worthy. But that will be up to the instructors I work with.”
She glanced over the heads of the rows of reporters at the line of BUD/S instructors who had filed into the hall quietly when the bright lights went on, and who stood still and silent across the back of the theater. Thought she wouldn’t notice them, did they? Hah. She was getting darned good at situational awareness these days.
Their expressions were unanimously stony, their crossed arms shouting their disapproval of her.
Someone called out from the audience, “When does your training begin?”
“As soon as I can get out of these blasted pantyhose and high heels.”
Another laugh. Then the next question, “Are you worried the instructors won’t give you a fair shot?”
She speared the row of silent warriors in the back with a stare. “BUD/S instructors are in the business of identifying operators they would trust with their lives and whom they’d like to work with. My job here will be to prove I’m one of those people.”
She caught the snorts and rolled eyes from the men in the back. Whatever. She’d made a believer of Griffin, and he’d been dead set against her initially.
She lifted her chin faintly to the boys in the club, positive they would know the gesture for the challenge it was. And then she threw down the gauntlet. “After all, BUD/S instructors are bright guys. Only someone stuck firmly in the past would fail to see the potential benefit of women in today’s Special Forces.”
As a group, the line of instructors froze. What? They didn’t expect the girl to have any guts? Surprise, boys.
Someone shouted a question about what BUD/S training entailed, and Schneider hurried out to field that one, walking the press corps through a PowerPoint presentation that would be made available after the press conference. It broke down BUD/S into its pretraining pipeline, called INDOC, and three actual BUD/S phases—Physical Training, Sea Warfare, and Land Warfare.
She used the time to observe the guys in the back. God bless Cal Kettering for exposing her to a bunch of SEALs before she got here. Otherwise, all that menace rolling off them might have actually made her nervous.
Another instructor slipped into the auditorium, joining the line of men. He wore camo pants and a navy-blue T-shirt with the yellow UDT/SEAL INSTRUCTOR logo over his heart. Griffin. She would know that silhouette, that set of shoulders, the quiet, contained movement anywhere.
So. He was going to infiltrate her instructors? Good to know. She yanked her attention to the question being directed at her. “…how far through the program do you think you can go before you wash out?”
There it was. The subtly dismissive, misogynistic dig she’d one hundred percent expected before this circus concluded.
She stepped out around from behind the podium, planted her left elbow on the lectern, and stared down coldly at the impudent reporter. The room fell silent. Tense, dead silent.
When she could have heard a pin drop, she gave up all pretense of pleasantness and said tersely, “Just what do you think I’m doing here? Playing dress up with the boys? I came here to be a SEAL, and that’s what I intend to do. This isn’t a game.”
If the instructors across the back of room had been dogs, they would all have been tilting their heads at her quizzically. She felt their confusion, even from the other side of a large theater. Poor dudes had no idea what to make of her.
Mission accomplished. Griffin had told her to take the fight to the SEALs and not wait passively for them to bring the fight to her. They would still do everything in their power to break her, but at least this way they might respect her a little while they did it.
She nodded crisply. “If you ladies and gentlemen have no more questions, I’d like to get on with my training.”
She didn’t wait for the rear admiral to join her on stage. She was frankly too ticked off at the moment to deal with pressing the flesh and pasting on pageant smiles. As she stalked off stage right, Schneider scurried out to the podium to thank everyone for coming and to give out the schedule for future press conferences to update them on her progress through the course.
Seriously? The media was going to get report cards on her? No wonder the guys in the back were scowling like they’d been force-fed battery acid.
“Lieutenant Tate!” Schneider whispered loudly from the stage. She glanced back, and he was waving frantically at her to join the admiral, who’d come out from the wings on the other side of the stage and was fielding a few questions.
She deliberately misunderstood him and waved back, then all but ran back to the office, where she quickly changed into a utility uniform and combat boots. She slapped her baseball cap on, pulled it down low, and r
ushed from the building before Schneider could corner her.
She burst out into the warm California sun, duffel bag over her shoulder, pageant tool kit abandoned in the office. Spotting an enlisted man about to climb into a big green utility truck across the street, she jogged over to him.
“Hey, I’m lost. Any chance you could give me a ride over to the Center?”
“You mean the BUD/S school?” the guy blurted out.
“Yes, please.”
“Climb in.” She clambered into the cab, and the driver threw the big vehicle into gear, asking, “You gonna be working admin over there or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Cool.”
Yeah. Something like that.
Chapter 15
They gave her an entire dormitory to herself. It privately irritated the living crap out of her and meant she had a significantly longer run to fall into formation in the mornings, but the admiral wouldn’t budge, apparently. She did not get to live with her classmates.
She didn’t waste her breath asking if, when she was out on SEAL missions, she would get her own tent and toilet. There would be time enough to cross that bridge later.
INDOC Day One dawned at 4:00 a.m. sharp with Grinder PT in a giant concrete parking lot. As she gutted through round after round of now-familiar calisthenics while being screamed at, the only thought in her mind, running over and over on a loop, was God Bless Cal Kettering and the Reapers for preparing me for this.
The instructors didn’t for a second give away any hint of surprise that she could keep up and pump out the required repetitions. Not so with her fellow trainees, who jeered and hassled her almost more than the instructors. But they gradually fell into silence as she matched them rep for rep.
When an end was called to the grinder and they were sent over to a water buffalo—a large tank of water on wheels—to get drinks, a big, beefy dude named Grundy sneered at her back, “Gee. I didn’t know the Navy gave us whores to fuck in training whenever we feel like it.”