SEAL Firsts

by Sharon Hamilton

  “Coop, how come you know about all these places?” Fredo wanted to know.

  “Boy Scouts. This was an old scout camp. I came every summer. That’s how come I wanted to join the Navy. I saw those guys one day running down the beach and thought to myself, that’s what I wanted to do.”

  “Yeah, being a SEAL is all beach and babes, right?” Fredo gave a smirk.

  “Little did your parents know,” Gunny added.

  “Yeah, they freaked. Thought I’d get excited about the San Diego area and decide to go to college here. Maybe settle down. They always wanted to retire here. Farming is a hard life.”

  That was an understatement, Kyle thought, recalling some of Cooper’s stories.

  Fredo closed his eyes and tried to doze off. Kyle thought Gunny was in pain from the jostling around and couldn’t fall asleep, so Kyle took advantage of a few minutes rest. It felt like he’d just closed his eyes when he heard a thump.

  They had stopped.

  “Okay. We’re a click away.” Cooper turned and faced the trio. “I’m gonna call Morris.”

  Cooper got out and slammed the door, rocking the aluminum frame, which startled Fredo fully awake. He looked in panic at Kyle, his hand instinctively reaching for his Benchmade knife.

  “Coop’s calling his friend,” Kyle said.

  Fredo seemed relieved, but stayed alert. Both of them looked outside the windows. No lights were visible anywhere.

  “Black as hell out here,” Fredo said.

  “Black is beautiful,” Kyle said. Using state-of-the-art night vision equipment would give them a real advantage.

  Before Fredo could respond, Cooper was inside the cabin. “No change in the position of the cell phone. Battery still sending out signals.” He looked down as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. “We gotta plan for the possibility that perhaps she’s dead. That could be why the signal hasn’t moved.”

  “Don’t think so,” Kyle said. “If Mia were dead, Armando would have done something to draw attention. He’s being stealth because they’re alive and he wants it to stay that way.”

  “He’d have taken out a bunch of the bad guys,” Fredo added.

  They pulled into an abandoned campground a few hundred feet from the turnoff. Small shacks were built around a half-acre open area with an old, crumbling stone fire pit built in the center.

  They transferred their gear from their duty bags that had been stored below the couch cushions to backpacks.

  “Okay, Gunny. You stay with the ship,” Kyle announced.

  “Not sure I can get into that seat,” Gunny said as he pointed to the driver swivel chair that looked more like his dad’s old La-Z-Boy. When Kyle was a boy, his dad wouldn’t let anyone else sit in it. But then, after all the drool and vomit Kyle’s mom had cleaned off the surface over the years, no one had wanted to.

  Cooper was helpful. “No problemo, Gunny. You’ll not have to drive it. But I’m leaving the keys, just in case. Just watch her for me a bit. I’d offer to load up some triple Xers on the CD player here, but the battery is acting wonky. Don’t want to chance it.”

  “I don’t watch the stuff anyway.”

  Kyle knew the only TV Gunny watched was the Military Channel, which ran 24/7 at the gym.

  The three SEALs put on Kevlar vests and blacked their faces. They positioned their night goggles after killing all the lights. Cooper had obtained a 9mm SigSauer P225 for Kyle. Fredo and Cooper had their H&K “USC” .45.

  “Gunny, if I hear you honk the horn twice, I’ll know we can’t return, got it? Need to know if we’re walking into something,” Kyle said to his older and unofficial fourth member of the Team.

  “That I can do.”

  “That means you’re on your own. And the first call you should make is to Timmons.”

  “Will do. But you come back soon, ’cause I’m fucking scared of the dark.”

  Everyone chuckled. Then it was down to business. Kyle and his team finished their preparations. No one spoke. The hauler was filled with sounds of zipping and Velcro being separated and smoothed over.

  Gunny picked up a paperback book that had a near-naked man on the cover. “Shit, Coop. I didn’t know you was gay.”

  Cooper grabbed the book, obviously embarrassed. His face was a shade of peach Kyle had never seen.

  “It’s a romance novel.” He pointed to a woman standing behind the hunk on the cover. “See? Besides, it isn’t mine. Someone left it behind.”

  “Uh huh. Sure,” Fredo added.

  The plan was to go in quietly, now that darkness had fallen, and grab Armando and Mia, if she was there, and then get out before anyone found them. Kyle knew they had to avoid any big firefight. And they absolutely couldn’t get captured.

  They left the cab of the hauler and dove into the forest with less noise than an owl’s wing flap. They jogged for nearly twenty minutes.

  The trio traveled through low-lying brush, using their night vision goggles. Eyes of small animals and one pair of deer flashed before them as they kept to occasional outcroppings of rocks and tree stumps. The area had been forest at one time, but a recent fire had eliminated any semblance of the lush wilderness it had once been. Kyle could still smell the charred remains of scorched trees.

  They came upon a clearing and a lighted cabin, with gray smoke barely visible snaking up from the chimney behind. Two black Suburbans were parked out front, along with Armando’s Land Rover. There was no sign of the brown sedan. Kyle wasn’t happy with this.

  The front door to the cabin opened and a male figure stepped out, profiled by the warm yellow candlelight from inside. The man, with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, scanned the darkness. He unzipped his pants and urinated. The three of them stayed very still, waiting until he finished his business. He went back inside and slammed the door shut. They heard the click of a lock as it was secured.

  Kyle went around the back of the cabin as Fredo and Cooper waited in place, scanning for new arrivals. He pulled up his black facemask to cover every inch of exposed skin. Coupled with the goggles that covered his eyes, nothing of his skin showed in the dim light of a half moon beginning to travel above the horizon. His shadow crouched at the backside of the structure as he slowly looked through one window. He caught a glimpse of Armando, asleep, his hands in handcuffs, chained to a large metal hook drilled into a four-by-eight wooden beam. He’d been beaten; his usually handsome face was swollen around the eyes and cheeks. A bloody slit extended from his lower lip down to his chin. But Kyle didn’t see a puddle of blood anywhere on the floor or blood sprays splattered along the wall, which was what he’d been half expecting, and he was relieved.

  A male figure entered the doorway to the room and Kyle ducked just in time to avoid looking into the man’s eyes.

  Kyle peered back into the window. The man was administering a shot to Armando. Kyle suspected it might be heroin, or something to keep Armando quiet or unable to plan an escape. He could see the disgusted expression on Armando’s face as the drug took effect. His eyes opened just slightly wider, two little sparkling slits of dark pain. Armando’s gaze connected with Kyle’s and registered. Armando’s smile was wide as he bobbed his head to the left to let Kyle know he saw him.

  “You like this shit, don’t you, hero boy?” The heavily accented man kicked Armando in the gut.

  Armando retched, and then raised his head up with another wide grin. “Oh, yeah. I like it all right. I’m dreaming of peeling your skin off in strips and cooking it like bacon, man.”

  Armando got another kick in the gut for that one.

  “Yum,” Armando said, and then spat out blood onto the man’s shoes.

  Kyle figured Armando was going to get a fist and probably more kicks, but the phone rang, and the man went after it. Left alone, Armando nodded to his left twice in quick succession, indicating Mia was probably in the next room.

  Kyle silently crept to the other window and saw Mia, her arms cuffed up over her head and her ankles spread and cuffed to the iro
n bed frame. She was covered with a dirty blanket. Her sleep was deep.

  God, hope they didn’t drug her too.

  Kyle thought he heard a vehicle in the distance. He adjusted his goggles and scanned the forest, but couldn’t detect a light source. He ran near soundlessly through the brush until he reached Cooper and Fredo.

  “You hear that?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sounded a ways off, though. Came from there,” Coop whispered, nodding toward the motor home. Kyle recognized a slight waver in his buddy’s voice. The last time he’d heard it they’d been lying on their bellies on a rooftop in Afghanistan.

  Kyle knew if something happened to the motor home, they’d have to wing it in the woods. But they had gear and had been trained to improvise, to use what was around them. It would be a minor inconvenience for them, but might put Gunny in harm’s way. But wasn’t anything he could dwell on right now.

  At least they weren’t in the frozen tundra in Alaska, where they’d been trained.

  Kyle began making a plan, assuming there were at least two bad guys in the house. Perhaps more in the woods. Definitely more coming. Though outnumbered, at least they had the element of surprise on their side. And so far, they didn’t have anyone shooting at them.

  Something whizzed through the night air. Three definite taps hit the tree right behind Fredo and splinters of pinewood flew in all directions. Kyle recognized silenced automatic fire.

  Chapter 13

  Christy had spent a restless morning cleaning her condo. Again.

  Twice in one week? I’m turning into my mother.

  But she knew she’d have to step outside her cocoon eventually and face the real world. She wouldn’t be looking for anyone to take the SEALs place. Just something to distract her thoughts until her heart could heal.

  If that was even possible.

  She thought about calling Marla, but didn’t need the questions she knew would come. She needed an intense workout, though, and Marla, the toughest of the personal training staff, would push her as hard as she wanted to go. And then ask all her questions.

  So be it. Christy really didn’t want to be alone. And maybe after the workout, she’d even think up some answers that might make some sense.

  Marla agreed to meet her at the gym an hour before closing. She put off the trainer’s sharp queries, promising to catch her up later.

  She grabbed her keys, loaded her gym bag for later, and left it on her bed.

  Though she knew it wasn’t wise, she needed to go look for Kyle. He was probably occupied with searching for Armando, but she hoped for a chance encounter. Or perhaps word would get back to him she was looking for him again.

  Will this send him away permanently? She decided it didn’t matter.

  Her hallway was deserted. Downstairs in the garage, it was deathly quiet. A pair of finches had traveled into the huge underground structure and made a nest. She heard the peeping of young life echoing faintly in the cold, gray cave of the bowels of her complex. It took away some of her apprehension.

  Why can’t I relax?

  It wasn’t as if she was in any danger. Kyle was the one who was doing all the exciting stuff. Christy was a Realtor. The only thing she had to do was land on her feet after a rocky first week at the company. Time would heal her jitters. If Patterson Realty wasn’t going to start getting comfortable right away, she’d move on. She would try another office. Make another fresh start.

  Or I’ll quit and go back home to San Francisco.

  Her Honda was still clean after last Sunday’s bath. When she’d been ready to launch her career. Been dressed to the nines. Hopeful. All this had been just four little days ago, back when all things were possible. Before the guy with the three-legged tattoo had wound her pantyhose around her wrists and challenged her very existence.

  As she exited past the lumbering automatic rolling grates of the garage, afternoon sunlight caught her like a blast from a furnace. Her eyes hurt from all the crying she’d done. One look into the rear view mirror told her it showed. The car had no forgiving light fixture like the one in the bathroom. Harsh sunlight showed every wrinkle, every bloodshot vessel in the whites of her eyes, every part of her puffy red eyelids. Crying and lack of sleep made her look ten years older, she thought.

  Come on, Christy. Get yourself together. Focus.

  Nothing looked familiar yet in San Diego. Every street was new. Every building, office, or restaurant was more eye candy. The colors of the bay, the clouds in the sky—everything was different from San Francisco, a city she knew so well. A city where she’d felt safe. Not like here, although San Diego was probably safer with all these hunky guys running up and down the beaches. The only constant was that she felt she didn’t belong here yet.

  Her Honda pulled up outside the sandwich shop Kyle had taken her to on the island as if she’d willed it that way. She’d traveled without being conscious of where she was driving. Over the Coronado bridge that always scared her just a little bit. She hadn’t noticed.

  Why?

  Though Kyle was the biggest asshole she’d ever met, he was also a complicated package doing a hard job. She was collateral damage. Plain and simple.

  The thought didn’t help her as much as she wanted it to. She’d wanted to be more than collateral. That was the whole point. She wanted to be the center of someone’s universe. And she knew with Kyle, that could never be. His duty, his job, would always come first.

  My own damn fault. That’s right, Christy. You knew it would hurt. Well, babe, you were right.

  God, how she hated to be right, especially when she didn’t listen to herself.

  “Fuck it,” she whispered as she exited the car and tweeted it locked.

  The grill was hopping, with a full crowd. Too early for happy hour. She spotted a table full of America’s finest, eating hamburgers and drinking shakes. She knew, just knew they were SEALs. They were all dressed casual, with their hair a little longer than regular military, and even a couple had moustaches. Their muscles were bulging and from what she could see, she figured that among the eight of them, there were probably fifty tattoos. She didn’t want to stare.

  But she did.

  Almost on cue, all of them turned and quietly assessed her. They looked in her eyes, every one of them. She could tell they were scanning elsewhere, but wouldn’t show it, with that damned peripheral vision Kyle used.

  Did they know she’d been with Kyle here? No way. How in the heck could they tell?

  She nodded in their direction, smiled, and took a flying leap of faith. Her legs automatically took her to their table’s edge and she addressed them.

  “Hi there, fellas.”

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” one said. Several of them stood.

  “No. Stay seated, but thank you.”

  “You like to join us?”

  God, he was good looking. Dark, almond eyes and light, coffee-colored skin. They all were specimens. She smelled something familiar in their group.

  Confidence.

  “Well, I…”

  “Sure she will, gents.” Griz came over and handed her a menu. “I’m giving her this, but I already know she likes the fresh crab sandwich.” He winked, and several of the men nodded.

  So that’s how it’s done. Griz just let them know she’d been there with someone. Didn’t matter who. Someone had claimed her.

  But do they know he’s dumped me?

  It probably didn’t matter. She could tell she was permanently off limits. And it wouldn’t be the first time an ex-girlfriend…and what in the hell are you thinking, Christy?

  I’m no ex anything. I was a two-night stand. Nothing more.

  That did it. Her eyes stung because the tears were being dredged up all the way from her feet. She’d cried so much last night she was plain out of tears and hadn’t recovered, probably wouldn’t recover for days.

  She shoved the menu against Griz’s chest, chanced a quick glance into his puzzled eyes, and then took off. She ran. She ran down the sidewalk thre
e blocks, hoping the wind would take the tears away before she felt them running down her cheeks.

  And then she stopped.

  What am I doing?

  She’d run past her car. She saw water glistening on the inlet and she walked toward it, down to where the waves were lapping on the shore. The sand was warm under her feet. A couple of little kids were playing in the surf. The beach was dotted with visitors.

  Christy turned to the left and saw a portion of the beach roped off in orange. Out in the bay several gray boat crews were bobbing up and down, their oars dipping deep into the murky water, held by muscled arms. It kept them from being pulled onto the rocks ahead of them on the shore. Another small crew of men ran in tandem down the beach, carrying a rubber boat over their heads, looking like ants under a bulky sausage. A lone man with a bright orange vest was shouting through a white bullhorn. He stood atop the large boulders of the breakwater.

  She walked closer to the spectacle. A small crowd of tourists was standing outside the orange zone. As another crew passed them, someone shouted, “Smile, gentlemen. We got pretty girls ahead.”

  Half of the men didn’t look up, but the handsome boat crew leader showed off his pearly whites to a couple of well-tanned lovelies in their all-too-skimpy bikinis, each holding up their iPhones to take pictures.

  “Bet he won’t be smiling tonight,” someone said in the audience.

  Another instructor with a bullhorn shouted behind one brave soul, who was limping.

  “I said sandy. Good and sandy, mister.”

  The whole beach could hear him.

  “Yessir.”

  “Don’t yessir me. Get sandy, sailor.”

  “Yessir.” The recruit did somersaults all the way to the edge of the surf, where he lay back and allowed the little slapping waves to cover him. He threw wet sand over his camis and boots that were laced up mid-calf. The young man looked up to see where his tormentor was.

  “Did I say you could raise your head, sailor?”

  The recruit put his stubbled head back onto the wet beach and continued to splash water and wet, sloppy sand on his own face.