Down and Dirty

by Sandra Hill

  He made them sit there for three minutes, but it probably felt like an hour before he shouted for them to come to shore. “Up boats, ladies. Time for a short run to warm you up.”

  Britta was visibly shivering, her teeth chattering, when she came out.

  “Are you cold, Asado?” he inquired. “I can get you warm real quick. All you gotta do is ring out.”

  She said something in Old Norse that he was pretty sure equated with “Get a life, bozo.”

  After much clumsy scrambling, they got the knack of holding the IBSs on their heads. Little did they know that quickly they would experience an almost unbearable pain in the neck and jaws, even the ankles and knees, just from the weight of the rubber boat as they ran.

  He had to give them credit when they began calling out what had to be a quickly improvised series of jody calls. Anyone who had ever seen the movie Stripes knew how ridiculous they could be. These particular ones seemed to be prompted by a woman from Nashville that someone had told him was a country western singer. Her name was Alda Sue Perry.

  “I don’t know but I been told,” Alda Sue sang out.

  “I don’t know but I been told,” the rest of the women repeated.

  “Navy SEALs aren’t all that hot.”

  “Navy SEALs aren’t all that hot.”

  “Of women, they know diddly squat.”

  “Of women, they know diddly squat.”

  “That’s the truth, we swear to that.”

  “That’s the truth, we swear to that.”

  “Now WEALS may be hot to trot,”

  “Now WEALS may be hot to trot,”

  “But not for a webfoot hotshot.”

  “But not for a webfoot hotshot.”

  “Keep it up, SEALs cannot.”

  “Keep it up, SEALs cannot.”

  “Sound off, one, two…”

  “Three, four.”

  “Very funny,” the commander said. “Enough slacking off. Pick up speed here, ladies, or ring out. This isn’t a turtle race. We have something fun planned back on the grinder. Betcha that bell will be ringing then.”

  A communal groan followed his words.

  They ran five miles, which was a lot for some of these women. Halfway back to the command center, they were really dragging, the weight of the boats and length of their run catching up with even the fittest of them. He knew from experience that their muscles were screaming by now, especially the back of the neck.

  Britta was in the middle of the line, struggling, but no more than the others. He tried to stay away and let the other instructors pick on her, but he couldn’t help but glance her way every five minutes or so.

  “Are you still mad at me, honey?” he inquired, jogging along beside her.

  She stared straight ahead, panting like a woman in labor. Was she still upset because he wouldn’t agree to her preposterous suggestion that he travel back in time with her? As if!

  “You didn’t really expect me to time-travel with you, did you?”

  She glanced his way for a brief second. “I’ll find someone else to help. Now begone, lout! You will scare the other men away.”

  “Huh? What men?” He slowed down his pace, dropping to the back of the pack. She’d planted an uncomfortable idea in his head. She wouldn’t go out seeking some other man, would she? For orgasms or a friggin’ time-travel buddy? Not if he had any say in the matter, and he had plenty to say.

  F.U. got in the faces of some of the women then. Jogging backward, he taunted Alda Sue, “Well, Mzzz. I-Am-a-Country-Singer, yer not singin’ now, are ya? Yer sweatin’ like a pig. It’s a wonder ya don’t jist fall down. Come on, baby, I’ll help ya to the bell. Ya kin be in Nashville before dark.”

  “F.U.,” the woman choked out.

  F.U.’s eyes about bugged out. “Wh-what did you say?”

  Alda Sue just widened her eyes innocently and replied, “I said, ‘Yes, Master Chief F.U., sir.’ What did you think I said?”

  The commander jogged up then, and F.U. gave the woman a look that pretty much said to watch her back.

  Meanwhile, Petty Officer Evans, Britta’s swim partner, began to chant:

  “Eeney meany miney mo.”

  “Eeney meany miney mo.”

  “Catch a jerk by the toe.”

  “Catch a jerk by the toe.”

  “If he hollers, grab his cock,”

  “If he hollers, grab his cock,”

  “Teeney-tiny on a know-nothing jock.”

  “Teeney-tiny on a know-nothing jock.”

  “Sound off, one, two,”

  “Three, four.”

  The grody jody was clearly aimed at F.U., which was undoubtedly going to merit Evans some sort of retaliation. She would probably say that his embarrassment was worth it. Zach and the commander would have to watch F.U. a little closer to make sure he didn’t cross any lines.

  Zach’s eyes caught Britta’s just then as she passed. He smiled. She frowned.

  He studied her from the back as she continued to jog back to the command center. She was sex in motion. The sinews of her long legs stretched with her stride. Her butt cheeks moved up and down. Her single braid swung side to side.

  “Hey, buddy,” Cage said, loping up to him as he brought up the rear of the joggers, “your lust is showing.”

  “Huh?” he gazed down to his shorts.

  “Not there, you idiot.” Cage laughed. “I meant you have hungry eyes every time you look at Britta.”

  Great! That is just great!

  “Down boats! Down boats!” F.U. screamed into the faces of some of the trainees who were too numb to respond in the proper manner, which would be “Yes, Master Chief, sir.” Instead, they just let the boats drop wherever, their shoulders sagging with relief.

  But only for a second.

  “On your backs, sweetie pies,” F.U. continued with glee. “Give me twenty flutter kicks. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Start knockin’ ’em out.”

  They were the most half-assed flutter kicks he’d ever seen, despite him and all the other instructors leaning over the trainees yelling encouragement or directions or mostly offers to help them DOR.

  A couple of the women walked off to the side and hurled into the sand. Overexertion did that to a body.

  “I have a good idea,” Zach yelled out then. “Let’s play volcano.”

  The women were too exhausted to mutter aloud, but the glowers they shot his way spoke volumes, Britta’s more than any of them.

  The class was gathered in several big, tight circles on the beach, backs to the center, and ordered to keep tossing sand up in the air and over themselves, like what else? Volcanoes.

  “There’s a point to this exercise, snuffies,” Zach explained. “Out on an active op, with artillery, demolitions, and shells exploding all around you, sand and dirt are going to be tossed in your face and ears and other body cavities. You’re going to have to learn to work despite the discomfort and fuzzy vision and impaired hearing.”

  No one was buying his logic.

  “And now,” Commander MacLean said, “we’re going to show you whistle exercises. Over and over and over during the course of your program, no matter what evolution, you must adhere to the whistle directives. Come over here and demonstrate, Instructors Floyd, Uxley, and LeBlanc.” A loud blast came from the commander’s whistle. The three of them dropped to the ground, face-first. “This is the same position you would take if there were real artillery rounds coming at you or bombs being lobbed in your vicinity. Notice how they face away from the sound, hands behind their necks to keep their heads from bouncing on the ground, open mouths to keep their ears from blowing out, ankles and legs crossed to protect”—he grinned—“their private parts.”

  The women for once seemed to understand the need for this battle replica drill and paid strict attention.

  Two blasts from the whistle, and the three of them began to crawl toward the sound. Three blasts and they recovered, getting to their feet and brushing the sand off their fronts.


  “Now, let’s see you do it.” At least twenty times, the commander played the different whistle blasts till they seemed to get the routine. Drop, crawl, recover, drop, crawl, recover. Over and over and many different patterns. It was a Pavlov exercise in the extreme. “Remember, you’re going to hear this whistle at random times during all different exercises. And always, ALWAYS, the whistle routine takes precedence. It might save your life someday. Understood?”

  Dozens of heads bobbed. Four women walked off to ring the bell.

  “Remember, snuffies. No pain, no gain.”

  “If a barrel of lutefisk were nearby, I vow I would stuff it into the commander’s mouth to prevent him from uttering another of his lackwit sayings.” Luckily, Britta’s remark wasn’t overheard by MacLean, or she would be in Gig Squad tonight.

  As it was, Zach told her, “Asado, watch your mouth. It’s going to get you in big trouble.”

  She glanced his way, checked to see that no one was looking, then stuck her tongue out at him.

  The commander and half the instructors then herded the staggering women, carrying the IBSs again on extended arms, toward the swimming pool for drownproofing exercises. At least a dozen of the trainees would ring out in the midst of that horror by the end of the afternoon, guaranteed. Their arms and legs would be tied, and they would be tossed in the pool where they were expected to remain underwater and survive for a full five minutes. If they attempted to rise to the top, an instructor was there to shove them back under.

  Zach made his way into the command center to meet with his grandfather and his lawyer.

  His grandfather, General Floyd, was standing at the window observing the progress of the WEALS. Even though he was at ease, his backbone was straight as a board. His high and tight showed not a gray hair out of place. His face was rigid and unsmiling, as if he was ever at attention. His uniform was immaculately pressed with five rows of ribbons to indicate combat tours, along with various medals and of course the stars. His shoes were spit-shined. Army lifer to the max. He extended a hand formally to Zach. It was a wonder he didn’t salute.

  After shaking hands, the general asked, “Which one is she? The tall blonde?”

  He shook his head at the hopelessness of his blabbermouth brother. “Which one what?” he pretended innocence.

  “Don’t play games with me, Zachary Frank Floyd.”

  “My personal life is my business.”

  “Hardly,” he scoffed, motioning to the lawyer sitting at the conference table.

  Zach nodded at Delaney, who was trying his best not to be a party to this private conversation.

  “I meant my sex life.” Sometimes he had to be blunt to get through to his grandfather.

  “I would say your sex life is pretty much public fodder these days, wouldn’t you?”

  “Listen, Britta has nothing to do with this.”

  “Britta?” His grandfather raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to marry the girl?”

  He released a whooshy exhale. “Number one, Britta is twenty-seven years old, not a girl. Number two, marriage is the last thing on my mind…or hers. Number three, even if I wanted to get married, and I don’t, it would be the kiss of death for Britta in WEALS.”

  His grandfather nodded. That was one thing he understood: military obligations. “Just don’t get the lady pregnant. That’s all you need is another—”

  “Don’t even go there,” he warned with an upraised hand. He might not have married Esilah, but he’d deck any person calling his kid a bastard.

  His grandfather’s face flushed, but he had the good sense not to say anything more on that subject. “I’m going over to the XO’s office to relay a message from Admiral Jenner. Let’s have dinner tonight.” What a piece of work his grandfather was! You’d never know they’d just exchanged barely civil words.

  He shook his head. “I have to be home with Sammy.”

  “How is the boy?”

  “He’s fine. Correction, he’s not fine, but he will be.”

  The general gave what for him was a grin. “Still cursing up a storm?”

  “Yeah, but he’s toned his repertoire down a bit. He’s trying.” What a crock!

  “You could let him come back to D.C. with me. Your grandmother and I could care for him till this whole debacle blows over. He’d be safe in our gated community.”

  Not in a million years! Sammy is screwed up enough. “Thanks, but he stays with me.”

  After his grandfather was gone, making arrangements to drop by the house before leaving town, Zach and Delaney got down to business. He signed legal documents giving the lawyer power of attorney to access his confidential files and act on his behalf in legal matters where privacy laws prevailed.

  “Arsallah wants to arrange a meeting between himself and your son.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Not even in a secure setting?”

  “No. It can serve no purpose other than to intimidate Sammy and give Arsallah information about how to access the boy.”

  “The courts might say he has a grandfather’s right to visitation.”

  “Then he’ll have to fight for it in the courts. And that means he’ll have to explain some of the scars on the boy’s body and some of the things Sammy has inadvertently revealed about his treatment in the mullah’s camps.”

  “None of this is going to be easy.”

  “I know that.”

  “And not just because of Arsallah’s threats. The State Department has Lebanon and Iran breathing down its neck. They’re urging diplomacy.”

  “Bullshit! What they’re urging is that we sacrifice the boy for the sake of goodwill with a bunch of terrorist nations.”

  Delaney shrugged. “That’s the way the world works.”

  “It’s not the way I work.”

  “The Vortex Security guy talked with you today, right?”

  He nodded.

  “They think you should find a safe house for Sammy and yourself for the short term.”

  He shook his head. “Sammy’s lived with nothing but turmoil practically since he was born. I have to give him as close to a normal life as I can. And, yeah, I know my home is no Brady Bunch paradise, but it’s better than he’s ever known before.”

  Delaney reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. “You don’t have to convince me, Zach.”

  After his meeting with the lawyer, it was past noon, and he decided to catch up with the WEALS class in the chow hall. When he got there, he saw a bunch of ragtag women who looked as if they’d been put through the ringer. It was hard to tell whether they were eating or sleeping as they sat on the benches. Wet, scrawny hair from the pool. Sweaty bodies. Grimy clothing. Exhaustion and pain etched on their faces. But wait, there was a group of women who weren’t sitting down, and in the middle of that bunch, he saw Britta holding center court. She was holding something up to the women who surrounded her. Whatever it was, it caused the other women to laugh. Even some of the instructors standing nearby were smiling.

  When she saw him, despite all the military protocol to the contrary, she stomped up to him and held out a dish. “Do you know what this is?” she demanded.

  “Uh, chocolate pudding?”

  “Covered with?”

  “Whipped cream?”

  “And how does one eat whipped cream, pray tell?”

  “With a spoon?” Uh-oh! He knew where this conversation was going.

  “Do not dare to smirk at me, lout. You told me there was only one way to eat whipping cream. By licking. And, for a certainty, it was not on a bowl of pudding, either, you son of a codsucking camel.”

  He couldn’t help himself from joining the crowd. Everybody was laughing.

  Except Britta. She tossed the dish of pudding in his face.

  MEMO

  From: Captain Lenore Feldman

  To: Commander Ian MacLean

  Subject: WEALS

  Whipped cream and other food products can be a form of forbidden sexual fraternization.

/>   Chapter 14

  Who hid the red paint?…

  They had just completed the fourth week of WEALS training, and only thirty-five of the original ninety-five women remained. Fortunately, Britta and her three sleeping-chamber companions were still in the race.

  Despite how hard they had been worked, from before dawn to dusk every day, and sometimes in the middle of the night, Britta felt good. And she was proud. Not just of the strength and stamina she was building in her body, but how much she was learning. How to use weapons, like rifles and KA-BAR knives. How to maneuver in close-quarter fighting. How to infiltrate an enemy’s territory. How to survive a nigh-drowning. How to work as a team, not an individual fighter. How to ride a rub-her boat on the waves without swallowing an ocean of salt water. How to jump off exceedingly high towers without breaking a limb, an exercise preparing them for jumping out of metal vehicles in the sky, something she chose not to think about.

  Zachary, with his overconcern for her well-being, had approached her several times, trying to coax her into ringing out. Mostly, she just ignored the lout. Yea, they had enjoyed great bedsport, but now ’twas time to move on to more serious matters. Not that he didn’t still make her blood heat and her nether parts thrum when he was near, but any other passably fair man would probably affect her in the same way, and she had told Zachary so. Which had caused his pretty face to flush with anger. Now he was the one ignoring her, or trying to.

  In the midst of her busy schedule, she was even learning reading, writing, geography, math, and history in classes arranged over her dinner hour each night. This instruction was provided for her privately, probably at Zachary’s urging, under the guise of her being a foreigner unfamiliar with the language and customs of America. The history lessons were the most illuminating to her; they drummed home more than anything else that she really must have traveled through time, as unbelievable as that was.

  But now, it was Frey’s-day afternoon, and Britta and her fellow trainees were about to have their first free time in weeks. “At ease, snuffies,” the commander hollered. Everything he ever said to them was delivered in a holler. “Be back here by oh seven hundred Sunday morning. Clean, pressed uniforms. Be prepared to strut your stuff for the powers that be.” A contingent of far-famed governing people from a place called Con-grass was coming to inspect their progress. “And be prepared to start survival training and simulated combat exercises on San Clemente Island starting Monday. We’ll play some Sims. Get in a few tracking, patrolling, ambushing, concealment, first-aid, and night-movement exercises. That’s it. Fall out! Class secured for the day!” You would think he could at least have told them they did good so far, but nay, praise from him would be considered a weakness.