Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  She was scared to death, but she was damned if she was going to let anyone tell her she couldn't make this jump.

  As she watched, Harvard spoke again to Blue. Blue nod­ded, took out a pen and began writing on the paper.

  Harvard came down the center aisle and paused next to her chair.

  "You okay?" he asked quietly enough so that no one else could hear.

  She was unable to hold his gaze. He was close enough to smell her fear and to see that she was, in fact, anything but okay. She didn't bother to lie. "I can do this."

  "You don't have to."

  "Yes, I do. It's part of this program."

  "This jump is optional."

  "Not for me, it's not."

  He was silent for a moment. "There's nothing I can say to talk you out of this, is there?"

  PJ. met his gaze. "No, Senior Chief, there's not."

  He nodded. "I didn't think so." He gave her another long look, then moved to the back of the room.

  PJ. closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. She wanted to get this over with. The waiting was killing her.

  "Okay," Blue said. "Listen up. Here're the teams. Schnei­der's with Greene, Farber's with me. Bobby's with Wes, and Crash is with Lucky. Richards, you're with Senior Chief Becker."

  PJ. turned to look at Harvard. He was gazing at her, and she knew this was his doing. If he couldn't talk her out of the jump, he was going to go with her, to baby-sit her on the way down.

  "Out in the other room, you'll find a jumpsuit, a helmet and a belt pack with various supplies," Blue continued. "In­cluding a length of rope."

  Farber raised his hand. "What's the rope for?"

  Blue smiled. "Just one of those things that might come in handy," he said. "Any other questions?"

  The room was silent.

  "Let's get our gear and get to the plane," Blue said.

  Harvard sat next to P.J. and fastened his seat belt as the plane carrying the team went wheels up.

  Sure enough, PJ. was a white-knuckle flyer. She clung to the armrests as if they were her only salvation. But her head was against the seat, and her eyes were closed. To the casual observer, she was totally relaxed and calm.

  She'd glanced at him briefly as he sat down, then went back to studying the insides of her eyelids.

  Harvard took the opportunity to look at her. She was pretty, but he'd had his share of pretty women before, many of them much more exotic-looking than PJ.

  It was funny. He was used to gorgeous women throwing themselves at his feet, delivering themselves up to him like some gourmet meal on a silver platter. They were always the ones in pursuit. All he'd ever had to do was sit back and wait for them to approach him.

  But PJ. was different. With P.J., he was clearly the one doing the chasing. And every time he moved closer, she backed away.

  It was annoying—and as intriguing as hell.

  As the transport plane finally leveled off, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

  "You want to review the jump procedure again?" he asked her quietly.

  She shook her head. "There's not much to remember. I lift my feet and jump out of the plane. The static line opens the chute automatically."

  "If your chute tangles or doesn't open right," Harvard re­minded her, "if something goes wrong, break free and make sure you're totally clear before you pull the second rip cord. And when you land—"

  "We went over all this in the classroom," PJ. interrupted. "I know how to land."

  "Talking about it isn't the same as doing it."

  She lowered her voice. "Daryl, I don't need you holding my hand."

  Daryl. She'd called him Daryl again. She'd called him that yesterday, too. He lowered his voice. "Aren't you just even a little bit glad I'm here?"

  "No." She held his gaze steadily. "Not when I know the only reason you're here is you don't think I can do this on my own."

  Harvard shifted in his seat to face her. "But that's what working in a team is all about. You don't have to do it on your own. You've got an issue with this particular exercise. That's cool. We can do a buddy jump—double harness, single chute. I'll do most of the work—I'll get us to the ground. You just have to close your eyes and hold on."

  "No. Thank you, but no. A woman in this business can't afford to have it look as if she needs help," she told him.

  He shook his head impatiently. "This isn't about being a woman. This is about being human. Everybody's got some­thing they can't do as easily or as comfortably as the next man—person. So you've got a problem with heights—"

  "Shh," she said, looking around to see if anyone was lis­tening. No one was.

  "When you're working in a team," Harvard continued, speaking more softly, "it doesn't do anybody any good for you to conceal your weaknesses. I sure as hell haven't kept mine hidden."

  PJ.'s eyes widened slightly. "You don't expect me to be­lieve—"

  "Everybody's got something," he said again. "When you have to, you work through it, you ignore it, you suck it up and get the job done. But if you've got a team of seven or eight men and you need two men to scale the outside of a twenty-story building and set up recon on the roof, you pick the two guys who are most comfortable with climbing instead of the two who can do the job but have to expend a lot of energy focusing on not looking down. Of course, it's not al ways so simple. There are lots of other things to factor in in any given situation."

  "So what's yours?" P.J. asked. "What's your weakness?" From the tone of her voice and the disbelief in her eyes, she clearly didn't think he had one.

  Harvard had to smile. "Why don't you ask Wes or O'Donlon? Or Blue?" He leaned past PJ. and called to the other men, "Hey, Skelly. Hey, Bob. What do I hate more than anything?"

  "Idiots," Wes supplied.

  "Idiots with rank," Bobby added.

  "Being put on hold, traffic jams and cold coffee," Lucky listed.

  "No, no, no," Harvard said. "I mean, yeah, you're right, but I'm talking about the teams. What gives me the cold sweats when we're out on an op in the real world?"

  "SDVs," Blue said without hesitation. At PJ.'s question­ing look, he explained. "Swimmer Delivery Vehicles. We sometimes use one when a team is being deployed from a nuclear sub. It's like a miniature submarine. Harvard pretty much despises them."

  "Getting into one is kind of like climbing into a coffin," Harvard told her. "That image has never sat really well with me."

  "The Senior Chief doesn't do too well in tight places," Lucky said.

  "I'm slightly claustrophobic," Harvard admitted, "Locking out of a sub through the escape trunk with him is also a barrel of laughs," Wes said with a snort. "We all climb from the sub into this little chamber—and I mean little, right, H.?"

  Harvard nodded. "Very little."

  "And we stand there, packed together like clowns in a Volkswagen, and the room slowly fills with water," Wes con­tinued. "Anyone who's even a little bit funny about space tends to do some serious teeth grinding."

  "We just put Harvard in the middle," Blue told P.J., "and let him close his eyes. When it's time to get going, when the outer lock finally opens, whoever's next to him gives him a little push—"

  "Or grabs his belt and hauls him along if his meditation mumbo jumbo worked a little too well," Wes added.

  "Some people are so claustrophobic they're bothered by the sensation of water surrounding them, and they have trou­ble scuba diving," Harvard told her. "But I don't have that issue. Once I'm in the water, I'm okay. As long as I can move my arms, I'm fine. But if I'm in tight quarters with the walls pressing in on me..." He shook his head. "I really don't like the sensation of having my arms pinned or trapped against my body. When that happens, I get a little tense."

  Lucky snickered. "A little? Remember that time—"

  "We don't need to go into that, thank you very much," Harvard interrupted. "Let's just say, I don't do much spe­lunking in my spare time."

  P.J. laughed. "I never would have thought," she said. "I mean, you com
e across as Superman's bigger brother."

  He smiled into her eyes. "Even old Supe had to deal with kryptonite."

  "Ten minutes," Wes announced, and the mood in the plane instantly changed. The men of Alpha Squad all became professionals, readying and double-checking the gear.

  Harvard could feel P.J. tighten. Her smile faded as she braced herself.

  He leaned toward her, lowering his voice so no one else could hear. "It's not too late to back out."

  "Yes, it is."

  "How often does your job require you to sky dive?" he argued. "Never. This is a fluke—"

  "Not never," she corrected him. "Once. At least once. This once. I can do this. I know I can. Tell me, how many times have you had to lock out of a sub?"

  "Too many times."

  Somehow she managed a smile. "I only have to do this once."

  "Okay, you're determined to jump. I can understand why you want to do it. But let's at least make this a single-chute buddy jump—"

  "No." PJ. took a deep breath. "I know you want to help. But even though you think that might help me in the short term, I know it'll harm me in the long run. I don't want people looking at me and thinking, 'She didn't have the guts to do it alone.' Hell, I don't want you looking at me and thinking that."

  "I won't—"

  "Yes, you will. You already think that. Just because I'm a woman, you think I'm not as strong, not as capable. You think I need to be protected." Her eyes sparked. "Greg Greene's sitting over there looking like he's about to have a heart attack. But you're not trying to talk him out of making this jump."

  Harvard couldn't deny that.

  "I'm making this jump alone," PJ. told him firmly, de­spite the fact that her hands were shaking. "And since we're being timed for this exercise, do me a favor. Once we hit the ground, try to keep up."

  PJ. couldn't look down.

  She stared at the chute instead, at the pure white of the fabric against the piercing blueness of the sky.

  She was moving toward the ground faster than she'd imag­ined.

  She knew she had to look down to pinpoint the landing zone—the LZ—and to mark in her mind the spot where Har­vard hit the ground. She had little doubt he would come within a few dozen yards of the LZ, despite the strong wind coming from the west.

  Her stomach churned, and she felt green with nausea and dizziness as she gritted her teeth and forced herself to watch the little toy fields and trees beneath her.

  It took countless dizzying minutes—far longer than she would have thought—for her to locate the open area that had been marked as their targeted landing zone. And it had been marked. There was a huge bull's-eye blazed in white on the brownish green of the cut grass in the field. It was ludicrously blatant, and despite that, it had been absorbed by the pattern of fields and woods, and she nearly hadn't seen it.

  What would it be like to try to find an unmarked target? When the SEALs went on missions, their landing areas weren't marked. And they nearly always made their jumps at night. What would it be like to be up here in the darkness, floating down into hostile territory, vulnerable and exposed?

  She felt vulnerable enough as it was, and no one on the ground wanted to kill her.

  The parachute was impossible for her to control. P.J. at­tempted to steer for the bull's-eye, but her arms felt boneless, and the wind was determined to send her to another field across the road.

  The trees were bigger now, and the ground was rushing up at her—at her and past her as a gust caught in the chute's cells and took her aloft instead of toward the ground.

  A line of very solid-looking trees and underbrush was ap­proaching much too fast, but there was nothing PJ. could do. She was being blown like a leaf in the wind. She closed her eyes and braced herself for impact and...jerked to a stop.

  PJ. opened her eyes—and closed them fast. Dear, dear sweet Lord Jesus! Her chute had been caught by the branches of an enormous tree, and she was dangling thirty feet above the ground.

  She forced herself to breathe, forced herself to inhale and exhale until the initial roar of panic began to subside. As she slowly opened her eyes again, she looked into the branches above her. How badly was her chute tangled? If she tried to move around, would she shake herself free? She definitely didn't want to do that. That ground was too far away. A fall from this distance could break her legs—or her neck.

  She felt the panic return and closed her eyes, breathing again. Only breathing. A deep breath in, a long breath out. Over and over and over.

  When her pulse was finally down to ninety or a hundred, she looked into the tree again. There were big branches with leaves blocking most of her view of the chute, but what she could see seemed securely entangled.

  Sweat was dripping from her forehead, from underneath her helmet, and she wiped at it futilely.

  There were quick-release hooks that would instantly cut her free from the chute. They were right above her shoulders, and she reached above them, tugging first gently, then harder on the straps.

  She was securely lodged in the tree. She hoped.

  Still looking away from the ground, she brought one hand to her belt pack, to the length of lightweight rope that was coiled against her thigh. The rope was thin, but strong. And she knew why she had it with her. Without, she would have to dangle here until help arrived or risk almost certain injury by making the thirty-foot leap to the ground.

  She uncoiled part of the rope, careful to tie one end se­curely to her belt. This rope wouldn't do her a whole hell of a lot of good if she went and dropped it.

  She craned her neck to study the straps above her head. Her hands were shaking and her stomach was churning, but she told herself over and over again—as if it were a mantra— that she would be okay as long as she didn't look down.

  "Are you all right?"

  The voice was Harvard's, but P.J. didn't dare look at him. She felt a rush of relief, and it nearly pushed her over an emotional cliff. She took several deep, steadying breaths, forcing back the waves of emotion. God, she couldn't lose it Not yet. And especially not in front of this man.

  "I'm dandy," she said with much more bravado than she felt when she finally could speak. "In fact I'm thinking about having a party up here."

  "Damn, I thought for once you'd honestly be glad to see me."

  She was. She was thrilled to hear his voice, if not to ac­tually see him. But she wasn't about to tell him that. "I sup­pose as long as you're here, you might as well help me figure out a way to get down to the ground." Her voice shook de­spite her efforts to keep it steady, giving her away.

  Somehow he knew to stop teasing her. Somehow he knew that she was way worse off than her shaking voice had re­vealed.

  "Tie one end of the rope around your harness," he told her calmly, his velvet voice soothing and confident. "And toss the rest of the rope up and over that big branch near you. I'll grab the end of the rope, anchoring you. Then you can release your harness from the chute and I'll lower you to the ground."

  PJ. was silent, still looking at the white parachute trapped in the tree.

  "You've just got to be sure you tie that rope to your har­ness securely. Can you do that for me, P.J.?"

  She was nauseous, she was shaking, but she could still tie a knot. She hoped. "Yes." But there was more here that had to be removed from the tree than just herself. "What about the chute?" she asked.

  "The chute's just fine," he told her. "Your priority—and my priority—is to get you down out of that tree safely."

  "I'm supposed to hide my chute. I don't think leaving it here in this tree like a big white banner fits Lieutenant Mc­Coy's definition of hide."

  "P.J., it's only an exercise—"

  "Throw your rope up to me."

  He was silent. PJ. had to go on faith that he was still standing there. She couldn't risk a look in his direction.

  "Throw me your rope," she said again. "Please? I can tie your rope around the chute, and then once I'm on the ground, we can try to pull
it free."

  "You're going to have to look at me if you want to catch it."

  She nodded. "I know."

  "Tie your rope around your harness first," he told her. "I want to get you secure before we start playing catch."

  "Fair enough."

  PJ.'s hands were shaking so badly she could barely tie a knot. But she did it. She tied three different knots, and just as Harvard had told her, she tossed the coil of the rope over a very sturdy-looking branch.

  "That's good," Harvard said, approval heating his already warm voice. "You're doing really well."

  "Throw me your rope now. Please."

  "You ready for me?"

  She had to look at him. She lowered her gaze, and the movement of her head made her swing slightly. The ground, the underbrush, the rocks and leaves and Harvard seemed a terrifyingly dizzying distance away. She closed her eyes. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God..."

  "P.J., listen to me." Harvard's voice cut through. "You're safe, do you understand? I'm tying the end of your rope around my waist. I've got you. I will not let you fall."

  "These knots I tied—they could slip."

  "If they do, I swear, I'll catch you."

  P.J. was silent, trying desperately to steady her breathing and slow her racing heart. Her stomach churned.

  "Did you hear me?" Harvard asked.

  "You'll catch me," she repeated faintly. "I know. I know that."

  "Unhook your harness from the chute and let me get you down from there."

  God, she wanted that. She wanted that so badly. "But I need your rope first."

  Harvard laughed in exasperation. "Damn, woman, you're stubborn! This exercise is not that important. It's not that big a deal."

  "Maybe not to you, but it is to me!"

  As Harvard gazed at her, the solution suddenly seemed so obvious. "P.J., you don't have to catch my rope. You don't have to look down. You don't even have to open your eyes. I can tie mine onto the end of yours, and you can just pull it up."