Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  And Harvard was suddenly aware of all the things he didn't know about this woman. She'd told him a little—just a lit­tle—about her wretched childhood. He also knew she had huge amounts of willpower and self-control. And drive. She had more drive and determination than most of the SEAL candidates he saw going through BUD/s training in Coronado.

  "Why'd you join FInCOM?" he asked. "And I'm betting it wasn't to collect all those frequent-flyer miles."

  That got him the smile he was hoping for. PJ. had a great smile, but often it was fleeting. She narrowed her eyes as she caught her lower lip between her teeth, pondering his ques­tion.

  "I don't really know why," she told him. "It's not like I wanted to be a FInCOM agent from the time I was five or anything like that. I went to college to study law. But I found that achingly boring. I had just switched to a business pro­gram when I was approached by a FInCOM recruitment team. I listened to what they had to say, taking all the glory and excitement they told me about with a grain of salt, of course, but..."

  She shrugged expressively. "I took the preliminary tests kind of as a lark. But each test I passed, each higher level I progressed to, I realized that maybe I was onto something here. I had these instincts—this was something I was naturally good at. It was kind of like picking up a violin and realizing I could play an entire Mozart concerto. It was cool. It wasn't long before I really started to care about getting into the FInCOM program. And then I was hooked."

  She looked at him. "How about you? Why'd you decide to join the Navy? You told me you were planning to be some kind of college professor right up until the time you graduated from Harvard."

  "English lit," Harvard told her. "Just like my daddy."

  She was leaning against the headrest of her seat, turned slightly to face him, legs curled underneath her. She was wearing a trim-fitting pair of chinos and a shirt that, although similar to the cut of the T-shirts she normally wore, was made with some kind of smooth, flowing, silky material. It clung to her body enticingly, shimmering very slightly whenever she moved. It looked exotically soft, decadently sensuous. Harvard would have given two weeks' pay just to touch the sleeve.

  "So what happened?" she asked.

  "You really want to know?" he asked. "The real story, not the version I told my parents?"

  He had her full attention. She nodded, eyes wide and wait­ing.

  "It was about a week and a half after college graduation," Harvard told her. "I took a road trip to New York City with a bunch of guys from school. Brian Bradford's sister Ashley was singing in some chorus that was appearing at Carnegie Hall, so he was going down to see that, and Todd Wright was going along with him because he was perpetually chasing fair Ashley. Ash only got two comps, so the rest of us were going to hang at Stu Waterman's father's place uptown. We were going to spend two or three days camping out on Wa­terman's living room rug, doing the city. We figured we'd catch a show or two, do some club-hopping, just breathe in that smell of money down on Wall Street. We were Harvard grads and we owned the world. Or so I thought."

  "Uh-oh," P.J. said. "What happened?"

  "We pulled into town around sundown, dropped Bri and Todd off near Carnegie Hall, you know, cleaned 'em up a little, brushed their hair and made sure they had the Water-mans' address and their names pinned to their jackets. Stu and Ng and I got something to eat and headed over to Stu's place. We knew Todd and Brian weren't going to be back until late, so we decided to go out. I saw in the paper that Danilo Perez's band was playing at a little club across town. He's this really hot jazz pianist. He'd gotten pretty massive airplay on the jazz station in Cambridge, but I'd never seen him live, so I was psyched to go. But Stu and Ng wanted to see a movie. So we split up. They went their way, I went mine."

  PJ.'s eyes were as warm as the New York City night Har­vard had found himself walking around in all those years ago.

  "The conceit was out of this world," he told her. "What happened after it wasn't, but I'll never regret going out there. I stayed until they shut the bar down, until Danilo stopped playing, and even then I hung for a while and talked to the band. Their jazz was so fresh, so happening. You know, with some bands, you get this sense that they're just ghosts— they're just playing what the big boys played back in the thirties. And other bands, they're trying so hard to be out there, to be on the cutting edge, they lose touch with the music."

  "So what happened after you left the club?" P.J. asked.

  Harvard laughed ruefully. "Yeah, I'm getting to the nasty part of the story, so I'm going off on a tangent—trying to avoid the subject by giving you some kind of lecture on jazz, aren't I?"

  She nodded.

  He touched her sleeve with one finger. "I like that shirt. Did I tell you I like that shirt?"

  "Thank you," she said. "What happened when you left the club?"

  "All right." He drew in a deep breath and blew it out through his mouth. "It's about two-thirty, quarter to three in the morning, and I'd put in a call to Stu at around two, and he'd told me no sweat, they were still up, take my time head­ing back, but I'm thinking that a considerate houseguest doesn't roll in after three. I figure I better hurry, catch a cab. I try, but after I leave the club, every taxi I see just slows, checks me out, then rolls on by. I figure it's the way I'm dressed—jams and T-shirt and Nikes. Nothing too out there, but I'm not looking too fresh, either. I don't look like a Har­vard grad. I look like some black kid who's out much too late.

  "So okay. Cab's not gonna stop for me. It ticks me off, but it's not the end of the world. It's not like it's the first time that ever happened. Anyway, I'd spent four years on the Harvard crew team, and I'm in really good shape, so I figure, it's only a few miles. I'll run."

  Harvard could see from the look in PJ.'s eyes that she knew exactly what he was going to say next. "Yeah," he said. "That's right You guessed it. I haven't gone more than four blocks before a police car pulls up alongside me, starts pacing me. Seems that the sight of a black man running in that part of town is enough to warrant a closer look."

  "You didn't grow up in the city," P.J. said. "If you had, you would have known not to run."

  "Oh, I knew not to run. I may have been a suburb boy, but I'd been living in Cambridge for four years. But these streets were so empty, I was sure I'd see a patrol car coming. I was careless. Or maybe I'd just had one too many beers. Anyway, I stop running, and they're asking me who I am, where I've been, where I'm going, why I'm running. They get out of the squad car, and it's clear that they don't believe a single word I'm saying, and I'm starting to get annoyed. And righteous. And I'm telling them that the only reason they even stopped their car was because I'm an African American man. I'm starting to dig in deep to the subject of the terrible injustice of a social system that could allow such prejudice to occur, and as I'm talking, I'm reaching into my back pocket for my wallet, intending to show these skeptical SOBs my Harvard University ID card, and all of a sudden, I'm looking down the barrel of not one, but two very large police-issue handguns.

  "And my mind just goes blank. I mean, I've been stopped and questioned before. This was not the first time that had happened. But the guns were new. The guns were something I hadn't encountered before.

  "So these guys are shouting at me to get my hands out of my pockets and up where they can see them, and I look at them, and I see the whites of their eyes. They are terrified, their fingers twitching and shaking on the triggers of hand guns that are big enough to blow a hole in me no surgeon could ever stitch up. And I'm standing there, and I think, damn. I think, this is it. I'm going to die. Right here, right now—simply because I am a black man in an American city.

  "I put my hands up and they're shouting for me to get onto the ground, so I do. They search me—scrape my face on the concrete while they're doing it—and I'm just lying there thinking, I have a diploma from Harvard University, but it doesn't mean jack out here. I have an IQ that could gain me admission to the damn Mensa Society, but that's not what people see when they look
at me. They can't see any of that. They can only see the color of my skin. They see a six-foot-five black man. They see someone they think might be armed and dangerous."

  He was quiet, remembering how the police had let him go, how they'd let him off with a warning. They'd let him off. They hadn't given him more than a cursory apology. His cheek was scraped and bleeding and they'd acted as if he'd been the one in the wrong. He had sat on the curb for a while, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  "I'd heard about the SEALs. I guess I must've seen some­thing about the units on TV, and I'd read their history—about the Frogmen and the Underwater Demolition Teams in World War Two. I admired the SEALs for all the risks involved in their day-to-day life, and I guess I'd always thought maybe in some other lifetime it might've been something I would like to have done. But I remember sitting there on that side­walk in New York City after that patrol car had pulled away, thinking, damn. The average life expectancy for a black man in an American city is something like twenty-three very short years. The reality of that had never fully kicked in before, but it did that night. And I thought, hell, I'm at risk just walking around.

  "It was only sheer luck I didn't pull my wallet out of my back pocket when those policemen were shouting for me to put my hands in the air. If I had done that, and if one of those men had thought that wallet was a weapon, I would've been dead. Twenty-two years old. Another sad statistic.

  "I thought about that sitting there. I thought, yeah, I could play it safe and not go out at night. Or I could do what my father did and hide in some nice well-to-do suburb. Or I could join the Navy and become a SEAL, and at least that way the risks I took day after day would be worth something."

  Harvard let himself drown for a few moments in PJ.'s eyes. "The next morning, I found a recruiting office, and I joined my Uncle Sam's Navy. The rest, as they say, is his­tory.”

  P J. reached across the armrest and took his hand.

  He looked at her fingers, so slender and small compared to his. "This for me or for you?"

  "It's for you and me," she told him. "It's for both of us."

  Harvard's mother smelled like cinnamon. She smelled like the fragrant air outside the bakery PJ. used to walk past on her way to school in third grade, before her grandmother died.

  The entire house smelled wonderful. Something incredible was happening in the kitchen. Something that involved the oven and a cookbook and lots of sugar and spice.

  Ellie Becker had PJ. by one hand and her son by the other, giving them a tour of her new house. Boxes were stacked in all the rooms except the huge kitchen, which was pristine and completely unpacked.

  It was like the kitchens PJ. had seen on TV sitcoms. The floor was earth-tone-colored Mexican tile. The counters and appliances were gleaming white, the cabinets natural wood. There was an extra sink in a workstation island in the center of the room, and enough space for a big kitchen table that looked as if it could seat a dozen guests, no problem.

  "This was the room that sold us on this house," Ellie said. "This is the kitchen I've been dreaming about for the past twenty years."

  Harvard looked exactly like his mother. Oh, he was close to a foot and a half taller and not quite as round in certain places, but he had her smile and the same sparkle in his eyes.

  "This is a beautiful house," PJ. told Ellie.

  It was gorgeous. Brand-new, with a high ceiling in the living room, with thick-pile carpeting and freshly painted walls, it had been built in the single-story Spanish style so popular in the Southwest.

  Ellie was looking at Harvard. "What do you think?"

  He kissed her. "I think it's perfect. I think I want to know if those are cinnamon buns I smell baking in the oven, and if the chocolate chip cookies cooling on the rack over there are up for grabs."

  She laughed. "Yes and yes."

  "Check this out," Harvard said, handing PJ. a cookie.

  She took a bite.

  Harvard's mother actually baked. The cookies were im­possibly delicious. She didn't doubt the cinnamon buns in the oven would taste as good as they smelled.

  Harvard's mother did more than bake. She smiled nearly all the time, even when she wept upon seeing her son. She was the embodiment of joy and warmth, friendly enough to give welcoming hugs to strangers her son dragged home with him.

  PJ. couldn't wait to meet Harvard's father.

  "Kendra and the twins will be coming for dinner," Ellie told Harvard. "Robby can't make it. He's got to work." She turned to PJ. "Kendra is one of Daryl's sisters. She is going to be so pleased to meet you. I'm so pleased to meet you." She hugged PJ. again. "Aren't you just the sweetest, cutest little thing?"

  "Careful, Mom," Harvard said dryly. "That sweet, cute little thing is a FInCOM field operative."

  Ellie pulled back to look at PJ. "You're one of the agents being trained for this special counterterrorist thingy Daryl's working on?"

  "Yeah, she's one of the special four chosen to be trained as counterterrorist thingy agents," Harvard teased.

  "Well, what would you call it? You have nicknames for everything—not to mention all those technical terms and ac ronyms. LANTFLT, and NAVSPECWARGRU, and…oh; I can never keep any of that Navy-speak straight."

  Harvard laughed. "Team, Mom. The official technical Navy-speak term for this thingy is counterterrorist team."

  Ellie looked at PJ. "I've never met a real FInCOM agent before. You don't look anything like the ones I've seen on TV."

  "Maybe if she put on a dark suit and sunglasses."

  PJ. gave him a withering look, and Harvard laughed, tak­ing another cookie from the rack and holding it out to her. She shook her head. They were too damn good.

  "Do you have a gun and everything?" Ellie asked PJ.

  "It's called a weapon, Mom. And not only does she have one," Harvard told her, his mouth full of cookie, "but she knows how to use it. She's the best shooter I've met in close to ten years. She's good at all the other stuff, too. In fact, if the four superfinks were required to go through BUD/s training, I'm sure PJ. would be the last one standing."

  Ellie whistled. "For him to say that, you must be good."

  P J. smiled into those warm brown eyes that were so like Harvard's. "I am, thank you. But I wouldn't be the last one standing. I'd be the last one running."

  "You go, girl!" Ellie laughed in delight. She looked at Harvard. "Self-confident and decisive. I like her."

  "I knew you would." Harvard held out another handful of cookies to P J. She hesitated only briefly before she took one, smiling her thanks, and he smiled back, losing himself for a moment in her eyes.

  This was okay. This wasn't anywhere near as hard as he'd dreaded it would be. This house was a little too squeaky clean and new, with no real personality despite the jaunty angle to the living room ceiling, but his mother was happy here, that much was clear. And P J. was proving to be an excellent distraction. It was hard to focus on the fact that Phoenix, Arizona, was about as different from Hingham, Massachu­setts, as a city could possibly be when he was expending so many brain cells memorizing the way PJ.'s silken shirt seemed to flow and cling to her shoulders and breasts.

  There was a ten-year-old boy inside him ready to mourn the passing of an era. But that boy was being shouted down by the thirty-six-year-old full-grown man who, although des­perately wanting sheer, heart-stopping, teeth-rattling sex, was oddly satisfied and fulfilled by just a smile.

  He couldn't wait until the flight back tomorrow afternoon. If he played his cards right, maybe P.J. would hold his hand again.

  The absurdity of what he was thinking—that he was wildly anticipating holding a woman's hand—made him laugh out loud.

  "What's so funny?" his mother asked.

  "I'm just...glad to be here." Harvard gave her a quick hug. "Glad to have a few days off." He looked at P.J. and smiled. "Just glad." He turned to his mother. "Where's Daddy? It's too hot for him to be out playing golf."

  "He had a meeting at school. He should be back p
retty soon—he's going to be so surprised to see you." The oven timer buzzed, and Ellie peeked inside. Using hot mitts, she transferred the pan of fragrant buns to a cooling rack. "Why don't you bring your bags in from the car?"

  "We were thinking we'd get a couple hotel rooms," Har­vard told her. "You don't need the hassle of houseguests right now."

  "Nonsense." She made a face at him. "We've got plenty of space. As long as you don't mind the stacks of boxes..."

  "I wasn't sure you'd have the spare sheets unpacked." Harvard leaned against the kitchen counter. "And even if you did, you surely don't need the extra laundry. I think you've probably got enough to do around here for the next two months."

  "Don't you worry about that." His mother glanced quickly from him to P.J. and back. "Unless you'd rather stay at a hotel."

  Harvard knew the words his mother hadn't said. For pri­vacy. He knew she hadn't missed the fact that he'd said they'd get hotel rooms, plural. And he knew she hadn't missed the fact that he'd introduced P.J. to her as his friend—the prefix girl intentionally left off. But he also knew for damn sure his mother hadn't missed all those goofy smiles he was sending in PJ.'s direction.

  There were a million questions in his mother's eyes, but he trusted her not to ask them in front of P.J. She could embarrass and tease him all she wanted when they were alone, but she was a smart lady and she knew when and where to draw the line.

  "Hey, whose car is in the drive?"

  Harvard couldn't believe the difference between the old man he'd seen in the hospital and the man who came through the kitchen door. His father looked fifteen years younger. The fact that he was wearing a Chicago White Sox baseball cap and a pair of plaid golfing shorts only served to take another few years off him.

  "Daryl! Yes! I was hoping it was you!"

  Harvard didn't even bother to pretend to shake his father's hand. He just pulled the old man in close for a hug as he felt his eyes fill with tears. He'd been more than half afraid that, despite his mother's optimistic reports, he'd find his father looking old and gray and overweight, like another heart attack waiting to happen. Instead, he looked more alive than he had in years. "Daddy, damn! You look good!”