"Gee, thanks, H. I'm all aquiver with anticipation."
Harvard pushed open his office door. "Do me a favour and dial the captain's pager number. Give him an emergency code. Let's get him out of there."
Lucky picked up the phone and quickly punched in a series of numbers. He dropped the receiver into the cradle with a clatter.
"So where's everyone this afternoon?" Harvard called as he took off his jacket and hung it over the chair at his desk. "I stopped by the classroom on my way over, but it was empty. They're not all still at lunch, are they?"
"No, they're at the airfield. I'm heading over there myself in about ten minutes." Lucky raised his voice to be heard through the open door.
Harvard stopped rifling through the files on his desk. "They're where?"
"At the field. It's jump day," Lucky told him.
"Today?" Harvard moved to the door to stare at the younger SEAL. "No way. That wasn't scheduled until next week."
"Yeah, everything got shifted around, remember? We had to move the jump up a full week."
Harvard shook his head. "No. No, I don't remember that."
Lucky swore. "It must've been the day you went to Boston. Yeah, I remember you weren't around, so Wes took care of it. He said he wrote a memo about it. He said he left it on your desk."
Harvard's desk was piled high with files and papers, but he knew exactly what was in each file and where each file was in each pile. It may have looked disorganized, but it wasn't. He'd cleared his In basket at least ten times since he'd taken that day of personal leave. He'd caught up on everything he'd missed. There was no memo from Wesley Skelly on that desk.
Or was there?
Underneath the coffee mug with a broken handle that held his pens and some of those very pencils the base supply officer had been in a snit about, Harvard could see a flash of yellow paper. He lifted the mug and turned the scrap of paper over.
This was it.
Wes had written an official memo on the inside of an M&M's wrapper. It was documentation of the rescheduled jump date, scribbled in barely legible pencil.
"I'm going to kill him," Harvard said calmly. "I'm going to find him, and I'm going to kill him."
"You don't have to look far to find him," Lucky said. "He's with the finks in the classroom at the main hangar. He's helping Blue teach 'em the basics of skydiving."
Harvard shook his head. "If I'd known the jump was today, I would've made arrangements to skip this morning's meeting. I wanted to be here to make it clear to the finks that participating in this exercise is optional." He looked sharply at O'Donlon. "Were you there when Blue gave his speech? Do they understand they don't have to do this?"
Lucky shrugged. "Yeah. They're all up for it, though. It's no big deal."
But it was a big deal. Harvard knew that for P.J. it had to be a very, very big deal.
When he'd figured out yesterday that she was afraid of heights, he'd known about the skydiving jump, but he'd thought it was a week away. If he'd known otherwise, he would've warned her then and there. He could've told her that choosing not to participate didn't matter one bit in the big picture.
The purpose of the exercise was not to teach the finks to be expert sky divers. There was no way they could do that with only one day and only one jump. When they'd set up the program, the captain had thought a lesson in skydiving would give the agents perspective on the kind of skills the SEALs needed to succeed as a counterterrorist team.
It was supposed to underscore the message of the entire program—let the SEALs do what they do best without outside interference.
Harvard looked at his watch. It was just past noon. "O'Donlon, is the jump still scheduled for thirteen-thirty?"
"It is," Lucky told him. "I'm going over to help out. You know me, I never turn down an opportunity to jump."
Harvard took a deep breath. More than an hour. Good. He still had time. He could relax and take this calmly. He could change out of this blasted dress uniform instead of screaming over to the airfield in a panic.
The phone rang. It had to be Joe Cat, answering his page.
Harvard picked it up. "Rescue squad."
Joe covered a laugh by coughing. "Sit rep, please." The captain was using his officer's voice, and Harvard knew that wherever he was, he wasn't alone.
"We're having a severe pencil shortage, Captain," Harvard said rapidly, in his best imitation of a battle-stressed officer straight from Hollywood's Central Casting. "I think you better get down here right away to take care of it."
Joe coughed again, longer and louder this time. "I see."
"So sorry to interrupt your lunch, sir, but the men are in tears. I'm sure the commander will understand."
Joe's voice sounded strangled. "I appreciate your calling."
"Of course, if you'd prefer to stay and dine with the—"
"No, no. No, I'm on my way. Thank you very much, Senior Chief."
"I love you, too, Captain," Harvard said and hung up the phone.
Lucky was on the floor, laughing. Harvard nudged him with his toe and spoke in his regular voice. "I'm changing out of this ice-cream suit. Don't you dare leave for the airfield without me."
The half of a chicken-salad sandwich P.J. had forced down during lunch was rolling in her stomach.
Lieutenant Blue McCoy stood in front of the group of SEALs and FInCOM agents, briefing them on the afternoon's exercise.
P.J. tried to pay attention as he recited the name of the aircraft that would take them to an altitude from which they'd jump out of the plane.
Jump out of the plane.
P.J. took a deep breath. She could do this. She knew she could do this. She was going to hate it, but just like going to the dentist, time would keep ticking, and the entire ordeal would eventually be over and done with.
"We'll be going out of the aircraft in teams of two," Blue said in his thick Southern drawl. "You will stay with your jump buddy for the course of the exercise. If you become separated during landing, you must find each other immediately upon disposing of your chute. Remember, we'll be timing you from the moment you step out of that plane to the moment you check in at the assigned extraction point. If you reach the extraction point without your partner, you're automatically disqualified. Does everyone understand?"
P.J. nodded. Her mouth was too dry to murmur a reply.
The door opened at the back of the room, and Blue paused and smiled a greeting. "About time you boys got here."
P.J. turned to see Harvard closing the door behind him. He was wearing camouflage pants tucked securely into black boots and a snugly fitting dark green T-shirt. He was looking directly at her from under the brim of his cap. He nodded just once, then turned his attention to McCoy.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said. It wasn't until he moved toward the front of the room that P.J. noticed Lucky had been standing beside him. "Have you worked up the teams yet, Lieutenant?"
Blue nodded. "I have the list right here, Senior Chief."
"Mind doing some quick revising so I can get in on the action?"
"'Course not," Blue replied. He looked at the room. "Why don't y'all take a five-minute break?"
P.J. wasn't the only one in the room who was nervous. Greg Greene went to the men's room for the fourth time in half an hour. The other men stood and stretched their legs. She sat there, wishing she could close her eyes and go to sleep, wishing that when she woke up it would be tomorrow morning and this day would be behind her, most of all wishing Harvard had given her some kind of warning that today's challenge would involve jumping out of an airplane thousands of feet above the earth.
As she watched, Harvard leaned against the table to look at the list. He supported himself with his arms, and his muscles stood out in sharp relief. For once, she let herself look at him, hoping for a little distraction.
The man was sheer perfection. And speaking of distractions, his shirt wasn't the only thing that fit him snugly. His camouflage pants hugged the curve of his rear end sinfully well
. Why on earth anyone would want to camouflage that piece of art was beyond her.
He was deep in discussion with Blue, then both men paused to glance at her, and she quickly looked away. What was Harvard telling the lieutenant? It was clear they were talking about her. Was Harvard telling McCoy all she'd let slip yesterday at the beach? Were they considering the possibility that she might freeze with fear and end up putting more than just herself in danger? Were they going to refuse to let her make the jump?
She glanced at them, and Harvard was still watching her, no doubt taking in the cold sweat that was dampening her shirt and beading on her upper lip. She knew she could keep her fear from showing in her eyes and on her face, but she couldn't keep from perspiring, and she couldn't stop her heart from pounding and causing her hands to shake.
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 centre 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?"
P.J. 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.
P.J. 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."
P.J. 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, P.J. 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 P.J.
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 P.J. 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 levelled 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," P.J. 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."
P.J.'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 always 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 P.J. 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 P.J.'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 come 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." P.J. 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."
Harvard's Education Page 10