They were jogging along the shore of the Pacific Ocean now.
“Haul ass, sweet cheeks!” Master Chief Frank Uxley, best known as F.U., yelled out to her bunk mate, Wendy Patterson, when she lagged behind. Never let it be said that Navy SEALs were politically correct. The elite troops, when not on active duty or between assignments, were often assigned TDY, temporary duty, as instructors for BUD/S, the Navy SEAL training program, and for WEALS.
Jogging backward beside the group, he then homed in on her. “Ya ain‟t in Hollywood now, are ya, Mz. Stunt Woman. What are you, some kinda Six-Million-Dollar Woman, or somethin‟? Why dontcha just give up now, and I‟ll walk you to the bell myself?”
When she refused to react to his needling, he added, “Ya think yer gonna find some kinda Brad Pitt here, honey? No? Some folks say I resemble Matt Damon.”
She flashed him a look of disbelief. And saw his grin. When she shook her head at having risen to his bait, he winked at her and moved on to taunt some other poor trainee.
F.U. was the most arrogant, offensive, politically incorrect of all the SEALs she‟d met, and she suspected it was a deliberate pose he put on to annoy one and all. It worked.
It was their second five-mile run of the morning on the Coronado beach, the early haze now replaced by a brutally scalding sun. As usual, there was sand everywhere. In their mouths, buttocks, ears, hair, eyebrows, and noses. And inside their heavy boondockers, which weighed them down even more. At the end of the day, that weighted jogging, plus long swims with web fins, caused their feet to ache painfully. She couldn‟t remember the last time she‟d worn a pair of high heels. Nor did she want to.
“Okay, ladies, gimme some sugar.”
They all grimaced but didn‟t dare voice their objections. When he said “sugar,” he meant sugar cookies. As in rolling their wet bodies in the sand, following a quick dip in the waves, then resuming whatever evolution was called for next, uncomfortably coated.
They followed orders, then heard, “Fifty push-ups, grunts. Come on, come on, work ‟em out, work ‟em out.”
“We‟re working, we‟re working,” several of Rita‟s teammates muttered.
For that infraction, they were all required to do twenty more, at the end of which F.U.
ordered, “Now lean and rest.” That meant putting the body parallel to the ground, without sag, held up on extended arms and the tips of their boots.
“Stand!” Once they came to their feet, he added, “Brace.”
They all tucked their chins in, backs straight, shoulders thrown back. Then, “Stand easy.
Let‟s take a water break.” The trainees carried two canisters of water tied to their web belts at all times and were told to “Hydrate!” often.
The class was divided in half, with the first group going with F.U. to the pool for advanced drownproofing lessons, where they would be bound, hands and feet, then tossed into the water to “bob for life.” The rest of the group were assigned to Lieutenant Mendozo or JAM, the nickname for Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, who had just come on duty.
All the SEALs and WEALS were given nicknames. Hers was Spider because of her agility in climbing impossible places. It could be worse. Wendy‟s nickname was Windy. Not a play on her name, unfortunately. Nope, Wendy had accidentally farted one time during strenuous PT, and the SEAL instructors thought it was funny to embarrass her in that way. They‟d been instructed by their XO to cease and desist, which they skirted by continually addressing her as “Windy . . . oops, Wendy.”
In any case, JAM was looking hot today . . . and she wasn‟t referring to the temperature, which was blazing . . . in a New Orleans Saints baseball cap, drab green shorts, a white SEALs T-shirt, boondockers with socks rolled over the tops, and mirrored aviator sunglasses.
They were similarly attired, except their shirts said WEALS, and their caps had the logo, Navy Scruffies, which just about said it all. Rita‟s hair was in its easy-to-manage short spiky style, now plastered to her head with sweat, while many of the WEALS had long hair pulled back in ponytails that hung out the back hole in their caps so that they resembled horses‟ tails when they ran. Like they cared! Physical appearance lost meaning for women when they were dripping with sweat and often puking out their guts from overexertion.
“Up boats!” JAM yelled.
This was one exercise she did hate. They all did.
At the sound of their groans, JAM quipped that old SEAL motto, “Pain is your friend.”
And you’re the Marquis de Sade, I suppose.
That‟s what she thought but didn‟t dare say aloud.
The smaller of the ugly rubber boats, known as an IBS, Inflatable Boat, Small, weighed almost three hundred pounds. It was twelve feet long and six feet wide. Trainees were required to carry the boats on their heads almost constantly, even as they ran. An equal number of trainees were on each side for balance. After a while, the three hundred pounds felt like a thousand, and the boats did irreparable damage to a lady‟s hair. That‟s why some of them began to don helmets, which would make them even hotter. Better hot than bald, though, knowing that some SEALs developed permanent bald spots on top of their heads. Sometimes they were told to carry the boats up on extended arms, which was almost worse, since muscles were soon screaming with pain.
JAM had become a friend and mentor since he was at least partially responsible for her being here. She reminded him of that fact every chance she got, like when she was crawling in mud or covered with sand fleas. He winked at her, as if reading her mind.
Rita stuck out her tongue.
He arched his brows, as if she‟d issued some sexual invitation.
“I think he‟s got the hots for you,” Wendy commented at her side.
“Nah! He‟s just teasing. He used to be a priest, you know.”
“You‟re kidding!”
“Well, he was studying to be a Jesuit. Not sure he ever took vows.”
“Same as.”
They took their positions under the boat, opposite each other with two WEALS in front and two in back of each of them. Then they all began a synchronized, slow jog.
“He‟s a friend. In fact, he‟s taking me to a party at the commander‟s house tonight as a fake date,” Rita continued her conversation with Wendy.
“Huh?”
“The commander‟s wife, Madrene, is always trying to fix JAM up, usually with one of her Viking extended family.”
“Whaaat? Vikings? In California? Are you sure you don‟t mean Minnesota? Ha-ha-ha! How come I‟ve never met any?”
“There‟s a whole bunch of Magnussons here, from Norway, a lot of them associated with SEALs. Anyway, I‟m to be his buffer.” “So you‟re not coming to the Wet and Wild with the gang tonight?”
“Nope.” The Wet and Wild was a bar that catered to Navy personnel, including SEALs and WEALS. Its claim to fame was the wet T-shirt spray at the door, plus its hot wings and Friday night band. Missing a night out with the girls would be no great hardship.
“Would you two shut up before you get us all in trouble?” Louise “Loozie” McKay remarked from behind her.
They ignored her. Loser Loozie was such a goody-goody.
“Maybe he‟s gay.” Wendy never skipped a beat, continuing her conversation about JAM.
“Maybe that‟s why he‟s not interested in any of the Viking babes. Maybe that‟s why he‟s friends with you . . . a smoke screen. Maybe he‟s just not into you because maybe friends with benefits doesn‟t fit his agenda, if you get my meaning.”
“There are a lot of maybes in there.” She chuckled as she glanced over at a scowling JAM.
Wendy didn‟t realize that JAM had come up and was jogging beside them. “
Maybe
you‟d like to do a week of Gig Squad, Patterson. I‟m thinkin‟ you‟re a tadpole with too much attitude.”
Gig Squad was the SEALs method of torture . . . uh, punishment. It involved doing various embarrassing, muscle-wrenching exercises after dinner in front of the officers‟ quarters while everyone passed by on their way out of the chow hall. Like duckwalking in a squat position.
Wendy jerked with surprise, then turned red with embarrassment. “Ooops!”
Rita was laughing so hard she almost lost her balance under the boat.
“You, too, Sawyer. I‟m thinkin‟ your butt muscles need a workout.” JAM gave her behind an exaggerated survey.
“My butt is just fine, thank you very much,” she muttered under her breath.
“What did you say, Spidey?”
Bite me.
“What?”
“Nothing, sir. Not a thing. Sir.”
“Be careful, newbie,” JAM said to her. “You‟re still working off punishment for last week‟s stunt. Only an idiot would hand walk on the parallel bars.”
She couldn‟t help but grin. She had been unabashedly showing off at the end of a day that had seemed like endless harassment from their instructors.
“Boats down,” JAM hollered then. Instructors always hollered, even when they were right in your face.
When the two boats were lowered to the ground, and twenty women were bent over at the waist, trying to regain their collective breaths, JAM jerked his head toward the next evolution, the Dirty Name, which prompted a collective groan.
Rita had had problems with this one in the beginning. There was a series of three horizontal logs, the first one foot off the ground, the second, six feet high, and the third, twelve feet, all of them six feet apart. The trainees needed to climb to the top without ever touching the sand.
Every muscle in the body was stretched at the end, including the buttocks, which was clearly JAM‟s evil intent.
She mouthed to him, “Rat!”
He just grinned. As she hung back while the others began the new evolution, he asked, “Pick you up at seven?”
She nodded. “What should I wear? It‟s a barbecue, right?” “Stilettos, garter belt, thong, black stockings, spandex dress with a plunging neckline, and, oh, yeah, red lipstick, the glossy screw-me-silly kind.”
“Are you pulling rank on me, sailor?”
“You bet your ass,” he replied. “Don‟t forget the thong.”
“Dream on,” she replied with a laugh. “How about shorts, a tank top, and sandals?”
“Works for me.”
Yeah, but where’s MY love connection? . . .
She didn‟t wear shorts and a tank top, after all. Instead, she opted for a strapless sundress with bright Hawaiian flowers. Fitted to the waist with a wide straw belt, then flaring down to the knees. Flat-heeled sandals, not stilettos. And no red lipstick, either. Just pink lip gloss.
Even so, JAM whistled when he picked her up. “Methinks the lady is lookin‟ to get laid tonight.”
She laughed. “Maybe the lady is just looking. Period. And, hey, you don‟t look too shabby yourself.”
He was wearing khakis, a black T-shirt, and loafers without socks. His designer stubble highlighted his dark blue eyes. Too bad he didn‟t turn her on. He certainly had all the ingredients.
When they arrived at the party, they found that the rest of the company was already there.
About fifty people. Half couples. Most of the men sported high and tights, the traditional military haircut, except for some of the SEALs, who weren‟t required to adhere to that standard. They often had to infiltrate foreign countries and needed to blend in.
People were standing about in small groups on the wide, low veranda of the huge oceanfront home of Commander MacLean and his gorgeous wife, Madrene, or were down on the beach playing volleyball. What had started out as a cottage a few years back, according to JAM, was now a palatial, three-story, glass-and-cedar mini-mansion, as befitted their growing family.
Apparently, Madrene‟s father had money, lots of it. No way could a Navy man, even an officer, afford digs like this.
Sipping a sour apple margarita and listening to the sound system playing an old Beach Boys song, she watched, bemused, as JAM, at her side, kept casting hungry looks at Kirstin Magnusson, a professor at San Diego State. So much for his avoiding the Viking women thrown his way! He was the one looking to make a Viking connection, if the sizzle these two created was any indication.
“We know each other from way back,” JAM offered defensively when she elbowed him in question. “We‟re just . . . uh, friends.”
“Yeah, right. You two are so hot for each other you put this steaming California sun to shame.” She motioned with her margarita to the evening sun that continued to warm them all.
“Do you really think she‟s attracted to me?”
“Blind! Men can be so blind.”
He blushed. JAM actually blushed. “I‟ve been kind of in love with her for a long time.”
She rolled her eyes. “Kind of?”
He shrugged.
“How long?”
He muttered something.
“What?” “Five years.”
“Unbelievable! Does she know?”
He looked horrified. “Hell, no!”
“It‟s obvious she feels the same way about you.”
He turned to look at the woman, who was blonde, in her thirties, pretty, but nothing spectacular . . . except to him, apparently. Rita noticed immediately that Kirstin‟s lower lip was trembling, and her expression said “crushed.”
“She thinks you‟re with me,” she deduced.
“I
am
with you.”
“You are an idiot. You‟re not with me
that way
.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Go over and talk to her. Her feelings are hurt.”
“By me? No way!” He studied Kirstin, who studiously avoided his gaze. “What if she‟s not interested? What if she cuts me off at the knees? What if I make a fool of myself?”
“You‟re making a fool of yourself by not trying. Go ahead, sailor, make your moves. You do have moves, don‟t you?” When he hesitated, she asked, “You‟re not a virgin, are you?”
“I‟m thirty-five frickin‟ years old!” He gave her such a blistering glower you would have thought she‟d asked if he was an axe murderer. Putting his beer down on a table, he stomped away toward Kirstin, whose heart was in her pale blue eyes as he approached.
Good for him,
she thought, not at all offended by his deserting her. She was comfortable in this crowd, and it was true, as she‟d told Wendy earlier, JAM was just a good friend. In the year and a half she‟d known him, this was the first she‟d seen him exhibit any real interest in a woman. Obviously because it was this particular one he‟d had in his sights all along.