Sandra Hill
Authors: Hot,Heavy
Hot & Heavy
Sandra Hill
ONTENTS
Chapter One
The motley crew … and then some …
Navy SEAL Lieutenant Ian MacLean looked over his Last Will and Testament … and began to laugh.
His policy before any mission required every man on his squad to get his affairs in order. Bills, wills, good-byes, any loose ends. With each subsequent mission, all those things needed to be updated or renewed.
Ian headed the Force Squad that was part of the 8th Platoon in SEAL Team Thirteen at the Naval Special Warfare Training Center in Coronado, California. There was a risk of not returning from any military mission, but his squad’s impending Operation Rodent in northern Iraq would be particularly dangerous because it was a silent op, meaning it would not be publicly acknowledged by the U.S. government. Translation: No help from Uncle Sam if they screwed up.
Getting Jamal ben Hassan would be worth it,
though. The notorious terrorist leader and his slimy rat cohorts were hiding out following a recent suicide bombing in Mosul that had killed ten people. The SEALs would gladly risk their lives to bring him in.
That was their job. As an old commander once said, “A ship in the harbor is safe, but it’s not what they were built for.” The moral: SEALs were trained to be out in the field, facing danger, not dry-docked on base.
There was a time when SEAL teams did a lot of Mickey Mouse jobs while waiting around for active deployment, like security for high-level government big shots. Even MacLean had served a duty billet three years ago as instructor here at Coronado before going active again. Since 9/11 most of them were designated “quick response” teams, on call for duty whenever and wherever a terrorist threat popped up. And the training for SEALs had changed dramatically, too, to meet the times. What used to take months now required three years of training.
“Hey, Mac, come here. Look at those poor fools out there,” Petty Officer Justin LeBlanc said from a nearby window in the SEAL headquarters.
Ian got up and walked over. The new SEAL class was doing “sugar cookies” out on the beach. It was a long-standing practice in BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEALs) to make the grunts wear full fatigue uniforms and heavy boots or boondockers to run for miles and miles, usually with IBLs (Inflatable Boats, Large) on their heads, but to make the exercise more torturous, the instructors demanded that the trainees intermittently run into the surf, then roll around in the sand, before resuming their runs. To make matters worse today, a
gray haze hung over the Pacific waters, which would make it cold despite the heat of a California summer.
“Boy, does that bring back memories,” Ian said. “Bad ones. It’s been ten years since I was a trainee, but I can still feel the cold, wet and pain like it was yesterday.”
“Me, too, but it’s only been three years for me.”
“The only easy day was yesterday.” Ian liked to toss out motivational quotes now and then, but that one was familiar to every SEAL and it usually brought a groan.
“Ain’t that the truth?” Cage grinned. “What were you laughing about before?”
“It’s like this, Cage.” Cage was short for Cajun, which LeBlanc was. “I’m trying to figure out who to leave all my ‘worldly goods’ to, and, one, my ‘worldly goods’ aren’t all that plentiful. Two, I have no idea who I should leave them to if I get offed. My sister is married to a guy whose family is richer than God. My two brothers will inherit from my old man; I’m on dear ol’ Dad’s shit list,
again
.” Ian shrugged. “It’s pitiful, really. I’m thirty-four-friggin’ years old with no kids, no wife, no significant other. The perfect Navy SEAL. No strings.”
“Except for Sam.”
Ian arched his brows at his petty officer. “My beloved cat from hell? Oh, yeah, I’m writing Sam into my will …
not!
” Ian smiled inwardly at the mental image of his roommate, who at this very minute was probably reclining on his bed, which was a no-no. Sam was the only thing left behind when his fiancée Jennifer dumped him three years ago … the same fiancée who was now a divorcee
and having second thoughts about him.
Not going to happen. Only one chance, and you blew it, babe.
Cage grinned at him. “Would you want them?”
Ian had been so lost in thought that he had no idea what Cage referred to. “What? Cats?”
“No! A wife and kids.”
Ian thought for a moment, then grinned back at Cage. “Hell, no!”
Once burned, twice shy.
That wasn’t quite true. Ian did like the idea of kids. He’d come to that amazing conclusion this past weekend when attending a party at Blue Dragon Vineyard, family home to his sister Alison’s in-laws. There had been lots of rug-rats scampering about, and one particular toddler who tugged at his heart strings. Who knew that a hardened fighting man like himself could be so touched by a gummy grin? Or a tiny, tiny hand placed in his callused palm? Not that he was planning on doing anything about it, but it was like one of those light-bulb moments, realizing how much he yearned for children of his own.
“Hey, you’re better off than I am,” Cage said. “I hardly have two dimes to rub together.
Mon Dieu!
Me, I doan even have a gumbo pot, and that’s a sacrilege to us Cajuns. Plus, I doan have any family at all … ’cept my Maw Maw and Paw Paw.”
Ian hadn’t intended his remarks to make Cage feel bad and attempted to make up for it by saying, “Yeah, but you have every hottie in the world chasing after you.”
“There is that,” Cage admitted unabashedly. “You could have hotties, too, if you wanted them. SEAL groupies abound, like crawfish on a willow branch wherever we go.”
“Pfff! I’m too old for that crap.”
“What? Thirty-four is over the hill now? Talk about! You’re only five years older than me.”
“Five years is forever in lust land, buddy.”
“Are you shittin’ me? You lost your lust?”
Ian shook his head at the senselessness of their conversation. “No, I haven’t lost my lust. I just don’t feel the need to boff every willing person with breasts. You and one-night stands have become synonymous, my friend.”
After you’ve done it several dozen times, Cage my boy, one-night stands lose their appeal. Believe me, you’ll find out … eventually.
But he wasn’t about to reveal his thoughts to the smirking petty officer. Then he’d have to endure a lengthy grilling about those three dozen babes-of-the-one-night-stand, most of whose names and faces he couldn’t recall. Just body parts.
“Me, I’m discriminating.” Cage actually looked affronted.
Ian laughed.
“Just ’cause a chicken has wings doan mean it can fly.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Appearances can be deceiving.”
Ian laughed again.
“Well, okay, there was that Russian chick, but who knew how potent vodka could be? And besides, I was tryin’ to pump info from her.”
“More like hump.” They both laughed.
“What you need in your life are more
meaningful
one-night relationships,” Cage advised.
“What I need is for you not to give me sex advice. Besides, ‘meaningful one-night stand’ is an oxymoron, if you must know.”
“You callin’ me a moron?” Cage ducked when Ian threw a crumpled wad of paper at him.
“What are you two talkin’ about?” Pretty Boy asked as he came into the room. Lieutenant (jg) Zach Floyd, a former race car driver, had earned the nickname Pretty Boy because he was, frankly, pretty … even with the black eye he was sporting today. Prettiness aside, Floyd would be their radio operator on this mission. There wasn’t anything the Florida native didn’t know about machinery.
“Sex,” Cage answered Pretty Boy before Ian could stop him. “That’s what we were talkin’ about.”
Ian put his face in his hands briefly, knowing what would come next.
“What else is new?” Pretty Boy waggled his eyebrows in a manner that probably made women melt. It did nothing for Ian.
“In particular, the lieutenant’s loss of lust, bless his heart.”
Both men turned to look at Ian then, their eyes on his crotch.
The clowns!
“Since you love those stupid motivational sayings,” Pretty Boy said with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “here’s one for you. ‘Sex is like a misdemeanor. The more you miss it, the meaner you get.’ And, man, you are one mean sonofabitch lately.”
Cage groaned. “I doan think I can take
two
teammates quoting corny proverbs.”
“You can tell by his skin whether a guy is getting any,” Pretty Boy announced with seeming irrelevance, disregarding Cage’s remark.
Pretty Boy sure does have a running mouth today. Probably nervousness over this mission from hell.
“And our squad leader is looking mighty pale these days.”
Yep, a real blabbermouth!
“Is that really true … that you can tell whether someone is sexually active by their skin tone?” asked Geek, who’d come in while they were talking. Merrill “Geek” Good was twenty-four years old but looked fourteen. He was a genius, having received his doctorate at age eighteen, but he knew zip about sex.
“Absolutely,” Pretty Boy replied with a straight face. “In fact, sex is one of the safest sports around. It stretches and tones just about every muscle in the body.”
Geek looked transfixed with that bit of information, while Pretty Boy and Cage just grinned. Geek would probably be adding it to his computer tonight in a file marked Sex Secrets of Navy SEALs.
Unbelievable!
One time Pretty Boy, under the influence of too much beer, had been pontificating on the G-Spot, and Geek actually thought it was a local bar.
Unbelievable!
Amazed at the gullibility of some people, Ian offered, “Maybe the Navy ought to eliminate the O-course and just prescribe sex for all the SEAL trainees.”
“There’s a thought,” Pretty Boy said. “Skip the obstacle course and instead provide lots of sex for Navy SEALs. Hopefully kinky … to get out the kinks, dontcha know.” Then, turning to Geek, he added, “Maybe you should suggest that in a letter to the XO.”
Deciding to give Geek a break, Ian quickly said, “Don’t you dare.”
The other members of the squad started to drift in then, some of them carrying styrofoam cups of
steaming coffee, some looking as if they were hung over, and a few like JAM, Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, a former Jesuit priest, who had probably just come from confession. But most of them, even JAM, had probably had their ashes hauled, good and proper, last night … or through the night, if they were lucky. For many of them, it was a pre-deployment ritual.