The SEALs lived and died by headcount. It had been ingrained into their leaders, who had to be tougher, faster and better than any of their subordinates to even make the cut, that it was the most grievous of infractions to leave a man behind.
He had emphasized to the class to get muster right, keep him informed and they would all avoid as much punishment as possible.
Their LPO, or Leading Petty Officer, Seamus Hollister, was another story. He was stocky, lazy and often relied on paying his fellow students to do his dirty work. They all called him Blue Smurf, not in relation to their already blue skin, but because he always had a hang-dog expression on his long face.
“Push ‘em out.”
“Push-ups,” Lane yelled. He started counting, and they started pushing them out. After twenty, Lane called out, “Instructor T!” returning to leaning-rest. The class repeated his preferred name and a slight smile slipped across Instructor T’s lips. He looked off in the distance as if daydreaming while the class waited. After five minutes, Hemingway’s arms and shoulders were starting to burn, but he resisted twisting and turning like others around him, trying to ease the pressure. Sweat slipped off his forehead into his eyes, making them sting, but he couldn’t wipe them away. If he broke ranks, they would all pay. It was a good lesson in making a trainee think about how his actions affected everyone on his team, and for all intents and purposes, this class was his team.
“Push ‘em out,” he ordered again and as they counted, he yelled, “If you can’t get a simple name request right, this is going to be a long day. I’d suggest you get your shit together because it’s not going to get any easier. This is orientation, the simplest part of BUD/S, and I say that with the utmost tongue in cheek because nothing is easy about this training. We won’t give you a trident. That is earned, but it’s months away and for some of you, it’ll be nothing but a fleeting memory after you quit.” He crouched down, the aquamarine of the pool behind him looking inviting right now. “Push ‘em out.” After those were finished, he said, “Recover.”
Everyone rose and reformed into their boat crews.
“We’re going back to basics, since this is the end of basic orientation. You’re all going to take the screening test and if you fail, I will wipe your baby tears and pat your back as you get booted out of here.”
Hemingway performed well, his five-hundred-yard swim done in just over seven minutes; a hundred sit-ups, ninety push-ups, and twenty pull-ups put him near the top of the class. After the screening test, they ran to chow and ate, but Hemingway was still hungry as they filed into the classroom for an introduction to procedures, protocols, customs and to start understanding the ethos of this warrior class.
Taking a seat near the front, Hemingway pulled out the required paper and pencil to take notes. The room reeked almost instantly of sweat, chlorine and soggy clothing. Instructor T entered, calling them to their feet with an echoing shout from the class.
“Drop.”
Hemingway once again fought for real estate in the crowded room. In the future, when the class started thinning, there would be fewer men to battle with. After completing their twenty, T allowed them to recover and take their seats with a resounding hoo-yah.
The sound of the door opening, followed by cool air filtering into the room, made Hemingway shiver. The measured footsteps down the row was met with silence. Why wasn’t Lane shouting out the instructor’s name? Hemingway saw more push-ups coming his way.
Then Instructor T spoke just as an appreciative murmur fell over the room.
“Class. This is videographer Shea Palmer. She will be going through this training with us to film for a documentary on SEAL training. She will be treated with all due respect as she works among you. You are free to answer her questions, but don’t let me catch you goofing off or slacking in any way. Is that clear?”
“Hoo-yah, Instructor T.”
The sound of her footsteps faltered as she came abreast of him. He turned his head as the scent of her perfume washed over him in a sensual rush. Looking up, he collided with her wide-eyed gaze.
Oh, fuck me, he thought. It’s The Babe.
She’d just walked into his reality right out of his fever dreams.
4
She shouldn’t have been looking for anything the night she slept with him, but she’d needed what he’d given her. Now, here she was, locked up with the man she’d had sex with. For several seconds they stared at each other. Shea averted her eyes and continued to the front of the room, Instructor T giving her an interested stare. Every male assessed her, looked her over, and made their own on-the-spot snap decision about her. Maybe her one-night stand didn’t even remember her.
“Muster numbers, Mister Lane.”
“One hundred and forty-seven assigned, Instructor T. All present minus two at medical and three DORs after the screening test,” the man said, and she could only guess he must be the OIC, Officer in Charge of the class. She knew DOR meant “Drop on Request” where the candidate said he wanted to quit, then rung the bell three times.
This was a big class, and she could identify the ones who thought she was a babe and couldn’t get past her looks, the ones who wondered if this chick could keep up with them during grueling hours of training, and the rest held their judgment. There had been no woman ever to set foot on these hallowed male beaches.
The only exception was the man she’d given her body and gone all the way. There was nothing but a light of awareness, curiosity and anticipation in his eyes, dosed with a healthy amount of wariness. And his name stenciled on his white shirt…Sinclair.
She didn’t blame him. What he was about to go through would take all the concentration he had. She had her own agenda, and she did her own assessing for who in this room could be one of the New World Order just waiting to do harm to these guys who wanted nothing more than to become SEALs and serve their country. She was going to make sure they got that chance.
“Okay, guys. Pay attention. This is your final BO briefing. You’ve worked hard through the past three weeks. You’re ready for First Phase. From now on it’s going to get even harder than you could imagine. But you’re vying for a slot on one of our elite teams, and you need to be as tough as the guys already serving.”
“Hoo-yah!”
She noticed after Instructor T’s statement how they all looked around to see who might quit and how it may affect their teams or friendships. They all looked tired as hell.
“It’s official. You’ll be starting First Phase with one hundred and forty-nine men.” The class cheered and the instructor smiled as they made some noise. “Work hard not only to make me proud of you, but to make yourselves into the hardcore SEALs you want to be. When Hell Week is over and we see who’s left standing, there’s pool comp in Second Phase and tactical and weapons in Third. I will be there at graduation to congratulate you and wish you well on your journey. Remember that your training for the teams is ongoing, and we never rest on our laurels.”
There was another outburst from the class, and to Shea, it seemed affectionate. She had to agree with them, a tough instructor who worked a trainee hard was more respected.
In the back of the room a man entered, dark hair pulled back off his face, stunning blue eyes and a face to match. He was fit and muscled. Just standing there, he commanded the room. Talk about alpha.