Hemingway knew what it was like to be under fire, and he also knew, now, what it was like to take a man’s life. He had to agree with Jason. After saving his sister from a drug lord, he had experienced something profound. His desire to become a SEAL had only intensified.
“Any other siblings?” he asked.
Her expression froze, and she went so still, it was as if she wasn’t even breathing. There was a long, electric silence, her agitation almost palpable. Then she abruptly rose and walked the short distance to the ocean, standing just shy of the wash onto the beach. He went to where she was and touched her shoulder. With her face carefully arranged into a non-expression, she spoke, her tone hushed.
“One,” she murmured. “My sister Madison. She died.”
He expected more, but she just stared out at the ocean.
“Obviously, I can’t know how you feel. I have a sister. She raised me and my brothers when my mother left us. I was still a baby, and she gave up everything to take care of us. Recently, she was kidnapped by a drug lord in Brazil when she went on an assignment for NCIS. I broke all the rules to rescue her, but if I had lost her…” He closed his eyes. “I know what it’s like to come close.”
She tipped her head back, closing her eyes, and Hemingway saw how she struggled with her emotions. She was locked up, even her tears, and he wondered, absently, if she had let herself cry. Her despair cut him to the quick. And something gave way inside him.
He pulled her into a tight embrace. As if under enormous pressure, his heart felt suddenly too big for his chest. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard and tightened his hold. This girl surprised him. She was always so in control, so tough, but instead of pulling away and handling her pain her way, she knocked him for a loop. She wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her head on his shoulder and stayed right where she was. She released a long sigh, as if expelling the last of the tears she couldn’t seem to shed.
“It feels good to have someone to hold onto for just a little while.”
Her honesty made his heart roll over and his chest clog up. Feeling as if he might turn inside out at any minute. Just the thought of losing Paige opened up a dark and painful hole inside him. He couldn’t imagine what Shea had gone through.
With her warm and soft against him, Hemingway locked his jaw and made himself take a deep, slow breath, the heat from her body thickening his blood. They stood there for a few minutes, the sound of the ocean’s soothing waves washing over them. “Okay on the movie,” he said, giving her a small smile. “But I get to pick.”
The Shea he knew rose to the occasion, telling him this girl had courage. She managed a soft chuckle. “Aw,” she said, “No chick flick then.”
“Uh-uh, and you’re buying the popcorn.”
7
Overcast, the stars obscured and sunrise still two hours away, Hemingway shivered in the pre-dawn chill. At zero five hundred, it was fifty-nine degrees and the waves of the Pacific beckoned.
Warmth from now on would be a fleeting memory and all of them knew it.
“Class is mustered,” Ensign Lane said. “One hundred and forty-five men present. The two men who went to medical DOR’d, Instructor.”
Hemingway thought it best not to look for or make eye contact with Shea. She was there like a trooper, recording with her camera. Some guys got a bit distracted and were yelled at. His memories of the weekend with her would have to do for now. BUD/S training was a reality, and he realized that she would be seeing and documenting everything. His wins and his fails. He was again not sure dating her was the best idea he’d ever had.
Returning Lane’s salute, Master Chief Nathan Walker said, “Everyone into the surf, sir. Then head to the classroom.”
Hemingway wasted no time in running full out to the surf in his white T-shirt, fatigue pants, and boots, getting immersed in the ocean. Damn that quick dip was cold, and Hemingway knew it was only the beginning. Mentally, he thought about the ocean as a hot tub, and when he got cold, a dip would be welcomed. He kept it fully fixed in his mind. Soaked, he pelted back up the beach to find his seat in the First Phase classroom. Complying with the command to push out their push-ups, the order was given to take seats. He wasn’t the only one dealing with chills; most of the class shivered in intervals.
“Good morning and welcome to First Phase. Your first step to your initial goal begins now.” Chief Walker, short and stocky but fit, had a scar on his cheek and a shock of black hair under his BUD/S instructor cap. He had the command air about him that immediately said he knew what he was about. That had to be true. There weren’t many Master Chiefs in the Navy, and to get there, grit was required.
“You have your hearts set on becoming frogmen?”
“Hoo-yah.”
“Well, this is where it begins. We’ll all see how much heart you do have. I guarantee it.” He folded his arms across his chest, and Hemingway swore he looked every man there in the eyes and weighed their mettle. “I’m Master Chief Walker and this is my show and my cast.” He indicated the fourteen instructors standing in the front of the room. One by one they sounded off with just their name. Hemingway looked over at Lane and Hollister. As the leaders, they would have to announce each instructor by name when they showed up, which meant they would have to memorize each man’s face and name—a daunting task. If they failed to do so, there would be push-ups until they came up with the right name.
Lane was already focused on the challenge, and he took notes.
Mad Max was up there with the others, and Hemingway wondered how he’d been roped into BUD/S or if Fast Lane had pulled a fast one and assigned the big SEAL to make sure he measured up.
Walker then bellowed out the order for more push-ups and the staff exited, then he shouted, “Grinder! Put it in gear!”
“Hoo-yah,” Hemingway shouted with his team, the sound of over one hundred voices reverberating off the pale-yellow walls. They bolted for the black asphalt. Slowness was a reason for a beat down, and Hemingway was going to make sure he wasn’t the weakest link. Professor was right beside him, and he shot Hemingway a grin. “I see what he did there. Guy has a sense of humor.”
“Gear, grinder. Yeah, he’s a laugh a minute.”
Professor howled as he ran, his enthusiasm reaching out and grabbing Hemingway by the throat, pumping him up. It was as if every nerve ending in his body came alive. They quickly found their places on hallowed ground, the first time they were allowed to do PT where so many other trainees had sweated, suffered and endured. A sense of awe and respect washed through him, and he was determined not to let any of the brothers who had passed this way down, especially the men of the two teams who had given him a leg up on BUD/S.
Their lookout was keeping an eagle eye on him.
Mad Max stood near the platform watching over the trainees. He was an imposing figure, six feet four, body thick with muscle, bulging biceps, a broad chest that put even some of the other instructors to shame, his blue eyes brightly peering from beneath a prominent brow. He looked like he could run all day, do pull-ups all day, kick their asses all day.
He was showing them that not only could a big man get through the training, but he had mastered the mental over the physical and made the teams.