Cheezer was impressed and that wasn’t easy to do. The instructor was a bear, but Hemingway understood the man’s tactics and only bonded closer with the guys in his crew. Teamwork did win, and he had to give grudging admiration for Cheezer’s tactics. There was levity mixed in with the suffering, recognition and reward for spirit and leadership
After IBS, they headed to chow, then the classroom with Mad Max as the instructor, one hundred and thirty-seven exhausted, sandy, wet, battered and bruised guys along with one gorgeous woman. Hemingway shouldn’t be thinking about getting to be alone with Shea, but that was the only thing on his mind. He wanted to snuggle up with her, get comfortable and just rest in her arms. The lesson was on surf observation, or SUROBS where they were taught how to gauge and classify surf and record the data in an exact format.
Mad Max was a precise and surprisingly interesting speaker. He didn’t lecture them but gave examples straight from his SEAL experience to show them why all this information was important and that it could save lives on the team when they were deployed.
He delivered the lesson with an often-crooked smile, as if he had a secret only he knew.
“With a water insertion and beach egress, you guys have to know the conditions and what’s going on in the water before you hit land. We were four strong going in. We knew the rip currents, where the tide was ebbing and flowing. Everything can be planned down to the tiniest detail.” He shook his head and took a breath, the room hanging on his next words as his voice roughed. “We didn’t know there were insurgents in a small boat hidden by reeds, trying to fish up something to eat. It was a strange happenstance…chance. When we surfaced, they saw us from their concealment. They shot and killed the guy next to me. In a blink of an eye, our mission was compromised.”
“What did you do?”
“Improvised,” Max said. “When chance is involved, there is no other alternative.” His shoulders tensed, and he shifted as if the painful memory hurt physically. “We went back under and dragged our teammate with us. They couldn’t see us in the dark murk, and there are no bubbles to see with our rebreather rigs. We surfaced behind them, silently took them out and continued with the mission.”
“So planning isn’t everything. Execution sometimes is a cluster?”
“Most times it’s a cluster. Nothing ever goes perfect on an op, but what’s important is making the best of it. What you learn in these classes gives you the tools to try and beat chance.”
“And the guy who died—”
Max cut the guy off. “He went through BUD/S with me and was one of my roommates. He did everything right. We all did, but no amount of training, skill or technology will ever beat bad luck on the battlefield. You have to know that going in; what you’re signing up for here. BUD/S is a controlled environment and shit happens. Even when we’re doing our best to keep it as safe as possible.” He turned back to the lesson, but what he had said shook Hemingway as he glanced over at Professor, his other boat crew members and Lane. His gut clenched, thinking about that chaotic moment when those drug runners in Paraguay had opened fire on each other, and he and Dodger had been caught in the crossfire. The thought of losing the tough Brit hadn’t crossed Hemingway’s mind, but Max’s words drove it home to him. Combat was a place where one of his enemies could get an incredibly lucky shot.
He wasn’t afraid of dying. His fears had more to do with making the time he had in the world mean something, much as he was afraid of living up to his own expectations. Never did he want to let his family down, but more so, he never wanted to let himself or his teammates down.
Hemingway had gained insight into Mad Max’s team. He’d seen them in action, and he’d been with Dodger and lived through the perilous and exhausting trek to save his sister. If he could get through all that, he could make it through this training. Luck played no role in that. It was all about hard work and endurance. He’d already decided at the beginning nothing was going to make him quit.
Before he left base, Dodger texted him.
I think I’m in trouble.
What’s going on?
Max’s sister Anna. I saw a picture of her. She’s beautiful. But he will kill me if I even so much as smile in her direction.
Damn, bro. The code.
I know. But if he kills me, I’ll just slam open the door to Hell, high-five Satan and ask for the bloody password for the Wi-Fi and spend my afterlife texting Max with haunting messages. He’ll never get rid of me.
Don’t underestimate him. He probably has a direct line straight to Satan. Smart to forget about her.
Whoever said I was smart? Later, mate.
What an ass, he thought with a smile.
8
Shea unlocked the door to her condo and stepped inside. After a full week of First Phase, with one hundred and twenty-one candidates left, she was narrowing down her suspects, her run helping her to clear out the cobwebs. Wilson was outspoken, and she couldn’t help thinking he was lying about losing someone important during the 9/11 attacks. She had delved deeper into his background and found very little information. But she was pegging him as the leader of the splintered faction of NWO. Milo Prescott—Professor, as Hemingway called him—was open about his loss and even though she tried, she couldn’t help being moved by what he’d said. He was still on her list, but further down, as someone who wouldn’t harm any of the SEAL candidates. He could be a good actor, but she was guessing he wasn’t playacting. He was as genuine as he appeared to be. But, unable to take chances, she still kept an eye on him.
She was tired as she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her. But she was sure she wasn’t as tired as Hemingway was right now. Log PT, surf passage, and conditioning runs had weeded out seventeen men in the first week. She knew it was only going to get worse. The had only begun, and she already had a deep respect for any man who took on this training on a voluntary basis…well except for the NWO members who wanted to harm them. She heard the door open and Hemingway call out.
It had to be close to nine. “I’m in the shower,” she yelled back.
She heard the door to the bathroom open. “You went running?”
“Yes. It helps me to sleep, and I need to keep up with my fitness. You have to agree with that.”
“I do, as someone who’s getting hours and hours of fitness.” His voice was deep and sure, and just hearing it made her feel weak inside. She’d been churning along for some time now, going on sheer will and hatred. But a night with Hemingway had been a more emotionally involving, sexually intimate experience than the whole of her sexually active life. She’d had no idea what she’d been missing and had been fulfilled by a man who was still nothing more than a stranger. She hated to think it, but that description of the world stopping could be the only way to describe what it was like with him.
She pushed the shower curtain back and smiled. “I’m not even going to give you a hard time about complaining.” She was happy that she didn’t sound half as breathless as she felt.
“I’m not complaining. Just stating a fact.” He grinned, drew closer and her breath got trapped in her chest at his nearness. Damn, she liked this guy so much. Maybe too much. She pushed those thoughts away along with the uneasiness. Temporary situation, temporary relationship. Everything always changed.