Sandra Hill (11 page)

“Take Ms. Olgadottir to the women’s quarters for a shower, then bring her to my office, and call General Assim and Commander Kelly to be present as well. Do not let this young lady out of your sight.”

“Are we ever going to eat?” Madrene asked as her stomach growled.

“After our … meeting, you will eat. But before that, you will have to go to the women’s quarters for a shower.” The general sniffed dramatically. “I don’t think the cooks would let you near their food.”

She felt her face heat with embarrassment. “You would smell too, if you were covered with camel spit.”

The general fought a smile, though what mirth he found in her words, she could not tell.

The women came forward, walking stiffly, then flanked her on either side. When they put a hand on each of her elbows to lead her forward, she shrugged
out of their grip. “For the love of Frigg, I can walk myself.”

“They want to prevent you from escaping,” Ian told her. He had stepped aside to make way for the women.

“I am not such a halfbrain that I would attempt to flee in the midst of the troll kingdom. I will wait till later.”

Ian rolled his eyes, then turned to the general. She followed the two women to whatever fate held for her.

The last thing she heard Ian tell his commander was, “With all due respect, sir, don’t hurt her.”

That made her feel a mite better; so she asked the women warriors, “Perchance, could I have a horn of mead? My throat is drier than a dragon’s tongue. No doubt it is due to the ride I just had in a bird up in the sky. Son of a god! That would dry the spit out of even a hardened warrior. Is that rouge on your lips? I like it. Better than the harem houris who rouge their nipples. Oh, mayhap you rouge your nipples, too. Do you two need to use the privy? I only ask because you walk just like Baldr the Blacksmith when he has the roiling bowels and must needs find a bush quickly. Leastways—”

“Ms. Olgadottir,” the woman on her right said. “Shut up!”

Can’t Get You Out of My Mind …

Ian took a long, hot shower.

And thought about Yasmine.

He thought about shaving, then didn’t bother.

And thought about Yasmine.

He put on a clean camouflage uniform.

And thought about Yasmine.

He spent an hour with his squad in the routine after-mission briefing with the general, his staff and half a dozen CIA ops. They would do a more detailed critique once they returned to SpecWar Command at Coronado.

And he thought about Yasmine.

The general complimented them on their good work. “You men have done the world a favor bringing in Jamal. We hope to get intel out of him, but be prepared. We’re going to announce his capture to the news media tomorrow in hopes of scaring more of his scum-of-the-earth comrades to turn themselves in.”

“Will we in Force Squad be required to deal with the media?”

“Yes.”

All eight of them groaned. Dealing with the press was a SEAL’s nightmare. One female reporter from AP was particularly hard on the SEALs. Every single time, she tried to bait them with stereotypical questions about elite commandos. If they had done half of what she’d asked them about, they would have to be Supermen.

“I also want to commend you on the skill with which you rescued Altaira. Ambassador Riyad is on his way from D.C. and will want to thank you personally. Good job!”

“Now for the bad news.” The general turned to Ian. “What were you thinking, to leave your team? I’m sure your commander will have more to say about that, but, good Lord, man, it could have been a disaster.”

“But it wasn’t,” Ian interjected, unwisely, then added, “sir.”

“Next, what were you thinking, going back for that woman during the final extraction?”

Ian thought about explaining why but decided that nothing he said was going to make any difference.

“No matter your good intentions and no matter how successful the outcome, those were risks a SEAL leader should not take. You know better. It will go in your record.” He scowled at Ian, who was biting his tongue. Then the general relaxed and smiled. “But luckily, the good accomplished on this mission will far outweigh the bad. Congratulations.” The general came around from behind his desk and shook each of their hands in turn.

It wasn’t the first time Ian had screwed up and probably wouldn’t be the last. And, actually, this mission would probably mean a medal for him, and promotions for him and all his men. Jamal was one of the most hated terrorists in the world. His capture was important to the United States and its allies.

“The CIA has Jamal in one of the interrogation rooms as we speak,” the general told them just before they left. “I expect to talk with the female any minute now. Lieutenant MacLean, are you sure she’s Jamal’s lover?”

Ian felt his face heat up. “Pretty sure … sir.”

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant. ‘Pretty sure’ is not a term we accept in this Navy, as you well know.”

The admonition annoyed Ian, especially since it came on top of the criticism. Bristling, he defended himself. “The woman was in Iraq … in a remote region known to be Jamal’s hiding spot. She said her name was Yasmine … at that time. She spoke
Arabic. With all due respect, General … sir, I would have been remiss if I hadn’t assumed she was the tango’s … uh, cohort.”

“That remains to be seen.” The general hadn’t cared for his tone, any more than Ian had cared for his superior’s. But the Navy was not a democracy, and Ian had to remind himself to pay the proper respect to a higher-ranking officer.

After they left the briefing and headed toward the mess hall, he was still thinking about Yasmine.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Cage elbowed him in the side to get his attention. “It’s Yasmine, isn’t it?

“Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it? She has Phyllis Diller hair. She nags so much she give shrews a bad name. She smells. She talks funny. She freakin’ tried to kill me. Twice.”

“Beauty’s only skin deep,” Slick said, throwing a proverb at Ian for a change.

“Yeah, if you’re drunk out of your mind and willing to dig down to her liver,” Ian countered.

Cage put a finger in the air as if to interrupt him. “She does have nice breasts, though, bless her heart.”

“Breasts aren’t everything,” Ian observed, with a straight face yet.

Cage and the other members of his squad exploded with laughter at that remark. Ian laughed, too.

“To some people they are,” Geek pointed out.

“Oh, yeah?” Pretty Boy said. “You got statistics on that, Mister Brainiac?”

“Actually—”

“Don’t let him needle you,” Ian advised Geek. To
the rest of them, he explained, “I know it’s crazy, but I feel guilty about turning her over.”

“Maybe it’s a bit of Stockholm Syndrome,” JAM offered. “You know, where the captive falls in love with the captor.”

“I am
not
in love with that witch. Besides, I was the captor, not the captive,” he protested.

“Stranger things have happened. Besides, they say that ugly women try harder to please.” It was Slick speaking and waggling his eyebrows at him.

“There is that,” Sly said. “Maybe she’s the Avis of the female species.”

“Actually, I’m getting kinda tired of beautiful women,” Pretty Boy commented.

They all stopped and gaped at him.

“Gotcha!” Pretty Boy said with a laugh.

JAM said something as they entered the mess hall that got Ian thinking. “I wonder what Yasmine looks like under all that grime.”

“Before, she looked like a dirty witch who swallowed her broom,” Omar said. “I suspect that after her shower she will look like a clean witch who swallowed her broom.”

Ian thought a moment, then said, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

She was no swan, but …

In some ways, Madrene felt as if she’d died and gone to Asgard, so heavenly was her experience in this new world.

Her robe had been tossed in a basket to be taken out later to their midden. The two lady soldiers, whose names turned out to be Amber and
Dough-lore-ass, took her to a bathing chamber where she enjoyed the most bone-melting all-over wash. Without even sitting down in a tub! Madrene had thought the bathing pools in the Baghdad harems were luxurious, but even they could not compare to the showers of hot water that came out of a metal sprayer in the wall.

And the soap! The hard bars of rose-scented soap were a luxury she would have thought reserved for the highest royalty. For the hair, there was a scented liquid called sham-poo. Amber and Dough-lore-ass claimed even the lowest classes had access to such special soaps and sham-poos. If the scented soap and sham-poo were not enough, they also gave her an object called dee-odor-ant to apply in her armpits. She would smell like a bloody rosebush by the time they were done with her.

Afterward, they stood her before an enormous mirror, a luxury most kings could not afford in her country, and helped her comb all the tangles out of her waist-length blond hair. Her hair was the same color as it had been when she’d left the Norselands three years ago, but her skin had darkened somewhat because of her exposure to the hot Arab sun.

Amber had helped her in the bathing chamber. Dough-lore-ass, on the other hand, stood with a weapon in her hand the entire time, guarding her. As if she might run off naked to the gods-only-knew-where!

“I like the name Amber,” Madrene remarked. “My father and my brothers traded in amber.”

The two women just stared at her. Then Amber said, “You told the general your name was Madrene. Do they call you Maddie for short?”

Madrene had forgotten that she’d divulged her real name. That had been careless of her. She blinked several times, then said, “Yea, they call me Maddie.”

“I don’t think we have a bra that would fit you, Maddie. You’ve got to be at least a 34C, maybe even 34D,” Amber said, once they were out of the bathing chamber and in the sleeping chamber known as a bare-racks. Other women in the room or passing by gazed at her with interest, but they did not intrude.

“What is a bra?” Madrene asked. She had a large, plush towel wrapped around her body, covering her from chest to thighs.

Amber and Dough-lore-ass looked at each other, then at her.

At the same time, Amber lifted her
shirt
, revealing the oddest garment. Made of an almost transparent lace fabric, it covered the breasts and had straps over the shoulders and a band around the chest.

“Well, hell fires, what is the purpose of that attire?”

“To hold up the breasts,” said Amber, who had no breasts to speak of.

“Like a harness?”

The two women laughed.

“You could say that,” Dough-lore-ass replied. “Plus, they make a woman feel sexy. And they turn men on.” She raised her eyes meaningfully.

“If by ‘turning on,’ you mean what I think you do, well, I doubt me that the men in my country would turn lustsome over that skimpy attire. If given a choice, methinks they would prefer the udders bare and hanging in the wind, though I am no expert on the subject.”

Amber helped pull a green, collarless, short-sleeved
shirt
over Madrene’s head. The letters U.S.
Navy were on the front. Like most women in her country, Madrene had never been taught to read, but she was able to make out some words and letters.

“Going bare-chested in public is not an option, Maddie, especially here on a military base,” Dough-lore-ass pointed out with a smile.

“I know that. Bloody hell, didst think I would ever consider such scandalous behavior?” Madrene shook her head at their foolishness. “I referred to your remark about men liking … what did you call them? … bras. Besides, judging by my brothers’ past conduct, men’s staffs rise at the least provocation. And if they have been imbibing too much mead, they need no provocation at all. Their dangly parts have a mind of their own. Leastways, that is what Ragnor used to say.”

Both women were staring at her, slack-jawed with amazement. She affected people like that on occasion.

“I talk too much betimes,” she admitted with a shrug. “And I tend to be blunt of tongue. I do not mean to offend, though often that is the case.”

Amber patted her on the shoulder. “No, no, that’s all right. You just surprised us.”

“And you talk oddly,” Dough-lore-ass added. She was still guarding Madrene but did not seem to consider her a real threat.

“Hah! Why does everyone say that my speech is strange? It is all of you who talk in an odd fashion.”

“What country are you from?” Amber asked as she pulled out a flesh-colored bra from a chest. She held it up in front of Madrene and nodded her opinion that it would fit.

Madrene considered telling them the truth, but decided that caution was the better path. After all,
she had been taken from her homeland and forced to stay in the Arab land for two long years. And she was still in the Arab lands, for all she knew. Best to be careful of how much she revealed, she decided. “North of here,” she said.

“Syria? Turkey?” Dough-lore-ass inquired with seeming shock. She and Amber exchanged looks again.

What was it about this land that everything has something to do with animals? Seals, birds and now turkeys. I am certainly not a turkey, last time I checked.
She was about to tell them just that, but another woman soldier came up and told them, “General Adams wants to see the prisoner as soon as possible.”

“Which prisoner?” Madrene asked. Then realized that the woman was referring to her. “I am not a prisoner,” she started to say, then realized that perchance she was.

Quickly, Amber found her
braies
made of the woodland fabric that the “seals” had worn, dark calf-length hose, and heavy boots. But first, they showed her how to put on an undergarment called panties. They were flesh-colored, like the bra, and barely covered her belly, buttocks and nether hair. She giggled at the feel of the garment on her body.

Soon, flanked by the two women soldiers, she was walking toward the general’s chamber. She could not wait to get this meeting over with so she could eat, her stomach being nigh empty.

“Those SEALs from Force Squad are going to get a rude awakening when they get a look at this babe,” Amber remarked to Dough-lore-ass.