Sandra Hill (2 page)

What a scruffy-looking bunch they were! Mostly unshaven. But all of them, himself included, were as physically fit as any man could be. They wore T-shirts, shorts and heavy combat boots. After their final planning session this morning, they would join the SEAL trainees for a ten-mile jog, run the O-course, and do a few rotations of terrorist training over at the Kill House. Having graduated to the teams, or serving on multiple ops, didn’t preclude a SEAL from continuing his physical training. In fact, it was required.

A few years back the Navy had relaxed the requirement that SEALs sport the usual “high and tight” military haircuts and that they wear standard uniforms so they could blend in with the indigenous people of foreign countries when they engaged in covert operations. As a result, they usually had long hair … at least over the ears. In addition, he and Pretty Boy … and now Geek, too … often had to dye their hair and eyebrows black. He had reddish-brown hair, Pretty Boy blond and Geek red, which would stand out like neon signs in some places. Some even went farther than that, like JAM, whose black hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

Then there was Ensign Omar Jones. Half Muslim, half Native American, he could pass for an Arab, an Italian, a Hispanic, a Greek or an authentic Indian chief, all of which he had done on numerous
occasions. He was an invaluable member of the team, especially for his Arab-language fluency. His hair, too, was pulled into a pony tail. While the others looked as if they’d been up all night, Omar, a linguist and former college professor, was bright-eyed. At thirty-two, Omar shared Ian’s lack of appetite for the SEAL groupies. Omar had probably stayed home with his five-year-old daughter, the product of a failed marriage.

“What’s with the black eye?” Omar asked Pretty Boy.

Pretty Boy blushed, which was a rare occurrence, and said nothing, which also was a rare occurrence.

Cage spoke for him. “We were at the Wet and Wild last night, and hot-shot Floyd here went up to this Berkeley babe who was wearin’ a NOW T-shirt, which shoulda given him a clue.” He grinned at Pretty Boy, who gave him the finger, before resuming his tale. “Anyhow, Hot Shot says to her, ‘So, you’re a feminist, huh?’ And she says, ‘Yeah, what of it?’ And Dumbo here, bless his heart, says, ‘Did you hear the joke about the feminist and the Navy SEAL?’ After which, she belted him. Did I mention she was built like Queen Latifah?”

Pretty Boy reached over to swat Cage, but he ducked. “It was no worse than your sorry line to that waitress.” In an exaggerated Southern drawl, Pretty Boy mimicked Cage, saying, “Honest, darlin’, I really am an angel. Those itty-bitty horns on my head are there just to hold my halo on.”

“Know what I think?” Cage said, also red-faced now.

“Here’s a news flash, buddy. I don’t give a pig’s ass what you think,” Pretty Boy replied and turned his
back on his squad mates to talk with Sylvester “Sly” Sims who had just walked up to them. The chief petty officer was a tall, slim black dude from Manhattan who used to model men’s underwear for
Esquire
magazine. You’d think he would be considered a girly guy for that modeling gig, but no way! Sly, who’d grown up on the streets of the Big Apple, had joined the SEALs because of his hatred for terrorists. His brother had been one of the many killed on 9/11 in the Twin Towers. Sly was their munitions expert.

The last one to straggle in was Luke Avenil, better known as Slick. An odd bird, Slick was quiet and kept to himself. He was a man with secrets, but a helluva SEAL. Slick had a knack for breaking and entering, a skill presumably learned as a teenager in one juvie hall or other.

Ian went to the podium to get their attention. Once the men were seated and quieted down, Ian asked, “We’ll be wheels up at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. Are you men good to go?”

“Hoo-yah!” they all yelled out.

Ian pulled down the map over the blackboard behind him and said, “Let’s go over this terrain one more time. First, where we do the HALO drop, then the pickup location.”

A communal groan resounded through the room. They’d gone over this map of Iraq a hundred times already. Hell, some of them probably had latitude marks on their eyeballs.

“Iraq is a triangle of mountains, desert and fertile river valley, bounded on the east by Iran, on the north by Turkey, on the west by Syria and Jordan and on the south by Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. It’s the mountainous area we’ll be hitting.”

“Repeat how far the LZ is from the target.” Omar was taking notes on a small pad.

“The landing zone is about five miles from Jamal’s enclave.”

After reviewing the geography one last time, Ian reminded them, “Gentlemen, this is a very important mission. Our goal here is to kill or preferably capture Jamal and the other thugs.”

“Did you see this morning’s Intel report?” Geek interjected, looking down at the laptop on his knees. “Jamal was bragging on Aljazeera how he and his tangos are now personally responsible for the deaths of five hundred and thirteen men, women and children, and many thousands of injuries, tortures and rapes. All in the name of Allah.” Tango was a SEAL word for a terrorist bad guy.

“His death would be a blessing,” Sly said in a deadly soft voice. “I hope I get to do the honors.”

“No, no, no! The secrets he might spew out during interrogation could be invaluable,” Ian cautioned.

“In other words, bring the loser back alive, if possible,” Pretty Boy remarked with disgust.

“I cannot emphasize enough how dangerous this op is going to be. In effect, we’ll be inserting ourselves into the middle of a rats’ nest.”

He was not surprised that there wasn’t even a flinch at that news.

“Despite the odds, I have confidence in you all, and your SEAL abilities. Remember that SEALs are sent down rough paths, but the Navy, through your training, has provided us with good shoes.” Even Ian sometimes cringed at his own motivational sayings.

“Well, holy hell, shoes won’t mean squat where
swe’re going,” Omar quipped. “A camel would be more welcome.”

They all laughed at the logic of Omar’s observation.

“Remember those SEALs who got themselves in hot water a few years back when news photos showed them leading a bunch of Afghan friendlies on horseback,” Sly added.

“Yeah, and the Defense Department had a shit fit over it. SEALs are supposed to be water warriors, and we sure as hell aren’t supposed to call attention to ourselves. Those hotdogs thumbed their noses at the brass.” It was JAM speaking now.

“Hey, those are friends of mine you’re referring to as hotdogs,” Ian said, smiling.

“Frogs and alligators have it easy,” Cage drawled out. “They just eat what bugs them.”

“What? You want us to eat terrorists?” Pretty Boy replied.

“Only if they’re female,” Cage countered, waggling his eyebrows lasciviously.

“What does that mean?” Geek wanted to know.

Laughter rippled through the room.

“Speaking of women,” Ian said, “I got an alert from Intel this morning. Jamal’s longtime mistress is supposedly with him. If we could nab her, she might have significant information. Plus, Jamal might be smoked out of hiding if we get her first.”

They all nodded.

“Her name is Yasmine. Not sure if she’s Arab. Maybe Pakistani or Lebanese. Hell, she could be an Eskimo, for all we know.”

“I take it we have no physical description,” JAM said dryly.

Ian shook his head. “Just that she’s thirty or so and extremely beautiful.”

“Oooh, I like the beautiful part,” Cage said. “Can I interrogate her?”

“Get a life,” Pretty Boy told him.

Cage told Pretty Boy something pretty explicit, even for Ian’s ears.

Ian would have reprimanded the two of them, but he was willing to give them leeway today. Everyone was nervous. The adrenaline level in the room was sky-high, a mixture of fear and exhilaration in the face of extreme danger.

After their exercises this morning, everyone would break down their weapons, clean and lube them and then go out and test fire them. Despite the joking, this was deadly serious business.

In conclusion, Ian told his men, “Be safe. We’re entering their land. We’re a small squad … only eight men, compared to their dozens.”

“Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups,” Omar commented.

“Besides, we’re SEALs, we’re at an advantage, no matter the odds,” Pretty Boy boasted.

“Hoo-yah!” seven men yelled back at him.

All the SEALs left then, leaving Ian to his own thoughts.

He decided to pray.

Madrene Olgadottir, noble granddaughter of Eric Olafsson, once high jarl of Norstead, walked through
her great hall, which was filled with hundreds of laughing, drinking men.

She was being led by a neck tether, her hands bound behind her back, a short rope connecting her two ankles.

She was naked.

And she was madder than a hornet caught in a spider web.

She stopped before Steinolf the Vicious, the chieftain who had invaded and captured Norstead and its surrounding estates a sennight past. All her fighting men were gone to Valhalla or scattered to the far mountains awaiting word from her to come back and fight … something she could not in good conscience command.

Her family, once huge and powerful, was gone now, and that was the crux of her problem. She’d done her best to hold Norstead intact, even fighting side by side with her soldiers. Many invaders considered Norstead fair game because all the men of the family were gone. But she was strong and stubborn and had held on since the last of her family—her brother Ragnor—died a year past. Until now.

Steinolf hoped to shame her into compliance by parading her through the hall nude.
Hah! I am the daughter of many generations of Viking warriors. I cannot let them down. I cannot let my people down.
Lifting her chin haughtily, she eyed the brute who was staring at her nudity with mild interest, as if she were a piece of meat offered at the high table. She had not been raped … yet … as many of her kitchen maids and village girls
had been, but that was only because Steinolf hoped that she would wed with him. She had been whipped, however … repeatedly. Her back would bear scars for the rest of her life, she would warrant, as would her wrists and ankles and neck from the abrasive ropes.

If that weren’t bad enough, Steinolf had tried to kill her precious pet cat, Rose, to teach Madrene a lesson. If her hands had been free, she would have throttled the miscreant gleefully for that sin alone, to say nothing of all the sword dew he had spilled amongst her people. Luckily, Rose had escaped and was in the hands of one of the village cotters.

“Kneel, wench, and kiss my boot as a sign of your surrender,” Steinolf’s deep voice boomed out.

Is the man barmy?
She spat on his boot.

The ruffian who held her tether shoved her to her knees, but she refused to lean down to the boot. Instead, she glared up at the monster who had overtaken her keep.

He was a huge man, at least a head taller than she and twice as wide under his fur mantle. His stringy hair was blond and hung down to his shoulders; war braids framed his scarred face.

“Kiss … my … boot,” he repeated in an ominously soft voice.

“Kiss … my … arse!” Madrene surprised herself by saying. It was an expression she’d heard her brothers use on many an occasion, but one she’d never used herself.

Steinolf’s eyes went wide with surprise, but then he threw his head back and laughed uproariously. “Mayhap later,” he said when he was no longer laughing.

I wish my brothers were here. They would wipe that lackwit smile right off your face.
“I hope you choke.”

“You are a feisty one, I give you that. Much joy will I get in breaking your wild spirit.”

Madrene rolled her eyes.
Men are such braggarts, always thinking they are so superior. As if the dangly part betwixt their legs gives them greater intelligence. Hah!
“You are a pig, Steinolf. Look at you. Bread crumbs in your beard. Grease stains on your shert. You reek of stale mead and unwashed skin. Methinks you and all your herd of soldiers need a good bath and delousing. You should sleep in the barn at my farmstead, instead of on the clean rushes here at Norstead.” Madrene couldn’t believe she’d criticized the chieftain so. Ah, well, she was as good as dead anyway. Despite her dire situation, she had to smile. Her father and brothers would hoot with laughter because her nagging spirits couldn’t be held back, even when kneeling afore her conqueror stark naked.

Actually, she probably reeked as well, not having been able to bathe this past sennight. The blond braid hanging down her back had been plaited before the assault and was half undone now.

“You find humor in your predicament?” Steinolf asked incredulously.

“I find humor in you.” She was getting a kink in her neck from looking up at him.

Instead of running her through with his broadsword as Madrene half expected the man to do, he just studied her, stroking his unkempt beard thoughtfully. “I have heard you are a shrew, no doubt due to the free rein given you by the men in your family. Fools they must have been. Everyone knows that women are meant to serve men, not stab them with their sharp tongues.”

Blather, blather, blather. Why don’t you just kill me? I have nothing to live for anymore.
Oddly, Madrene felt a sense of peace come over her.

“Are you ready to come to my bed furs … as my bride?”

Oh, yea, I am ready. Best you keep your manpart away from me. Even if I have to use my teeth, Steinolf, you will have no dangly part by dawn light.
“You already have two wives and several concubines. I have been baptized by a Christian monk and do not accept the
more danico
practice of multiple wives.”
Why am I attempting logic with such a dolt?

Anger blazed in his gray eyes. “Wouldst join with me in wedlock if I put those women aside?”

Oh, for Valhalla’s sake! Even I, lowly woman that I am, can see that is a ruse.
“You would not want me. I am barren, you know. ’Tis why my husband put me aside ten years ago.”