Sandra Hill (20 page)

But only for a second.

“On your backs, sweetie pies,” F.U. continued with glee. “Give me twenty flutter kicks. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Start knockin’ ’em out.”

They were the most half-assed flutter kicks he’d ever seen, despite him and all the other instructors leaning over the trainees yelling encouragement or directions or mostly offers to help them DOR.

A couple of the women walked off to the side and hurled into the sand. Overexertion did that to a body.

“I have a good idea,” Zach yelled out then. “Let’s play volcano.”

The women were too exhausted to mutter aloud, but the glowers they shot his way spoke volumes, Britta’s more than any of them.

The class was gathered in several big, tight circles on the beach, backs to the center, and ordered to keep tossing sand up in the air and over themselves, like what else? Volcanoes.

“There’s a point to this exercise, snuffies,” Zach explained. “Out on an active op, with artillery, demolitions, and shells exploding all around you, sand and dirt are going to be tossed in your face and ears and other body cavities. You’re going to have to learn to work despite the discomfort and fuzzy vision and impaired hearing.”

No one was buying his logic.

“And now,” Commander MacLean said, “we’re going to show you whistle exercises. Over and over and over during the course of your program, no matter what evolution, you must adhere to the whistle directives. Come over here and demonstrate, Instructors Floyd, Uxley, and LeBlanc.” A loud blast came from the commander’s whistle. The three of them dropped to the ground, face-first. “This is the same position you would take if there were real artillery rounds coming at you or bombs being lobbed in your vicinity. Notice how they face away from the sound, hands behind their necks to keep their heads from bouncing on the ground, open mouths to keep their ears from blowing out, ankles and legs crossed to protect”—he grinned—“their private parts.”

The women for once seemed to understand the need for this battle replica drill and paid strict attention.

Two blasts from the whistle, and the three of them began to crawl toward the sound. Three blasts and they recovered, getting to their feet and brushing the sand off their fronts.

“Now, let’s see you do it.” At least twenty times, the commander played the different whistle blasts till they seemed to get the routine. Drop, crawl, recover, drop, crawl, recover. Over and over and many different patterns. It was a Pavlov exercise in the extreme. “Remember, you’re going to hear this whistle at random times during all different exercises. And always, ALWAYS, the whistle routine takes precedence. It might save your life someday. Understood?”

Dozens of heads bobbed. Four women walked off to ring the bell.

“Remember, snuffies. No pain, no gain.”

“If a barrel of lutefisk were nearby, I vow I would stuff it into the commander’s mouth to prevent him from uttering another of his lackwit sayings.” Luckily, Britta’s remark wasn’t overheard by MacLean, or she would be in Gig Squad tonight.

As it was, Zach told her, “Asado, watch your mouth. It’s going to get you in big trouble.”

She glanced his way, checked to see that no one was looking, then stuck her tongue out at him.

The commander and half the instructors then herded the staggering women, carrying the IBSs again on extended arms, toward the swimming pool for drownproofing exercises. At least a dozen of the trainees would ring out in the midst of that horror by the end of the afternoon, guaranteed. Their arms and legs would be tied, and they would be tossed in the pool where they were expected to remain underwater and survive for a full five minutes. If they attempted to rise to the top, an instructor was there to shove them back under.

Zach made his way into the command center to meet with his grandfather and his lawyer.

His grandfather, General Floyd, was standing at the window observing the progress of the WEALS. Even though he was at ease, his backbone was straight as a board. His high and tight showed not a gray hair out of place. His face was rigid and unsmiling, as if he was ever at attention. His uniform was immaculately pressed with five rows of ribbons to indicate combat tours, along with various medals and of course the stars. His shoes were spit-shined. Army lifer to the max. He extended a hand formally to Zach. It was a wonder he didn’t salute.

After shaking hands, the general asked, “Which one is she? The tall blonde?”

He shook his head at the hopelessness of his blabbermouth brother. “Which one what?” he pretended innocence.

“Don’t play games with me, Zachary Frank Floyd.”

“My personal life is my business.”

“Hardly,” he scoffed, motioning to the lawyer sitting at the conference table.

Zach nodded at Delaney, who was trying his best not to be a party to this private conversation.

“I meant my sex life.” Sometimes he had to be blunt to get through to his grandfather.

“I would say your sex life is pretty much public fodder these days, wouldn’t you?”

“Listen, Britta has nothing to do with this.”

“Britta?” His grandfather raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to marry the girl?”

He released a whooshy exhale. “Number one, Britta is twenty-seven years old, not a girl. Number two, marriage is the last thing on my mind…or hers. Number three, even if I wanted to get married, and I don’t, it would be the kiss of death for Britta in WEALS.”

His grandfather nodded. That was one thing he understood: military obligations. “Just don’t get the lady pregnant. That’s all you need is another—”

“Don’t even go there,” he warned with an upraised hand. He might not have married Esilah, but he’d deck any person calling his kid a bastard.

His grandfather’s face flushed, but he had the good sense not to say anything more on that subject. “I’m going over to the XO’s office to relay a message from Admiral Jenner. Let’s have dinner tonight.” What a piece of work his grandfather was! You’d never know they’d just exchanged barely civil words.

He shook his head. “I have to be home with Sammy.”

“How is the boy?”

“He’s fine. Correction, he’s not fine, but he will be.”

The general gave what for him was a grin. “Still cursing up a storm?”

“Yeah, but he’s toned his repertoire down a bit. He’s trying.”
What a crock!

“You could let him come back to D.C. with me. Your grandmother and I could care for him till this whole debacle blows over. He’d be safe in our gated community.”

Not in a million years! Sammy is screwed up enough.
“Thanks, but he stays with me.”

After his grandfather was gone, making arrangements to drop by the house before leaving town, Zach and Delaney got down to business. He signed legal documents giving the lawyer power of attorney to access his confidential files and act on his behalf in legal matters where privacy laws prevailed.

“Arsallah wants to arrange a meeting between himself and your son.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Not even in a secure setting?”

“No. It can serve no purpose other than to intimidate Sammy and give Arsallah information about how to access the boy.”

“The courts might say he has a grandfather’s right to visitation.”

“Then he’ll have to fight for it in the courts. And that means he’ll have to explain some of the scars on the boy’s body and some of the things Sammy has inadvertently revealed about his treatment in the mullah’s camps.”

“None of this is going to be easy.”

“I know that.”

“And not just because of Arsallah’s threats. The State Department has Lebanon and Iran breathing down its neck. They’re urging diplomacy.”

“Bullshit! What they’re urging is that we sacrifice the boy for the sake of goodwill with a bunch of terrorist nations.”

Delaney shrugged. “That’s the way the world works.”

“It’s not the way I work.”

“The Vortex Security guy talked with you today, right?”

He nodded.

“They think you should find a safe house for Sammy and yourself for the short term.”

He shook his head. “Sammy’s lived with nothing but turmoil practically since he was born. I have to give him as close to a normal life as I can. And, yeah, I know my home is no Brady Bunch paradise, but it’s better than he’s ever known before.”

Delaney reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. “You don’t have to convince me, Zach.”

After his meeting with the lawyer, it was past noon, and he decided to catch up with the WEALS class in the chow hall. When he got there, he saw a bunch of ragtag women who looked as if they’d been put through the ringer. It was hard to tell whether they were eating or sleeping as they sat on the benches. Wet, scrawny hair from the pool. Sweaty bodies. Grimy clothing. Exhaustion and pain etched on their faces. But wait, there was a group of women who weren’t sitting down, and in the middle of that bunch, he saw Britta holding center court. She was holding something up to the women who surrounded her. Whatever it was, it caused the other women to laugh. Even some of the instructors standing nearby were smiling.

When she saw him, despite all the military protocol to the contrary, she stomped up to him and held out a dish. “Do you know what this is?” she demanded.

“Uh, chocolate pudding?”

“Covered with?”

“Whipped cream?”

“And how does one eat whipped cream, pray tell?”

“With a spoon?” Uh-oh! He knew where this conversation was going.

“Do not dare to smirk at me, lout. You told me there was only one way to eat whipping cream. By licking. And, for a certainty, it was not on a bowl of pudding, either, you son of a codsucking camel.”

He couldn’t help himself from joining the crowd. Everybody was laughing.

Except Britta. She tossed the dish of pudding in his face.

Who hid the red paint?…

They had just completed the fourth week of WEALS training, and only thirty-five of the original ninety-five women remained. Fortunately, Britta and her three sleeping-chamber companions were still in the race.

Despite how hard they had been worked, from before dawn to dusk every day, and sometimes in the middle of the night, Britta felt good. And she was proud. Not just of the strength and stamina she was building in her body, but how much she was learning. How to use weapons, like rifles and KA-BAR knives. How to maneuver in close-quarter fighting. How to infiltrate an enemy’s territory. How to survive a nigh-drowning. How to work as a team, not an individual fighter. How to ride a rub-her boat on the waves without swallowing an ocean of salt water. How to jump off exceedingly high towers without breaking a limb, an exercise preparing them for jumping out of metal vehicles in the sky, something she chose not to think about.

Zachary, with his overconcern for her well-being, had approached her several times, trying to coax her into ringing out. Mostly, she just ignored the lout. Yea, they had enjoyed great bedsport, but now ’twas time to move on to more serious matters. Not that he didn’t still make her blood heat and her nether parts thrum when he was near, but any other passably fair man would probably affect her in the same way, and she had told Zachary so. Which had caused his pretty face to flush with anger. Now he was the one ignoring her, or trying to.

In the midst of her busy schedule, she was even learning reading, writing, geography, math, and history in classes arranged over her dinner hour each night. This instruction was provided for her privately, probably at Zachary’s urging, under the guise of her being a foreigner unfamiliar with the language and customs of America. The history lessons were the most illuminating to her; they drummed home more than anything else that she really must have traveled through time, as unbelievable as that was.

But now, it was Frey’s-day afternoon, and Britta and her fellow trainees were about to have their first free time in weeks. “At ease, snuffies,” the commander hollered. Everything he ever said to them was delivered in a holler. “Be back here by oh seven hundred Sunday morning. Clean, pressed uniforms. Be prepared to strut your stuff for the powers that be.” A contingent of far-famed governing people from a place called Con-grass was coming to inspect their progress. “And be prepared to start survival training and simulated combat exercises on San Clemente Island starting Monday. We’ll play some Sims. Get in a few tracking, patrolling, ambushing, concealment, first-aid, and night-movement exercises. That’s it. Fall out! Class secured for the day!” You would think he could at least have told them they did good so far, but nay, praise from him would be considered a weakness.

Two whole days.
She sighed.

The first thing any of them wanted to do was shower away the day’s sweat and grime. By the time Britta was done, she smelled of apple hair, strawberry skin, and floral armpits. In other words, delicious. Once back in the sleeping quarters, all four women sank down on their cots, planning to rest for a short time afore going to a shopping mart, which they promised Britta would be a real treat. However, the women were dead to the world for a full five hours, only rising after their stomachs rumbled with hunger.

Except for Britta, to whom sleep these days meant horrific dreams taking her back to a time and place where sword dew was being spilled aplenty at the abbey…and the good nuns’ virtue was forfeit to every passing man. She could no longer think of the dreams as products of her imagination. They were peek holes into the past as it was happening. She was sure of it. Which meant she must return and help.

Or did it?

She would have to ask Hilda and Madrene the first chance she got. Both women had called several times on a magic box called a telephone during the past three sennights, inquiring about her well-being and progress in the WEALS.

When she rose from her cot, stretching with a wide, lusty yawn, she told her three chamber companions, “There is something important I must do afore I even think of eating or going off to a shopping mart.”

“What’s that, sweetie?” Terri asked while she towel-dried her short, curly hair.

“Bet she wants to call Pretty Boy and arrange a few more of those mind-blowing orgasms,” Donita teased.

“Nay, I do not. Zachary has been as cruel as the other sadistic instructors these past sennights. What I want—”

“I know,
chère
, you want a Brazil wax, yes?” Marie interjected, also teasing.

Britta had to laugh. She’d already become accustomed to this country’s female ritual of shaving the legs and underarms, but shaving her nether region held no appeal and, truth be told, made no sense. Besides, she would not wear a bikini in public under any circumstances. She’d rather go naked.

“I want to cut my hair,” she told them, combing her fingers through her waist-long hair, damp even after five hours.

“Oh, honey, I don’t know,” Terri said, running a hand over the wet swath. “You have beautiful hair, like gold silk.”

“I agree,” Donita said. “If I had hair like yours, I’d leave it the way it is.”

“What does Pretty Boy say ’bout ya cuttin’ yer locks?” Marie inquired.

That question surprised Britta. “Why would his opinion on my personal grooming matter a whit to me?” Oddly, it did matter, but that was neither here nor there. “My long hair is becoming a hindrance, even when in a braid. It catches on wood objects in the obstacle course. It is heavy and warm, causing me to perspire more. It takes too long to shampoo and dry.” And she felt different than the other women.

In the end, Britta sat before a full-length mirror Donita had inside her metal closet, and all three women, laughing and chattering away, began to cut her hair and dry it with a blowing apparatus.

“So, Marie, I saw you talking to that Cajun hunk,” Terri said, spreading a towel around Britta’s shoulders. “You two got somethin’ going?”

Marie shook her head. “I’ve had enough of Cajun men, growing up on the bayou. I would feel like I was getting it on with my brother. Talk about!”

“And you?” Terri glanced at Donita. “I’ve seen you and Sly exchanging looks.”

“Hah! The only looks I been exchangin’ with that too-full-of-himself black brother are glowers. Did you know he used to model men’s underwear? I asked him if he had a lifetime supply of briefs, and he told me he doesn’t wear underwear. And that he’d be willing to prove it to me sometime.”

“That sounds lak interest to me,” Marie said. “In Southern Loo-zee-anna, we’d say that boy’s been flashin’ ya his widow-bait smile.”

“Hardly! He also asked me if I was still on steroids. The jerk!”

“Well, then, you can have Cage, and I’ll take Sly,” Marie said saucily.

“Honey chile, the last thing this black woman wants is a redneck boy with a pointy hat.”

“Oh, that’s not fair.” Marie’s face flushed. “Not all Southerners are bigots.”

Donita patted Marie on the shoulder. “I know that, honey. I was just kidding. A bad joke!”

The two women hugged.

What had just transpired, Britta had no idea. All she knew was that she was becoming close to these woman friends. As close as she had once been to Hilda. It would be hard to leave them if—or when—she had to leave.

They braided her hair first, then cut off the long plait to be sent someplace that made wigs for women who had lost their hair to a wasting disease. They did not cut it short-short as she’d originally requested, telling her that would be too drastic. Instead, her hair was cut in layers down to her shoulders, framing her face. When she shook her head, the strands all fell in place neatly. To her surprise, she had natural waves, which her lady companions described as “sexy.”

“It’s too late to go to the mall,” Terri said then. “Anyone wanna go to the Wet and Wild?”

At Britta’s arched brows, Terri explained, “It’s a local watering hole. Good food, cheap booze, great music, and a lot of the Navy guys hang out there.”

A watering hole? Terri wanted to go to a place where animals watered?
The other women all voted yea, and Britta wasn’t about to ask yet another question, so she agreed, too.

“I for one plan to get me some tonight,” Terri said. “It’s been ages since I did the dirty.”

“Same here,” Marie said. “My IUD, she is gettin’ lonely.”

“I just want to eat and drink with my friends,” Donita said.

Terri and Marie looked at Donita and said as one, “Bull!”

“You know, honey,” Terri told Britta, “I suspect you’ve led a sheltered life when it comes to men. You had to if you never heard of orgasms before coming here. Maybe it’s time you tested the waters, to see if what you had with Zach was all that great.”

Britta had no doubt it had been great. She had no need for multiple partners to prove that fact. Still, there was appeal in seeing what could happen with other men. Besides, Zachary had been a pig in his role as instructor these past sennights. Not loverlike at all. She did not want special treatment, but making her do endless pushing-ups was not necessary, in her opinion. Yea, she would find another man, one who would be eager to please her not just in the bedsport but mayhap even in her trip to the past, if that became necessary. Not that she would tell anyone about the time travel…at first.

She turned to Terri and smiled, “Perchance we can both
get some
tonight.”

Soon they were off, driving over the bridge in Marie’s horseless carriage…a pick-me-up.

“Let’s make a pact,” Terri said. “We’re gonna paint the town red or die trying.”

Britta glanced around the vehicle. Not a brush or container of paint in sight. With a sigh, she wondered if she would ever understand this strange country.

His son, the sex advisor…

Zach was not a happy camper.

It was Friday night, but was he out on a hot date, or at least out trolling for a hot date? Nope. He was sitting in an Italian restaurant in San Diego with his son, the sulker; his father, the celebrity show-off; his father’s girlfriend, Bridget, the dumb twit; and enough security guards to give the leader of a small nation heartburn.

“Yoo-hoo, Dr. Bratton!” a woman three tables over called out.

Bridget giggled—for about the hundredth time—and squirmed in her seat, which was a feat in itself, considering how tight her red silk slip dress was with the deep scooped neck.

His father flashed his twenty-thousand-dollar smile and gave a little Hollywood wave to his fan at the other table.

Meanwhile, Zach’s security squad, along with his dad’s, circled the wagons—uh, tables—a little tighter. What a great way to have a nice quiet dinner with family! Not!

People thought his dad really was the doctor from the soap
Light in the Storm
, a part he’d been playing for fifteen years. Hell, he probably considered
himself
that toney doctor from some daytime dynasty. He certainly dressed the part. Tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches. A sissy white scarf wrapped casually around his neck; he’d probably seen Cary Grant wear one. A hairstyle with just the right sprinkling of gray at the temples; it had probably cost five hundred dollars or more. And a George Hamilton suntan, of course.

A woman had tried to kidnap his father five years ago, believing Dr. Bratton could cure her husband of Alzheimer’s. Thus, his father always traveled with some well-dressed grunts who looked like they were straight out of
The Godfather
, whereas Zach’s security detail resembled special forces guys, which they probably had been at one time. His father employed his guards for show as much as safety. He’d certainly gotten a pig load of publicity over the kidnapping episode.

Meanwhile, his dad was talking to Bridget about an upcoming story line where he would be doing a liver transplant on his wife, who had been in a coma for five years after having been cloned into her own twin sister.

Bridget giggled.

His father smiled.

Sammy slouched and muttered something about assholes. Zach wasn’t exactly sure who he was referring to and wasn’t about to ask. Just then, he noticed that Sammy was wearing as much spaghetti sauce as he’d left on his plate. Dipping a napkin in a glass of water, he proceeded to put Sammy in a neck hold and wipe his mouth and nose and chin. With all the squirming, the napkin slipped from his hands and floated to the floor.

Bridget bent down to pick it up, and he and his son—five going on twenty-five—got a gander at a set of world-class hooters. She gave new meaning to cleavage.

“Behave yourself,” he whispered to Sammy, who he could tell was about to say something inappropriate.

“Did ya see that?” Sammy whispered loud enough for everyone within five yards of the table to hear. “Her nipples’re big as marbles. Uncle Dan sez big nipples, easy pickin’s.”