Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 04] (3 page)

Without having the order repeated, Torolf dropped to the ground to do fifty push-ups, on top of the five hundred he’d already done that day. And it was barely oh-nine-hundred on a bright California summer morning.

His seven teammates, equally wet, dirty, and bone-tired, stared with seeming solemnity at him as he completed his “punishment.” None of them cracked as much as a grin, knowing full well that they could be next.

Seaman Justin LeBlanc, that crazy Cajun from Loo-zee-anna, did wink at him, though … a brief flutter that could be interpreted as a blink if noticed by the chief or any of the three other instructors in attendance. Cage was his swim buddy. In SEALs, swim buddies could never be more than six feet apart.

Petty Officer Second Class Sylvester “Sly” Simms, a big black dude from Harlem who used to model men’s tighty whities for
Esquire
, gave the chief a surreptitious finger behind his back.

Petty Officer First Class Travis “Flash” Gordon crossed his eyes, as if a bug had suddenly crash-dived on his nose.

Seaman Frank Uxley, nicknamed F.U. for obvious reasons, didn’t blink or gesture; he’d been doing duck squats all morning for failure to lift his IBL (Inflatable Boat, Large) fast enough in a predawn surf op. No way was he chancing a repeat of those hamstring-punishing exercises.

Lieutenant (jg) Jacob Alvarez Mendozo—JAM—moved his lips slightly; he was probably praying, being an ex-Jesuit priest. JAM always claimed he had God on his shoulder, while all Torolf had was that puny-assed Thor.

“You boys need a little loosening up before breakfast,” the Master Chief said. “What say we go for a short run … say ten miles?”

What a comedian!

Torolf knew that ten miles meant it would probably be fifteen … maybe more. It would be an uncomfortable run in heavy boondockers, with sand between their toes and in every bodily orifice from their early-morning beach roll-arounds. They were in full ruck today, which meant BDUs and carrying
about seventy-five pounds of military field gear. At least they weren’t carrying their IBLs on their heads while they ran, which was the norm.

Torolf refused to show the Marquis de Master Chief his displeasure. There had been a contest of wills going on between him and the “Lean-Mean” from the get-go. Hell, they all knew what a “Mac Attack” meant, and it had nothing to do with hamburgers. The chief prided himself on being the “professor of pain.”

The chief yelled out one of his usual nauseating inspirational quotes: “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.”

“Or with a lot of bitching,” Torolf muttered to himself.

“My sister’s going to run with you boys today,” the chief announced. “Hope you can keep up with her.”

There was a communal groan as Lieutenant Alison MacLean arrived. Though she had spent less time in the service than her older brother, she out-ranked him. Ian Maclean had attained the highest rank an enlisted man could reach, master chief petty officer. But with the injustice typical of the military, any person who graduated from officers’ candidate school outranked the highest enlisted officer.

Lieutenant MacLean was clad in running shorts and a U.S. Navy T-shirt. She didn’t have any breasts to speak of, like many extreme female athletes, though her long legs bordered on spectacular. Her red hair was short and tousled. Torolf was tall—six foot four—but Lieutenant MacLean had to be close to six foot herself. And big-boned. He liked his women blond and petite. Nope, she was not his type at all.

On the other hand, Ragnor would like her,
he thought of a sudden. His brother, whom he hadn’t seen in more than ten years, had always had a preference for redheads and women with brains. Why he would be thinking of Ragnor now, he had no idea.
I’m probably hallucinating from exhaustion.

Lieutenant MacLean was a physician here at the naval base with a specialty in sports medicine. She and two other physicians worked exclusively with the trainees and SEALs themselves, checking them out after every evolution. The teams had their own medical facility at Coronado with excellent, much-used rehab capabilities, all of which were headed by the good lieutenant. Often called upon to work with the muscle-related injuries the SEALs sustained in their grueling workouts, she even went out on field ops on some occasions. The SEALs program barred females, but Lieutenant MacLean was as close to a female SEAL as they came.

“Do you think she’s a dyke?” Flash asked as they fell in behind the chief, his sister, and three other instructors, jogging slowly off the “grinder”—the asphalt P.T. arena—and heading toward the beach.

“Hell, no,” F.U. answered with a laugh. “Where’d you get that dumb-ass idea?”

“She’s so big,” Flash answered. Flash was only about five foot ten; so any woman taller than he would seem big.

“And big means lesbo? You are such a frickin’ asshole.” That was Cody O’Brien speaking. He and Flash hated each other with a passion because 1) Flash loved country music; and 2) Cody hated country music. Simple as that.

“Takes one to know one,” Flash answered.

“Asshole or lesbo?” Cody countered.

“You are achin’ for a breakin’, man,” Flash snarled.

“Hoo-yah! Kiss my achy breaky ass, sweetie pie,” Cody said, laughing.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, butthead.”

“Well, that retort came right out of kindergarten,” Cody said. “Oops, that’s how far you went in school, isn’t it?”

“I think she’s a hottie.” JAM spoke right over Flash and Cody in his educated Mexican-American accent.

None of them had even broken a sweat yet, but they would in another mile or five. For now, they were able to talk and run at the same time. They all looked at JAM. For an ex-priest, he wasn’t all that priestly.

“JAM, JAM, JAM, you poor boy! I think you need to get laid,” yet another of the SEAL trainees chimed in. This time it was Frank “Pretty Boy” Floyd, the team’s hands-down quintessential ladies man from Bangor, Maine. He had been a race-car driver before entering the SEALs. Race-car drivers were known chick magnets, apparently, or so he told them on numerous occasions. Humility was not one of his strong suits.

“Eff you,” JAM said. Definitely not priestly.

“You called?” F.U. replied. It was a standing joke among them, and they all laughed.

“Actually, JAm’s right. She’s not bad. I like Lieutenant MacLean,” Torolf said. “And as for big, lots of Viking women are tall. Nothing wrong with that.”

They all groaned.

“Oh, no! Not the Viking crap again, Max,” Sly said, bringing up the rear. All the SEALs and SEAL trainees were given nicknames, his being short for Magnusson. “I swear, I am going to puke if I hear one
more story about how great it was to ride the open waves in a longboat, or wield a sword that has a name, or eat dried fish back in the freakin’ Norselands.”

Everyone laughed again, including Torolf, who had told them a story or two about eating the dreaded lutefisk in the dead of winter or on a longship when out on a prolonged voyage. Not that they’d believed any of it.

“You all think this is funny?” the Master Chief called back to them. Thank God he hadn’t been able to hear their words, especially about his sister. “Well, then, let’s pick up the pace. And how about a little jody call, boys? It’s your turn, Petty Officer Gordon. Remember, if something’s hard, it must be worth doing. Let’s hear it, loud and clear. Tell us why hard is good.”

“I don’t know but I’ve been told,” Flash yelled out.

“I don’t know but I’ve been told,” they all repeated, keeping beat with their running as they chanted.

“Navy SEALs are mighty bold.”

“Navy SEALs are mighty bold,” they sang back.

“Ladies watch how a SEAL runs.”

“Ladies watch how a SEAL runs.”

“SEALs have real hot buns.”

“SEALs have real hot buns.”

“But we all know why the women flock …”

“But we all know why the women flock …”

“ ’Cause SEALs have got a great—”

“Gentlemen!” the Master Chief interrupted, turning and jogging backwards as he addressed them. “Do not go there! There’s a lady on board.”

Flash grinned and finished, “… sweet talk.”

And the rest of them chanted back, “ ’Cause SEALs have got a great sweet talk.”

“Sound off, one, two …”

“Sound off, one, two …”

“Three, four.”

“Three, four.”

When their running exercise—which did end up being fifteen miles—was over, the Master Chief yelled over to Flash, “Petty Officer Gordon. In my office at nineteen hundred hours. We need to discuss your choice of
grody
jody lyrics. Perhaps a bit of Gig Squad will teach you to be a better composer.” Gig Squad, held for one hour after dinner, consisted of the usual physical-torture punishments, like sit-ups and duck squats, but they were inflicted outside the instructors’ offices, where everyone passing by could witness the humiliation. Poor Flash! They’d all been there at one point or another in the past three months.

Torolf walked up to the chief’s sister, who was bent over at the waist, breathing heavily. It had been a grueling run, and her hair was wet and plastered to her head, no longer fluffy. He had to give her credit. She had kept up nicely.

“Sorry if we offended you,” he apologized, even as he breathed deeply in and out, like she did, to get his heart rate down.

“No problem,” she said without looking up.

He felt rather guilty over his teammates’ remarks about her physical appearance and decided to be a nice guy. “Excellent run, Alison,” he said. Using her given name probably crossed the line, but what the hell. Maybe she would like to get to know him better. He was a good-looking guy. He could be charming. He decided to give her a shot.

She straightened and gave him a level look, taking in his sudden interest in her sweat-soaked T-shirt, which revealed that her seemingly nonexistent breasts did, in fact, exist.
Hoo-yah!
They more than made up for her height. With a laugh of understanding, she said, “Drop dead, swabbie,” and walked off.

So much for giving her a shot. Shot misfired. I wonder if Ragnor would have done any better.

Soon after, Torolf walked with his SEAL trainee buddies toward the dining hall, sweat still rolling off his body in rivers. He and the other guys walked a little funny from being rubbed raw between their legs by the wet sand. Despite his being in prime physical condition, his knees felt like rubber after all that exercise, and the day had barely begun. Alison MacLean walked straight as a poker in front of them, as if the run had been a snap for her.

“I think she likes me,” Torolf pronounced with a grin.

His teammates turned as one to look at him.

Cage spoke for them all. “As my granny always says to my sister Marie, ‘Darlin’, a man and his ego doan make the gumbo boil.’ ”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means Alison MacLean doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you,” Cody interpreted. “Or any of the rest of us.”

Dreams of being Demi Moore … uh, G.I. Jane …

“Did my guys offend you today, Allie?” her brother asked as they sat down to eat in the officers’ dining room.

“No. I’ve heard more suggestive grody jodies,
believe me … some of them from women,” she answered. “If I get offended over a little bad language, I’ll never make it on a SEAL team.”

Ian shook his head sadly at her. “Sis, it ain’t ever gonna happen. Bullshit movies like
G.I. Jane
aside, the Navy will never open the SEALs program to women. And it’s not a sexist thing, either. There are good reasons why—”

She put up a halting hand to stop the explanation he was about to give. She’d heard it too many times before. From him; from her father, Rear Admiral Thomas MacLean, a member of the U.S. Government’s Task Force on Terrorism; from her brother Ross, a Navy pilot; from her brother Clay, a midshipman at Annapolis; and from dozens of Navy personnel through the years. That didn’t mean she would give up, but in the meantime she’d gone to medical school and was putting her talents to good use in other ways, indirectly fighting the terrorism she and her family abhorred … with good reason. “We’ll have to agree to disagree,” she insisted.

He started to say something more, then stopped with a shrug of surrender. They both dug into their lunches, eating silently.

“I saw Magnusson talking to you. What was that about?”

“Nothing.”

“Was he hitting on you?”

Alison had to laugh. Always the brother, looking out for his little sister. Not that she was little. “Not really.”

“I’ll kill him. Did he ask you for a date, or say something vulgar? These guys don’t have the sense God gave a goose when it comes to their trash mouths.”

Ian should talk! She’d heard more than a few blue words pass through his lips. “No, Ian, he didn’t ask me for a date. And give me credit for being able to handle myself if he did. Jeez! It’s not like he pinched my butt or anything.”

“You don’t take matters seriously enough. Maybe I should stop you from running with my teams.”

“If you issue such an order, I’ll kill
you
. Really. It helps me stay in top shape. I need to push myself.”

“You look fine. Beautiful, in fact.”

She patted his arm. “You’re my brother. Of course you would think that, but I’ve got news for you … I am not beautiful. Beauty isn’t what I’m aiming for anyhow when I talk about being in top shape. It’s important that I be as physically fit as any SEAL if I’m called out on a field op to provide medical aid to a team …
or
if the Navy ever gets its act together about female frogmen … frogwomen, that is.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“It runs in the genes, honey,” she said, pushing her plate back. “I’m going to dash home for a quick shower before I do my afternoon rounds.”

“I know your apartment is convenient for you, but I still wish you’d move in with me.” Ian had been bugging her to move into his house in San Diego since his fiancée dumped him six months ago, but Alison had refused. “Especially with those phone calls you’ve been getting lately.”

Alison had made the mistake of telling her brother about the “breather” phone calls she’d been getting the last few months. Sometimes there were as many as six on her answering machine when she got home from work, and the calls came during the night, too. “They stopped weeks ago,” she lied. Really, all she
needed to do was change her phone number. And she would, when she got the time. No big deal!