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“Yeah, she’s really unassuming, isn’t she? A quiet mouse.”
Shrugging, Gabe said, “Well, at least she’s not like ego-busting Hammer.”
“You’re right,” Hampton said, settling his hands on his narrow hips. “We should be grateful for that. The LT has a call into the Special Forces captain she worked with over in Iraq. We want more dope on her. And once we know, I’ll pass it on to you. I think she’s very skilled in a lot of areas we’d never expected her to be. I’d like to know the breadth and depth of her combat experience.”
“Maybe Doc is just like the other women in that top-secret op, but we’ve just never had the knowledge to know how they are trained. They could all be like Doc.”
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out. She graduated top five in her class of forty women. They’re a bunch of Amazons.” He grinned. “Don’t tell Doc I said that. I don’t want to get in hock with General Maya Stevenson. She’s an Army general heading up Operation Shadow Warriors. She has a reputation of getting into your face so damn fast you won’t live to tell about it.”
“Not a word I’d use around Doc.”
Hampton grinned. “We really don’t know what Doc is made of yet, and we need to find out. The Pentagon is expecting weekly reports on her.” He clapped his hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “Since you’re her mentor, you’ll be writing up a weekly report and sending it on to me. Once I read it and make comments or whatever, I pass it up the chain of command to LT. From there, it goes into a black hole in the E-ring of the Pentagon.”
Groaning, Gabe shook his head. “I don’t mind mentoring, Doug, but damn, a weekly report? Can’t you cut me some slack?”
Hampton smiled evenly. “No can do. It’s all yours, thank God. But I am going to invite myself along every once in a while on the next few missions to make sure Hammer and those other three fall into line. I won’t have him splitting the team.”
“I don’t know what Hammer will do,” Gabe said. “One thing for sure, if he tries anything stupid out there with her, he’ll answer to me. And I won’t be nice and invite him outside to beat the hell out of him. I’ll take him on the instant it happens.”
Raising one eyebrow, Hampton nodded. “Good. She’s to be treated like any newbie. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t care if they razz or tease her, but anything beyond that—”
“I have her six, Doug. Don’t worry about it.” Six was a term used by the military when an enemy plane flew up behind an American pilot’s plane and was getting ready to shoot it down. It meant Gabe would protect Bay, should it come down to that.
Hampton gripped his shoulder. “You’re in the breech, but I wouldn’t have any other SEAL in that sorry position. Can you go help the guys get that tent fixed up for her today?”
Gabe eased off the stool, his M-4 in a sling across his chest. “No problem.”
“You going to sit her down and show her patrol tactics and formations?”
“First thing on my list,” Gabe promised. “After evening chow.”
As Gabe stepped outside in the heat of the afternoon, he waffled. Should he go find Doc? Invite her to the chow hall? Part of him wanted to, but another part didn’t. Still, he was her mentor and that had him walking down the dusty street between the many tents to go find her. Even after his conversation with the chief, Gabe felt nagging worry about the confrontation with Hammer. He sincerely hoped the SEAL would fall into line. Doc didn’t deserve his misguided prejudice.
So far, Doc had shown all of them she could shoot. That, in and of itself, was a phenomenal shock. A good one, and Gabe grinned to himself, chuckling over yesterday’s competition. Hill people might appear to be plain and unassuming, but Gabe had learned early on they were smart and possessed backwoods common sense that would dazzle everyone.
CHAPTER FIVE
BAY COULD HARDLY contain her excitement as the Chinook helicopter landed at Bagram Air Base near noon. Chief Hampton had ordered Gabe to take her to the U.S. Navy Supply Terminal to get outfitted with SEAL gear and weapons. As they disembarked out the rear of the helo into the sunlight, the heat was stifling. Bagram Air Base sat a bit north of Kabul and it was all desert. Just like Iraq.
Gabe seemed to know his way around, guiding her through the Helicopter Operations Building and requisitioning a beaten-up white Toyota pickup truck from a Marine sergeant friend of his outside the doors of the busy place. The airstrip was alive with helo activity. An enormous C-5 Air Force transport was landing at the fixed-wing operations and runway area. Apache combat helicopters were trundling toward a takeoff point with a full load of rockets and Hellfire missiles on board. The noise and activity were high and constant. It reminded Bay of a busy beehive.
They arrived at Naval Supply, a large warehouse on the other side of the base. Bay had been at Bagram only one other time, and that was the flight into Afghanistan from Iraq. The landing had been at night, so she never realized just how big this base was.
Gabe parked the truck out in front of the warehouse and climbed out. Like everyone else, he carried a weapon, an M-4 rifle he had in a sling across his chest. A SIG Sauer 9mm pistol rode low in a drop holster on his right thigh. On his left thigh was a SEAL SOF knife in a sheath. As she met him and walked into the air-conditioned building, she was proud to be at his side. SEALs stood out from other military personnel. Maybe it was the gear they wore or the confident way they carried themselves. Or both.
Gabe halted at the main counter and handed the Navy yeoman, a young woman in her early twenties, a requisition slip. She read it, looked from him to Bay.
“SEAL gear for a woman?” she asked, unsure.
“Yes,” Gabe said. The yeoman frowned, scratched her blond head and shrugged. He wasn’t going to tell her anything if she started to pump him with questions.
“There’s no women’s sizes in SEAL gear. You know what section the gear is in?” she asked him.
Gabe nodded. “I just need you to sign that and I’ll take her down there and we’ll collect her gear.”
Bay could tell the yeoman was flustered. She was sure other women came here for military gear, too. Especially military police women. The look in her eyes, however, was questioning the SEAL gear order. Bay followed Gabe down a wide aisle where pallets of supplies were piled up nearly to the ceiling.
“You’ve done this a few times,” she said as they walked beside each other.
“A few.”
“I thought that yeoman was going to faint.”
He smiled. “It’s a little unusual for a female to show up needing SEAL gear—you have to admit that.”
Bay nodded and scanned the area. “I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived at Camp Bravo. It was nice of the chief to get me the gear I’ll need in order to work with your team.”
Gabe halted in the clothing section. “I just hope we can find a size that fits you,” he muttered, looking through the cammies. “You’re going to have to wear a man’s uniform.”
Shrugging, Bay moved over and looked through the sizes, her fingers moving quickly through the hanging desert cammies. “I’ll survive.” She grinned over at him.
This morning when Gabe had found her at the chow hall eating breakfast, he seemed subdued, preoccupied. Had something happened earlier? If so, he hadn’t said anything. Still, Bay could feel the energy around him as she always felt around people, places and things.
“I think these will fit. Let me try them on.” She pulled a pair of cammies off the rack and took them to a fitting room.
Within an hour, Bay had her cammies, a set of good desert boots, H-gear harness, jacket, cold-weather gear and a rucksack. Then Gabe took her over to the Navy Armory, nearby.
Bay stood looking at the rifles and pistols setting on racks behind the counter. “Why are we here?” she asked him. She patted her M-4 across her chest. “I have everything I need, don’t I?”
“Well,” Gabe hedged, “not quite.” He turned and noticed the confused look on her face. For a second, he felt blinded by her natural beauty. It unnerved him. “The chief wants you to get a .300 Win Mag.”
“What?”
He tried to get his mind back on task. “You really impressed the LT and chief out there yesterday with your shooting, Doc. We’re short a sniper in our squad, and he’s hoping you’ll agree to train in with me on sniper ops. As a backup,” he added. Her eyes widened enormously, her lips parted as she digested his words. “Want to add this to your training résumé?” Gabe sincerely hoped she’d say yes.
“But I’m not a trained sniper, Gabe.” Bay protested quietly, keeping her voice down because the warehouse was filled with military men and women. “I haven’t gone through sniper school. Won’t the guys think—”
“It doesn’t matter what they think,” he parried quietly, holding her unsure stare. “Chief decides. If he feels you are qualified, sniper school or not, Doc, he’s not going to waste whatever skills you have out there on coming missions.”
It made sense to her, but it was still a shock. “Okay,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll try, but no promises.”
“You’ll be carrying the Win Mag on some missions but not all of them. It just depends on the type of op, but you’ll have to carry it outside on your rucksack like I do. It’s more weight.”
Gazing up at the four Win Mags standing on the rack, she nodded. “It’s not a problem. I carry sixty to eighty pounds of medical gear on my back already. I’m a mobile operating unit.” She turned and looked up at him. His face was unreadable, those green eyes dark and thoughtful looking. “I can do it.”
Gabe called over a Navy personnel man and produced another requisition slip.
Bay was excited about the Win Mag. It brought back happy memories with her father. She wondered obliquely if he was looking over her shoulder as she was given the rifle. Moving her fingers across the fiberglass stock, she heard Gabe asked for a SIG Sauer pistol. She raised her head and saw one produced by the Navy guy behind the counter. Frowning, she laid the rifle on the counter.
Gabe picked up the pistol, checked it out and was satisfied. He turned, handing it to her butt first. “You’ll wear one of these, too.”
Stunned, Bay stared down at the specially made German pistol. “But...” She gulped. “Oh, I can’t, Gabe.” She held up her hands and took a step back. “Only SEALs are allowed to wear that pistol. It’s specially made for them. Even I know that.”
Gabe seemed surprised at her reaction. “That’s true, but you’re with our team now. You need to always wear it wherever you go. It’s never not a part of your daily gear you wear, Doc.”
Panic ate at Bay as she stared at the pistol. She hesitated.
“What’s the problem?” Gabe demanded.
Licking her lower lip, Bay said, “I want to fit in, Gabe. Not stand out. Half those guys don’t want me around. I—I didn’t go through SEAL training. By all rights, I haven’t earned the right to wear a SIG. It just seems like a slap in their faces, to me. That I’m pretending to be something I’m not.”
Gabe laid the SIG on the counter, understanding her concerns. There was genuine anxiety in her blue eyes. He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment. “Look, Doc, what you don’t understand yet is where we patrol, the missions we undertake. We’re in harm’s way all the time. You can’t have enough weapons and ammo on you, believe me.” He wanted to leave his hand on her shoulder but forced himself to release her. “You’re worried Hammer and his guys are going to ride you about wearing it, aren’t you?”
Nodding, Bay chewed on her lower lip. “It will be one more thing they’ll hold against me. They’ll accuse me of—”
“Bay,” he said, purposely using her name to get her to focus, “read my lips. The chief wants you fully equipped. If you don’t look like a SEAL out where we patrol, that’s not good, because the Taliban we have to deal with sometimes will only respect us because we are SEALs. Got it?”
His logic was sound. Bay felt a shiver where he’d unexpectedly touched her shoulder. “Okay, I guess I can take it....”
Gabe picked up the black nylon drop holster and said, “Lift your arms away from your waist.”
Taken aback, Bay realized he was going to place the holster around her waist. For the next few minutes, Gabe made sure the drop holster fit correctly. Pulling the two Velcro straps just tight enough around her thigh, he wanted the pistol to ride just above her knee.
“There. How does that feel?” Gabe handed her the SIG. The SEAL pistol had no safety on it.
Bay placed the pistol in the low-riding holster. “Okay,” she said tentatively. “I feel like a gunfighter.”
Gabe grinned. “That’s what we are. Allow your hand to drop to your side. I want to see if your palm naturally comes to rest over the butt of the pistol.”
Bay found his care and attention stabilizing. Intuitively, she knew Hammer and his men would say something. Probably many times over, for her to be wearing the SIG, the signature SEAL pistol. Gabe seemed unhappy with the holster position. He knelt at her side and raised the holster about an inch so that the butt was resting where her palm would naturally come to rest against her thigh. Finally, he stood back and critically studied his handiwork. Then he looked up at her.
“Okay, that feels about right to me,” he murmured, gesturing toward the pistol. “Does it ride comfortably on your thigh?” She had nice legs, he’d discovered, while affixing the holster. Cammies hid a body pretty well, but working the straps, he could feel how taut her thigh was. Bay moved her hand a couple of times, her palm fitting nicely over the butt of the pistol.
“Good.” He picked up a Kevlar vest, fitted it to her, got the level 4 ceramic armor plates for it and placed it over with the rest of her accumulated gear. She had to have a Kevlar helmet with a rail system, NVGs, night-vision goggles and a grenade launcher system for her M-4 rifle. Finally, they moved down the counter to where the knives were displayed.
Bay gave him a distressed look. “I have to carry one of these big knives?” She pointed toward them, disbelief in her voice.
“Yes.”
“Listen, I’ve got plenty of scalpels in my medical pack. I don’t really think I need one more knife on me, Gabe. Do you?”
Gabe laughed as he picked up a seven-inch SEAL SOF knife and held it toward her, butt first. “Your scalpels aren’t long enough, Doc. We usually wear this knife on our right outer calf if you’re right-handed. Some guys like it riding low on their left thigh. Or the left outer calf. Where do you want to wear yours?”
Bay stared at the knife. The blade had tiny razor-sharp teeth beneath the lower half of it. Never mind the blade itself. Blowing out a breath of air, she said, “Okay...I guess my right calf?”
“You can start there and later, if you find out it isn’t where you want it, you can move it.” Gabe knelt down, attached the Velcro nylon black sheath around her lower leg, just below her knee. He tried to ignore touching her, but it didn’t work. She was a large-boned woman with good muscling, and he could feel the firmness of her calf muscles beneath his fingertips. Standing up, he stood back, hands on his hips.
“How does that feel?”
Grimacing, Bay muttered, “It’s okay.”
“You’ll get used to it. Comes in handy sometimes.” He looked at the watch on his wrist. “Hungry?”
“I am.”
“Okay, let’s stow this gear back at Ops, put it in a locker and we’ll grab some chow before we take a hop back to Bravo.”
Gabe seemed to be out of his funk or whatever it was from earlier in the day. Her stomach grumbled because she hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, still emotionally stressed out over some of the SEAL team not accepting her. Bay didn’t want to tell Gabe, but the Special Forces guys had made her feel welcome from the beginning. They embraced her with eagerness. Here, it was like fighting every day to get a toehold of respect with everyone in the squad. SEALs were different, no question.
More and more, she oriented toward Gabe’s quiet demeanor. He was thoughtful, listened closely and didn’t knee-jerk on her. There was a lot to like about him. Bay saw some of the same characteristics to Navy corpsman Jack Scoville, whom she had been engaged to. The past was too painful to feel right now, and Bay tucked all those sad, traumatic memories away.
In the chow hall, Bay was amazed at how large, clean and bright it was. Hundreds of men and women were eating at the long white spotless tables. The noise level was high. One thing she instantly noticed was when they entered the chow hall, a lot of heads turned to closely check them out. Bay convinced herself it was because of the tall, rugged SEAL at her side, the M-4 hanging off a strap across his chest. SEALs were based at Bagram, but there were very few of them, and they were always a curiosity to the military people at large. As a black ops group, they were rarely seen in public.
Gabe handed her an aluminum tray as they got into line. It made him smile seeing a number of military guys gawking at Bay, who stood in front of him. He had to admit, with her height, at first glance, she looked like a SEAL. And then they would look at her a little more closely and discover she was a woman. Then their mouths dropped. If Bay saw their reaction to her, she didn’t seem affected by the multitude of increasing male stares. He felt protective of her as they made it through the chow line and Gabe found a table unoccupied at the back, facing the doors.
“Sit beside me,” he told her.
“Why?”
“Because SEALs always watch entrance and exit points. We never have our back to a door. We don’t sit in front of windows, either.”
Nodding, Bay sat down at his elbow, their backs to the light blue wall. “On-the-job training,” she said in a teasing tone. “You probably feel like you’re babysitting me.” The food on the tray smelled wonderful. Hot food was always a luxury to those who’d lived mostly on MREs.
“I don’t,” he told her. “You’re quick and intelligent. I like working with people like that.” Gabe tried to ignore her closeness. He swore he could smell the strawberry fragrance of her shampoo. There were always soft tendrils on either side of her face even though she wore her shoulder-length hair gathered up in a ponytail. Men continued to stare openly at her. Gabe was sure sitting with him would stir up some gossip across the big base.
“I can hardly wait to get back to Camp Bravo,” Bay told him between bites of her Reuben sandwich piled thickly with sauerkraut. “I’ve got a package coming from home. I hope it arrives today.”
He smiled a little. “Never found anyone who didn’t like mail call.”
Picking at the French fries, Bay said, “My mama makes the best cookies—chocolate chip with walnuts from the trees around our cabin. She adds some secret ingredient she said she’d pass on to me when she died.” Bay chuckled. “Does your wife send you boxes and keep you in cookies, too?”
Wincing inwardly, Gabe said flatly, “I’m divorced.” He saw her expression become sad—for him. Bay was easily touched by another person’s misery, he was discovering. But then again, she was a medic. Who better to be a compassionate soul?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “How about your mom? Does she send you packages?”
“Yes, she does.”
“What’s her name?”
“Grace. She’s an R.N. Works at the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, V.A. Hospital. She’s a psychiatric nurse.” He saw Bay react and she sighed.
“That’s what I want to be when I leave the Navy. It’s always been my dream to become an R.N.”
“That’s a dream you can reach, then,” Gabe said, enjoying the big, thick hamburger and French fries.
“Well,” Bay hedged, “when my pa got black lung, we lost his check from work. He had to quit his job and it was tough to make ends meet after that. I decided to go into the Navy because it would give me a paycheck and I could send most of my money home to them.” She shrugged, her voice hollow. “Pa felt bad about me having to go find an outside job, but it couldn’t be helped. My mama got paid for her services as a doctor with canned goods, vegetables, chickens and such. In the hills, money is scarce, so we trade.”
Nodding, Gabe said, “I saw that with my hill friends I grew up with.” He glanced at her. “And when you graduate from college, are you going back home?”
