The Distance Between Dreams Read online

  THE DISTANCE BETWEEN DREAMS

  SHERRY L. BROWN

  Copyright © 2017 Sherry L. Brown

  All rights reserved.

  ◆◆◆

  DEDICATION

  For those that give everything for freedom.

  ◆◆◆

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Even an introvert like me can't do it all by herself. First, I'd like to thank all those that believed in me, provided me feedback, criticism and support- Jared and all the beta readers. Thanks to my husband, my boyfriend, my adventure partner, my everything- for working hard to give me the opportunity to chase my dreams. I'd like to thank my mom, for being the most awesome mom on the planet- she always told me I could do whatever I set my mind to- this book proves that's true.

  ◆◆◆

  Part I

  Bum Fuck Egypt

  1

  Ryan

  Contrary to what a lot of people think, I never intended on becoming the first female Navy Seal. It was politics that had gotten me into the program, but it was my own sheer drive, help from a bad-ass trainer (former Delta force), and determination that had me graduating BUD/S training. It was again politics that had me flying out of Coronado, California to Virginia to be placed with a team on a test run basis a few weeks after graduation. Sure, my father is Vice Admiral Richard Ryan.

  A veteran SEAL himself, who passed the traits of fortitude, discipline, and sheer stubbornness onto me, his baby daughter. His intentions were for me to grow up and be an independent strong woman. Not that I would grow up and put my skills to use in dangerous situations. But I had used my favorite-child status with him to get what I wanted - field experience.

  The deal we struck was that if he convinced SOCOM to put me on a team that was actively deployed, then I would retire after three years with the unspoken: settle down and get married tag line. I also agreed that should I ever be injured in the line of duty – no matter how minor - I would go into ‘early retirement.’

  Standing at attention outside the Captain’s office, I watched the coming and goings of the administrative staff, shuffling papers, drinking coffee, tapping away at their computers, and generally paying me no mind. Sure, I get the occasional look as a woman in ‘teagues usually gets among officers. I was here to meet my new commanding officer and be directed to THE team. MY team.

  I am unaccountably nervous tapping my index finger on the back of my hand behind my back is the only outward sign of my inner emotions. I breathe deep and clear my mind. I had only been waiting about fifteen minutes, but the power play rankled.

  Suddenly the door to my right whooshes open and Captain Mendoza steps out to acknowledge me. We do the required salutes.

  “Ryan! At ease,” are his first words to me.

  He reaches out and shakes my hand. Second power play of the day is him squeezing so hard I am sure the bones in my hand grind against each other. Hardly the first time this has happened. I just roll with it, giving back as good as I get while he takes my measure. He is an affable looking military man, crinkles at his eyes, short gray hair, intelligent eyes that seem a bit tired, but not uncalculating.

  He holds his office door open for me, in a gesture of come on in.

  As we enter, he speaks, “Come in, Ryan. Meet Chief Broussard and take a seat.”

  The form in question, Chief Broussard, is planted against the front of the desk. Tall, wide-shouldered man, lean, but with a proportionate musculature. His face sporting three days worth of dark stubble. Chestnut, mussed hair and calculating eyes. Eyes that narrow with annoyance at me, as he crosses his arms in front of his chest after the required salutes.

  He lets his gaze roam from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. And back up again.

  I feel heat warm my cheeks and neck.

  The silence and his perusal are abruptly shattered by his quietly explosive, “FUCK NO!”

  Turning to the captain he slams both his hands, palm down, on the desk and leans over to stress his refusal to the Captain; I take the chance to give him the same once over he had just given me. Broad shoulders, lean waist, and taut butt. Yep, he is good looking and has a fit body. So does just about every other SEAL I have ever been in contact with…and they all carry the same egotistical chip on their shoulders.

  Broussard starts, “She’s not on my team. She just fucking blushed!”

  Captain Mendoza turns his gaze from the computer in front of him to Broussard, then to me.

  He looks at me from over the top of his bifocals.

  “Sit down, Ryan. Broussard, calm down. It’s a trial basis. And we all know…” He looks back at me.

  I sit calmly in the chair even though his words are burning like acid in my gut.

  He had been going to say, we all know she is going to fail or the Navy won’t really put her in action.

  Broussard growls. There’s no other word for the grunt that rolls from his throat. He raps his knuckles on top of the desk before turning to face me again. We lock eyes.

  “Sir, “ he began, “this is,” he pauses without looking away, “...unacceptable.”

  We are now locked into an unofficial staring contest. No way am I looking away. His eyes are hazel, caramel center surrounded by a mossy green framed by dark brown lashes. Too beautiful to be glaring at me in such a way.

  “These are direct orders down from SOCOM. I know the situation is not ideal, but let’s just give it some time and see what happens,” comes the captain’s voice from behind Broussard.

  Out the corner of my eye, I see the captain rise from his desk and step around. He walks just to the other side of Broussard and then steps between us while handing Broussard a folder.

  The staring contest is broken. A tie. I should be grateful to Captain Mendoza for breaking it up. Any longer and I might have caved. Chief Broussard’s gaze is intimidating to say the least. I felt as though he had been reading every mistake I’d ever made in my eyes, seeing every shortcoming on my face. Disconcerting.

  “You have your orders, Broussard. I expect to be kept up to date.”

  The captain walks back around the desk, sits in his chair, and starts typing on his computer.

  “You’re both dismissed.”

  Following Chief Broussard out of the office building and into the afternoon sunlight, I wait for his next command.

  “C’mon. We have a team briefing in thirty minutes. Then afternoon PT.”

  I just nod and follow him to a black jeep in the parking lot.

  “Get in.”

  A short and silent ride ensues. I take in all the details of him, his car, the base. He wears a wedding band. His car smells like a fancy air freshener, clean and piney. Not much else. The base is a cluster of brown and gray buildings, newly paved roads, blue sky.

  Parking in front of one of the many concrete gray nondescript buildings, Broussard grabs the folder he had put on his dash and proceeds to exit the jeep without a word. He pauses at the metal entrance door of the building.

  He holds it open for me, but his whole demeanor is annoyance- not polite. So the gesture of kindness is lost on me. As I go through, I give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit interior.

  A conference table directly ahead, surrounded by four of five scarred metal desks. Light from fluorescents and a few skylights. There are two men sitting at those desks that look up when we enter.

  “Hey Chief Broussy! I thought new recruits were coming in next week?”

  Before I can introduce myself, ‘Broussy’ cut in with, “Ryan. A word in my office.”

  He turns a sharp right down a small hallway off to the side.

  Chief Broussard has the corner office. But it is plain. - nothing like the military to humble you. Crappy
furniture- a wood laminate topped desk pockmarked with coffee cup circles, in front of two metal folding chairs. A scarred brown leather couch sits lumpy and dejected against one wall. Behind the desk is another man, blond hair and blue eyes that looks up as we enter.

  Broussard slides the folder he was holding onto the desk and then perches on one corner of it with his arms crossed, staring me down again. No introductions then.

  “OK. How many dicks did you suck to get here?”

  I curl one side of my lip up on an exhale breath and cross my arms over my own chest in mimic of him.

  I start with, “Really? How original! A navy guy with a chauvinistic attitude.”

  I see his jaw tense. Maybe honey catches more flies than vinegar, but I’ve never been one to stand down from such a challenge.

  “It’s really, SIR?”

  “Sir.”

  “Sit down and listen up, Ryan.”

  “I prefer to stand…sir.”

  “Fine. You’re on MY team now. And I don’t put up with bitch attitudes, whining, or falling behind. You don’t carry your weight? You’re out. You bitch about the sand in your fucking Prada shoe? You’re out! You do anything at any time I don’t like? You’re out. I don’t give two fucks who your daddy is.”

  He finishes his tirade. There really is no argument from me. Sounds like a plan I am already on board with. I couldn’t and wouldn’t expect less from anyone else on the team. I place my hands behind my back in parade rest and gave him a nod, “Yes Sir.”

  More staring at me, getting my measure.

  He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger in a gesture of tiredness and resignation.

  “FUCK.” He sighs and says, “Reed, this is Ryan, the newest member of Seal Team Four.”

  And that is my introduction to the team.

  2

  I am a fuckin’ pariah. Running my hands through my short brown choppy hair- I make it stick up in odd angles while giving myself a critical once over in the mirror. Gray eyes, little button nose, as my older sister describes it, and lips a tad too full to be decent and currently pulled into a frown.

  Four months. Four fucking months of sitting on the sidelines and watching the team deploy and complete missions.

  Maybe this is how I will spend my time with the SEALs. What a waste.

  I sigh and turn from the mirror. Not even the endorphins from PT are cheering me up like they normally do. I hate that I am a middle packer in the runs, but to be honest the legs that stand me tall at five-ten are probably the only physical advantage I possess and even with that I am just enough to be mediocre.

  It’s a good thing I trained with a professional in the time between the Marines and the Navy, or else I would have never made it through BUD/S. BUD/S is basic underwater demolation SEAL training. The Navy's grueling six month training course.

  There is a debriefing in thirty minutes; I hurriedly slip into my serviceable black cotton underwear and two sports bras. I do a jump, looking at my boobs just to make sure there is no unnecessary or extra jiggling. Two bra approved. I’m a sexless soldier - or as sexless as I can get with smashed breasts.

  Gray t-shirt and digital camo pants complete my uniform.

  As I dress, I delve a little deeper into my melancholy. This might be the first time since I’ve left home that I’ve been homesick. I am a part of the team by proximity only really. Always, I’m assigned as the liaison (communicator between command and the team) while they are on missions. Usually, this position rotates, but since I’ve been on the team- it’s always me.

  I sit down on the bed and pull on my boots.

  Petty officer Gonzalez opens the door and comes into our shared space.

  “Hey Ryan! How goes it?”

  Petty Officer Gonzalez is a medic in the Corps. We share a room in the barracks.

  I finish tying and grimace at her.

  At my look, she gives me a, “I hear ya!” Followed by a half-hearted “Hoo-yah,” as she flops on her bed.

  She is a middle child in a horde of thirteen. I think her mother was an original immigrant from Mexico, and PO Gonzalez had enlisted to try and get somewhere, anywhere, in life besides behind a cleaning cart.

  She is about five years younger than me, but we gel as best we can being two complete strangers with very little in common besides our anatomy. I leave her with a short "See ya later."

  I jog the mile to the offices of Seal Team Four arriving an hour earlier than what’s needed, this is necessity after one particular instance when I was fifteen minutes late after arriving thirty minutes early – just one of the guy's hazing rituals.

  I take my post at one of the desks in the corner and twirl a pen around while doodling on a notepad.

  The office is quiet. Just the hum of the air conditioner and computers. Soon, the whirring blades of a helicopter reach my ears, the whoop whoops getting louder and louder until the noise is near deafening as it lands just out the backside of our office.

  The team filters in, dirty and sweaty, looking tired and smelling ripe. Five days in the field really brings out their man-smell.

  T-Rex takes the seat next to me with a curt nod. He is a good guy from Texas, with a wife and kid that he liv in a townhouse off base. He and Reed are about the only two that acknowledge my presence on a regular basis. He hooks his thumbs at the shoulders of his Kevlar vest and leans back in a semi-relaxed position next to me.

  Chief Broussard comes in next to last, and his eyes scan the room until they come to a stop on me. Our gaze holds one heartbeat. Two. My heart rate accelerates. I am not attracted to him, I am not attracted to him, I am not attracted to him. This mantra I repeat over and over in my head. I am surrounded by a plethora of fine male specimens. I will not crush on my commander. His hazel eyes finally move past me and keep roving as he pulls off his helmet and places it on the conference table.

  The barrel of his .308 is sticking up over his left shoulder, while his AR is strapped across his front. I ignore the fluttering in my belly at the strong masculine image he projects.

  “Alright Pussies!” He raps the tabletop with his knuckles.

  A cheer of “Broussy’s Pussies!” goes up; followed by “Hoo-Yah!”

  Yea, this cheer is a direct association with myself- they started employing it just two weeks after I came on the team.

  “Target neutralized. Goods secured. As always…security code Tango Sierra fifty-two. Tango Sierra. Any questions? No. Good? PT resumes in four days. Enjoy your holidays, ladies.”

  The four day hiatus is Thanksgiving break.

  “RYAN!”

  I turn my gaze from where I was watching the rest of the team filter out the door.

  “Yes sir?”

  “You got any reports? Got the debriefing report for me to sign?”

  I reach back to the desk behind me and grab the report I had typed up six hours ago from the desk.

  “Right here sir.”

  I grab a pen from the desk and take both the report and pen to him where he is still standing at the table.

  He runs a hand through his hair while his eyes remain fixed on the papers.

  “You going to see family tomorrow, Ryan?”

  His personal question takes me aback for a moment.

  He lifts his gaze from the paper to look at me.

  “No sir.”

  He looks back at the paper and I see his eyes sweeping back and forth as he reads the text. His brow is drawn in concentration.

  “Why not?”

  This conversation has gotten intensely personally in a short matter of time.

  I shift on my feet.

  “Um, you know…just uh…” I rub the back of my neck trying to think of something to say.

  I hadn’t been home for THE holidays in three years. You know, Thanksgiving OR Christmas. It is a sore spot between my father and I. But really, with two older sisters getting married and popping out kids left and right, every trip home feels like a noose tightening aro
und my throat. And I can’t stand it.

  Chief Broussard lays the papers down on the desk and places his palm down beside them as he reaches for the pen.

  “You know, Ryan, family is a terrible thing to waste.”

  He signs the paper with a flourish and disappears out the door.

  His words hang in the air. Of course he probably knows my family. My father, the top Navy Admiral. My sisters, married to beautiful, strong military men with cute adorbs babies. Fuck that shit. They all are a direct threat to my freedom and independence. I resent that Chief Broussard has brought them up. I had planned a fantastic Thanksgiving- living it up on junk food and sleeping in a carb and sugar induced coma-like state. Now, thanks to he-who-shall-not-be-noticed, I have guilt weighing my shoulders down.

  I snap up the signed papers and quickly scan them in at the computer terminal. I send them off to our XO and then began looking at plane tickets. It might cost me a fortune, but I am pretty sure I can catch the red eye out of D.C. to L.A. and then rent a car for the drive to Oceanside where dad lives.

  3

  After my flight lands and I get a rental car, I stop at a convenience store to get a Red Bull. Coffee is just not going to do it after the little bit of sleep I had gotten on the flight. I’m a light sleeper- and a plane full of holiday travellers had me too ill at ease for sleep.

  I pull out my cell phone and find the contact “Dad house.” I hit the call button and feel a strange nervousness in my stomach as I listened to the tinny ring in my ear.

  A guttural, “Hello, Everly,” sounds over the line. I recognize the voice of my brother–in-law, Sean.

  “Sean. Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. Didn’t expect to hear from you today after your dad told us you couldn’t make it in this year.”

  I look out over the nearly empty parking lot of the convenience store and tap the top of the steering wheel. I can hear the TV on in the background.