The Distance Between Dreams Page 4

  Peppers smiles a gamine grin.

  “Without a doubt, sir.”

  “We shall proceed then. T-Rex. The honors please.”

  T-Rex had been making his way around the conference table, trying to be nonchalant. But at his size, he has been doing a good imitation of an elephant circling a watering hole.

  As I lift my butt from my seat, to dodge whatever attack he is aiming my way, his hands come down on my shoulders and push me back down into the chair.

  “Petty officer Ryan is charged with…” Reed lets his hand trail in the air as he ponders my charge.

  “Pimping.”

  I laugh.

  “Pimping?” I question back at him.

  Reed pretends to stroke a non-existent goatee while his eyes narrow in regard to me.

  “Do you know one Jessica St. Clair?”

  “No.”

  “Take a shot of whiskey,” he says while pushing the bottle towards my hand.

  I unscrew the cap. Hazing comes with any team territory. Do I trust them enough to lift this bottle to my lips?

  I do. With only the slightest hesitation I drink without breaking eye contact with Reed. It is healthy swallow.

  It burns on the way down. I am proud of myself for not coughing.

  I carefully place the bottle back on the table.

  T-Rex is still standing menacingly - or so he thinks- behind my chair.

  Hanzo abruptly enters the conference room. He comes in and places his medic bag on the table. Very dramatic without any greetings.

  T-Rex unrolls a strip of duct tape from behind me. The sound of the tape ripping is meant as a threat and I take it as one. The guys are doing their best to intimidate me.

  Reed takes the whiskey bottle from my left hand and places it against his lips. After his swig, he puts it back at my hand deliberately.

  “You see, Petty Officer Ryan, we just want to make sure your intentions are one hundred and fifty fucking percent copacetic with the team.”

  As he is speaking, T-Rex places a strip of duct tape over my right arm where it rests on the arm of the chair. He follows the first strip up with a complete roll over and under my arm with the tape.

  I don’t flinch. I watch him do it with a strange curiosity. Wondering to myself what these boys are up to. They probably hope I’ll wuss out and the game will be over. Then they’d do everything they could to see me off the team.

  I look up from T-Rex’s work- where he is duct taping my right foot to one of the spokes of the rolling chair.

  I’ll be on board with whatever torture they have to dole out if it means they’ll start to accept me as one of the team.

  I smile and lift my head.

  “Reed. Something tells me this is nothing to do with your hook up last night at the bar.”

  “Take a shot of whiskey.”

  My free left hand reaches out and snags the neck of the bottle, lifting it to my lips.

  The heat curls deliciously in my belly this time. No burn.

  What progresses is a question and answer session, which I only seem to remember flashes of.

  After my fourth swig, I believe T-Rex duct-taped my shoulders to the back of the chair. After the sixth (or was it seventh?), Peppers brought out the clippers.

  There was a large struggle after that, and I believe I managed to hold my own against the four men claiming I was, “too pretty to be a SEAL.”

  I was too tired to fight (and really fight is a loose term to describe how I moved my body weight in the chair hoping to dislodge four grown –and trained in combat- men) when the vibration of the clippers hit the side of my skull.

  Let them do their worst. I had shaved my head before and if they believe I am vain enough to miss a few locks, they’re going to be disappointed.

  The prick of Hanzo setting up an I.V. treatment a little later isn’t even enough to really rouse me. I watch him slide the needle into a vein in my arm, but I am too numb to do more then close my eyes and surrender to oblivion.

  Hanzo says, “This is the fastest way to sober up with no hangover, Ryan. You can thank me tomorrow.”

  I let my head tip backward on the chair, staring up at the fluorescents until they start to fade.

  11

  Broussard

  Sunday morning I’m awake at 0430 like clockwork. I throw on shorts and wander out to my balcony with a cup of coffee. I’d been in this apartment for four months, since Miranda and I had separated at the end of my last deployment. Just two more months, and I’ll have to put what little furniture I have back into storage when we go out again. I am a little tired of the shuffle, so I let my brain switch gears to work, organizing and tasking things I have to do before our Monday morning bug out.

  The wind is up, the air has a chill to it. I do some quick push-ups and jump in the shower.

  Arriving at the office a little over an hour later. No cars in the parking lot, and the usual tranquility of a Sunday morning sunrise permeates the air. This is my favorite time of day. I savor it a moment.

  I pull open the office door and input my security code. The lights are still on in the conference room. I reach my hand through the door with the intention of just shutting the lights off and continuing on to my office, but something doesn’t feel right.

  I use my shoulder to push the door open more.

  There. At the backside of the conference table is…Ryan duct taped to a chair. I know from the slight form and dainty shape of the face. My eyes immediately scan the area for any other threats. None.

  I waste no time moving to her side to feel at her neck for a pulse.

  It’s there and strong. A piece of duct tape covers her mouth. Her head tipped over the back of the chair, eyes closed.

  I lift her head and gray eyes open and blink at me.

  I yank the strip of duct tape from her mouth.

  “Unnh…” is her thanks.

  It is then that I pull my hand from the back of her head. The softness of her hair is unreal and also, curiously cropped, scalp-short on one side.

  Duct taped to the wall next to her is an IV bag with its long cord disappearing into her right arm. I know what’s happened here – good ‘ole welcome to the team ritual.

  “Jesus, Ryan. Are you alright?”

  She is now alternating looking at me and down at her situation.

  “Unnnh….yea…really got to pee….”

  How long has she been like this? I grab my pocketknife from the side pocket on my cargo pants. I slice in the negative space between her right arm and the chair arm. For the next few minutes we are both silent as I work on freeing her legs and her arm.

  As I slice and pull, I let the shock and annoyance go. Really, I shouldn’t have been so surprised, being a part of the team comes with it’s own rituals and hazing that Everly Ryan has yet to be subjected to because she is a girl. These things happen all the time in the normal course of things, and I had even participated in several “welcome to the team” meetings myself.

  So what if the other guys on the team had finally given in to the reality that Petty Officer Everly Ryan is a member of Seal Team Four?

  She’s one of us. A team member. I am uncharacteristically pissed, worried and…proud? I concentrate on the task at hand, pulling duct tape first from her ankles, then her thighs while ignoring the emotions. I can deal with those later.

  Once I cut her left arm and hand loose, she grabs the I.V. going into her right wrist and yanks it free. I am still working at the duct tape holding her shoulders down to the back of the computer chair.

  She reaches up and yanks the duct tape across her torso, before I can slice it with my pocket knife.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  She catapults from the chair and leaves me holding some wadded up strips of duct tape in one hand and my pocketknife in the other.

  Ryan

  I hardly spare Broussard a glance. My urge to pee is so monumental that I know if I take a deep breath my bladder will release.

  Bladder empty, I
rinse my hands at the sink and let the momentary embarrassment of Broussard finding me wash over me.

  Running my hands beneath the faucet and splashing some water on my face helps me clear the fogginess from my brain. I confront my reflection in the mirror.

  Not too bad. Except the jagged shave spot from beneath my ear to the top of my head on the right side.

  I dip my hands underneath the stream again and do an internal scan of my body.

  No hangover. Just seriously jacked hair. I tilt my head to the left and run my palm up the freshly shorn side.

  An awesome idea flashes through my brain. It’d kick ass and glee skitters up my spine in anticipation.

  This will show the guys after I’m sure what they’re thinking will have me tucking tail and running from their “haircut” last night.

  I just need to get out of the office without further run-ins with any of the team- Broussard included, maybe most especially Broussard.

  I open the bathroom door, go down the short hall, and peek around the doorway into the conference room. The duct tape chair is still there, looking like a caterpillar has emerged from its tape shell. That’s what I’d be. Before a caterpillar; after a bad ass. The guys have unwittingly fueled my motivation at a time when I was seriously questioning everything.

  Thank Christ – No Broussard.

  I tiptoe as silently and as quietly as I can to the front door. The heavy metal screeches as I pull it open, but I quickly skirt through it and shut it behind me.

  Broussard’s Jeep is the only vehicle in the parking lot. Good.

  No witnesses to see my temporary retreat.

  Broussard

  I let Ryan escape the office without any further humiliation. Knowing when she left by only hearing the outside door shut behind her.

  I dial Reed on my phone. If any one knew the scoop it’d most likely be him.

  12

  Broussard

  The Monday morning bug out was scheduled for 0500. After a short briefing, we’d gear up and roll out. This particular training mission was a simple drop in, secure, and bug out. After my conversation with Reed yesterday, I thought it couldn’t hurt to bring Ryan in on this one. See how she got along with the rest of the team on an op. Maybe I could finally get command to see what a liability it is having her on the team. Well, not her personally. Just a woman in general.

  I pull my laptop out of my bag and connect it to the projector we use in briefings. As the team is filtering in, I pull up my email and scroll through the different messages absentmindedly.

  I had watched Everly Ryan whenever we did PT, during meetings and on base trainings- including a hand to hand combat refresher course we did just two weeks ago. She always proves her mettle. Some things she is better at then the guys- speed and agility- but other things are just not equal. Strength being one.

  I remember her fierce expression when she had paired up with T-Rex in the ring for some hand-to-hand. She had managed to get in several good jabs, but when she threw a kick, T-Rex caught it. The resounding thud her butt made when it hit the mat had me cringing. She took it like a champ though, popping back up and decking T in the chin. He got lucky when she came in close for a punch one time, and he put her in a headlock till she passed out. She didn’t tap out though. She blacked out and the bruising around her neck was a purple testimony that she had withstood hand to hand with a man nearly double her size.

  I had been watching her with a scrutiny meant to only find a solution to the problem she presented. She was quiet. But not in a mousy, shy girl way. Her silence was strength, bold, determination- stoic. Her gray eyes observe everything in her sphere with the same intense gaze a hawk uses on a hunt. At the same time though, she is efficient and anticipates my needs whenever she acts as team liaison.

  The words on her bio from the psych analysis she had submitted to before BUD/S are etched on my mind, mainly because I had read it several hundred times trying to find a weakness I could exploit. The report read: Hardly a feminist. The inner determination Petty Officer Ryan exhibits is in direct relation to her commitment to save lives and be there for her fellow brethren. When questioned further about her feelings- no answer. Only an unswerving loyalty to men-in-arms. “In war, gender has no place, but love of country and ability to do the job do. I can and will do this job.”

  There had to be something further. Something I could use to finish this experiment. It’s probably the only time I ever wanted to fail. A woman in active combat, stealth operations, it’s not only a risk to her life, but to everyone else’s. Nothing to do with her ability to do the job. But it sure as well affects mine, because god knows my traditional upbringing can only provide one answer on what to do with her in a combat situation. Protect her. Those instincts will be hard to quash in a direct action.

  Reed interrupts my musings.

  “It’s oh-five hundred, sir. Time to saddle up and ride.”

  He plunks down next to me. Most of the team is seated at the conference table or standing up in various positions along the wall. I scan the faces.

  Missing one. I am now curious if the guys had managed to scare Ryan off with their scare tactics Saturday night. Guess now I know.

  Huh. Disappointment flashes in my gut, didn’t think it’d be so easy.

  I disregard it. Briefing now. Emotions later…if I ever decide to pluck them from the depths of my mind and examine them.

  “Alright Team. We got a simple drop in here…”

  I trail off as movement by the door catches my eye.

  It is Ryan. And she has a mohawk. A fucking mohawk. Dyed black, not her signature honey brown I am used to. It isn’t the highest Mohawk or the traditionally spikey kind, but it is two inches tall and smoothed up to the center of her head.

  She has also done something with her makeup- hell, I never knew she ever wore any- that was downright scary. Eyeliner as dark as midnight, and under the fluorescent lighting her eyes met mine- electric blue and disconcerting to me – as I was used to her gray intelligent eyes. But these…these are sex eyes. That thought has me snapping back to reality.

  “Ryan. Glad you took time fix your hair and makeup for this beauty pageant.”

  Snickers break out around the room. She nonchalantly leans against the wall in parade rest.

  “Listen up, Ryan. Today you’re trading your tiara for a helmet. Standard recon force five. I want a team here and a team insert here.”

  The details are on instant replay in my head so regurgitating them comes naturally even though my attention is on little Miss Attitude leaning against the wall in the back.

  With a, “Lock and load ladies!” the briefing breaks up on my command.

  Good ‘ole sexual attraction. I snuff it out, put such feelings to the back of my mind, never to see the light of day again- or so I hope.

  13

  Ryan

  I’m keeping this mohawk. It is lucky. My lucky mohawk. First day I have it I get to go on a training op.

  I really have no assigned role on the op, just a back-up gun so to speak. But, I get to parachute from the C-130 and be in the field. It feels fucking fantastic. It took us close to three hours to hike covertly to our package location. The takedown - uneventful. But my spirit could not be dampened. I had boots on the ground and a M16 in my grip. The only reason I don’t grin from ear to ear is because I think it might be uncool. Keep it together Ryan.

  We reach the extract point and a UH-60 (that’s a Blackhawk helicopter) is waiting for us.

  We load up without issues. I am squashed between T-Rex and Reed. For some reason the guys think because I am smaller (or maybe just female) I’ll fit best on the jump seat next to T-Rex. Not really. With all our gear, and the fact that I have hips, we are touching from shoulder to knee- with the butt of our rifles resting on the ground between our feet. It is as fun as being squashed next to…well, the carnivorous dinosaur T is named after.

  Still, Reed is amicable and charming.

  “So, Ryan,” he shouts over the ch
a, cha, cha of the rotating blades, “You got any fashion tips for me?”

  I glance at him.

  “You Asshole.” I yell back. I’m sure my words carry on the wind, cause T-Rex guffaws.

  “I was just wondering,” he continues, “If Louboutin makes a combat boot in my size. I think the red heel would be a nice target spot for any tangos.”

  I start laughing at the image of a Louboutin combat boot.

  “Maybe you can ask your girlfriend…to pick you out a pair….” Just as I say it, I realize how that sounds. T-Rex breaks in, “Yea a pair of balls. YOUPUSSYMOTHERFUCKER! “

  Ha! I am starting to like T.

  We banter back and forth the whole ride back to the airfield.

  Hoo-Yah. It feels damn good to be back in the saddle.

  Broussard

  It is hard to keep my eyes off her. She kept a game face on during the whole training, but the minute the exit helo took off, her eyes are gleaming with success. Unbridled happiness. A soul-deep fire reflected in her eyes. And I know. She has the heart of a warrior. Gets off on this shit just as much as I do.

  I try my best to not pay any attention to her- but I kept finding my gaze roving her way. She chats back and forth between T-Rex and Reed, playfully punching T in the arm, then throwing back her head in laughter. Her eyes are dewy with victory and ringed in battle paint.

  Probably not even a regulation on that shit.

  She is dwarfed by T-Rex on her left side, and the contrast in their sizes really hits home her femininity. While her womanly shape doesn’t exist in full gear, her lack of size sitting next to T-Rex is apparent- her nose would bump into the top of his shoulder if she turned her head. Still she keeps talking, now gesturing something flippant with a backward wave of her hand. T-Rex responds - I can’t hear what they were saying over the wind- but Ryan’s lips stretch into a relaxed grin as she leans the back of her head against the bulkhead.

  “Yo, Broussie.” Hanzo leans into my right side so I can hear him, “what you think of Ryan?”