Authors: Sandra Hill
Viking Heat (3 page)
Lieutenant Avenil shook hands with her brothers, his eyes flickering for a second at seeing the famous Tom Nelson. While they were standing, she remained seated in front of the desk.
“The young man you rescued in Afghanistan was their brother.”
Lieutenant Avenil’s eyes connected with hers. The same haunted blue eyes she recognized from the picture. She couldn’t help herself. She rose, walked over, and hugged him, whispering against his ear, “Thank you.”
She could tell by the stiffness of his body, as well as his flushed face, that her gratitude embarrassed him. But then his arms wrapped around her waist, his hands giving a quick, soothing caress of her back, as if to show he understood.
“It’s my job,” Lieutenant Avenil said.
After that, the commander excused himself and allowed them time to visit more casually. They all sat down, and the men pulled their chairs closer to her.
He told them everything about the mission, from the moment they were called up, which he referred to as “boots off the ground,” and on their way to the “insertion point” in the Middle East. They “put down” a half-dozens “tangos” to get into the stronghold—
tango
was the Navy SEAL term for terrorist—but her brother had been dead on their arrival. Lieutenant Avenil was able to tell them that Matt had been clutching a cross on a gold chain.
tango
was the Navy SEAL term for terrorist—but her brother had been dead on their arrival. Lieutenant Avenil was able to tell them that Matt had been clutching a cross on a gold chain.
Joy choked up again. She’d given him that as a gift last Christmas.
Before they left, she asked Lieutenant Avenil, “Why do you do this?”
He seemed taken aback by her question, but then he replied, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, and if I can eliminate even one of them, then I’ve made a difference.”
“A lot of men signed up after 9/11, didn’t they?” Jerry remarked.
Lieutenant Avenil nodded. “There were SEALs before 9/11, of course, but the need is greater today because . . .”
“. . . because terrorism is growing,” Tom finished for him.
“Big-time,” Lieutenant Avenil agreed.
“I wish there was something I could do to make up for Matt’s life.” She laughed, then kidded, “Too bad the SEALs don’t take women.”
“The SEALs don’t, but the WEALS do,” Commander MacLean inserted as he reentered the office, then went on to explain that Women on Earth, Air, Land and Sea was a female version of SEALs. “There have always been female military attached to the SEAL teams, but now they work with SEALs as equal partners.”
“I don’t know . . . women soldiers?” Jerry said.
She punched him in the arm. Jerry enjoyed goading her feminist leanings, and he had old-fashioned protective emotions about the female species.
“For a long time the military, all branches, resisted having women soldiers. A lot of them still do. Myself included,” Commander MacLean admitted. “Researchers tell us that a woman of twenty has the lung power of a man of fifty. And they’re not as strong, generally speaking. But mostly it’s a nightmare trying to manage a sexy young sailorette in a base full of horny men.”
Tom and Jerry chuckled.
“But they’re here, right?” she argued. “Women in the military?”
“Yep, and they’ve proven most of the naysayers wrong.”
“Yourself included?” she inquired sweetly.
“Definitely.” His somber face relaxed into a grin. “You’d have to meet my wife, Madrene, to know why that was a politic answer.”
“C’mon. I’ll take you to the grinder where one of the WEALS classes is working out today,” Lieutenant Avenil offered. “BUD/S, the latest SEAL training class, is just about finished.”
They gave their thanks and said good-bye to the commander.
“BUD/S?” Tom asked as they followed Lieutenant Avenil down the corridor.
“Basic Underwater Demolition/Seals,” the lieutenant explained as they exited the building. “In the old days, SEALs were primarily in the water; in fact, they called them frogmen or webfoot warriors. They’re everywhere today, though . . . air, land, sea, but they kept the name.”
The grinder was an asphalt area surrounded by several low buildings, almost like the exercise yard of a penitentiary. In the distance could be seen huge gray Navy warships lined up near the Naval Amphibious Base at the other end of Coronado. To one side was the cold blue Pacific Ocean, shimmering under the early morning sun, which would be relentless by afternoon. She could also see the red-tiled roof of the famous Hotel del Coronado, where she and her brothers would be having lunch before heading back home.
After spending a half hour watching two dozen women getting the most incredible workout on everything from climbing a high cargo net to gazillions of sit-ups, Jerry remarked to Lieutenant Avenil, “These women look especially fit. Are they, like, super-duper athletes? You know, wonder women with supersonic parts?”
Lieutenant Avenil laughed. “Nah. They have to be in good shape, of course. SEAL candidates do, too. But the program will hone them into the types of bodies they need. And, no, that doesn’t mean muscle-bound masculine females. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but some of them are pretty hot.”
Her brothers looked at her in a funny way.
She recognized the look.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed.
“I dare you,” Jerry said.
“I double-dog dare you,” Tom added. “Think of all the fun.”
Ha, ha, ha.
“And, really, I bet there would be tons of opportunities for you to use your psychology skills.” Tom was on a roll, or so he thought.
“The commander’s sister is a Navy doctor assigned to the teams here in Coronado,” Lieutenant Avenil added.
“A Navy SEAL psychologist . . . I mean, Navy WEALS psychologist. Wow!” Tom batted his sinfully long, dark lashes at her. “Wouldn’t that be
weally
great?”
weally
great?”
“Just super.”
“You could psychobabble the enemy to death.”
“Tom, you are so not funny.”
“It would be a breeze for you,” Jerry promised, barely able to stifle his smile. “You’re in great shape . . . except for your butt.”
He ducked when she tried to whack him a good one.
So, that’s how, a year later, she was here on San Clemente Island with a group of equally brain-dead WEALS wannabes. You could say hers was a classic case of
Private Benjamin
meets
Stripes
. At the moment, they were engaged in survival training. The goal was to evade the enemy . . . i.e., Navy SEAL instructors with sadist personalities and testosterone oozing out the yee haw. Her hiding place was under a slight ledge over an almost dry streambed . . . i.e., mud. The mosquitoes were the size of mothballs, the mud smelled, and she was pretty sure that was a spider in the long braid she had tucked under her cap.
Private Benjamin
meets
Stripes
. At the moment, they were engaged in survival training. The goal was to evade the enemy . . . i.e., Navy SEAL instructors with sadist personalities and testosterone oozing out the yee haw. Her hiding place was under a slight ledge over an almost dry streambed . . . i.e., mud. The mosquitoes were the size of mothballs, the mud smelled, and she was pretty sure that was a spider in the long braid she had tucked under her cap.
Just then, Master Chief Justin LeBlanc, a Cajun SEAL better known as Cage, leaned over the ledge above her and drawled, “Peekaboo, darlin’,” just before shooting her with a big yellow paintball.
In the butt.
Chapter 2
Brandr Igorsson stood with hundreds of his Jomsviking comrades-in-arms, surveying the ritual initiation of six men into the brotherhood.
“Keep an eye on my brother Frode,” his best friend Torkel said, his chin raised with pride. “Only sixteen, but there is no more fearless youthling in all the Norselands.”
“Like you were, Tork?” Brandr grinned. He and Tork had joined the elite band of far-famed warriors, together, more than ten years past. In truth, they had been fighting men for closer to twenty years, since their selfsame thirteenth birthing day. In more battles than he could count, they had fought side by side, watching each other’s backs.
“Just like,” Tork agreed, humility never being one of his virtues.
Horns of ale were raised as a wave of shouting erupted around them . . . cheers of encouragement and hoots of ridicule. A large neck-ring of turf had been cut from the ground in such a way that two of the sides were still intact. In various places underneath stood sharp spearheads. Those men about to swear fealty to the Jomsviking brotherhood were in the process of crawling from one end to the other beneath the grassy blanket, their blood mixing with the Trelleborg dirt.
When they had all completed this task, they dropped to their knees, Frode included, grinning with self-satisfaction for having survived, despite blood dripping from their arms and backs, their faces marked with grass and dirt stains. Egill the Fearless, their leader, strode toward them with a stern glower on his bearded face and demanded the oaths of loyalty, not just to him as chieftain but also to their fellow warriors. Each promised to avenge all other Jomsvikings as a brother. None must ever give voice to fear. No man could be absent from Trelleborg for more than three days without permission. No women could be brought into the all-male, monastic-style garrison. Plunder would be shared by all in the warrior community.
The fortress, which could house twelve hundred men, sat on the west coast of Sjaelland, between Kattegat and the Baltic Sea, atop an enormous circular earthworks, with high double-timbered ramparts filled with earth, which were manned at all times. The stronghold was divided into quadrants by two roads that crisscrossed, leading to four openings, with gates that could be dropped in an instant if they were attacked by foemen. Below lay the palisaded harbor town where ale and wenches were available aplenty, for a coin.
Tork picked up a wooden bucket of water and dumped it over his brother’s head.
“Hey!” Frode shook his head like a shaggy dog.
They were better able now to examine the boy’s extensive injuries, which had been Tork’s intention. A deep slice on his shoulder, cutting through the leather tunic and flesh. Several cuts on his legs and a vicious wound on one forearm.
Tork touched the latter and said, “This one might need stitches.”
“Nay.” Frode gave his wound an admiring glance, then grinned. “Methinks it will make a great scar to attract the maidens.”
Laughing, the three of them made for the seaside opening.
The youthling chattered the whole time, even though in most ways he was a man now. That fact was proven when he teased them, “Let us go down to the village and celebrate. Mayhap I can find a wench or two to swive, whilst you two ugly brutes may have my leavings.”
Tork reached out to punch his brother, but Frode ducked, and Tork’s fist met only air.
’Twas then that Brandr noticed the longship entering the harbor far below. Oh, there were dozens and dozens of longships and knarrs and barges already anchored and some beached for the winter, but none carried this particular flag. A white bear rampant against a black background edged in red. It was Brandr’s family crest.
As they got closer, the hairs stood out on the back of his neck with every creak of the oarlocks, and he exchanged a worried look with Tork, both sensing that something must be amiss.
They soon found out.
It was his younger brothers Erland and Arnis, sixteen and twenty years old.
How odd!
And they were in charge of a longship . . . one of the many family longships, but this one manned by a shiphird, or sea army, of a mere thirty men.
Even more odd!
And a scraggly band they were, too.
Beyond odd! Alarming!
How odd!
And they were in charge of a longship . . . one of the many family longships, but this one manned by a shiphird, or sea army, of a mere thirty men.
Even more odd!
And a scraggly band they were, too.
Beyond odd! Alarming!
On anchoring, then jumping onto the wharf planking, his brothers hugged him in greeting, then nodded at Tork and Frode, whom they had met as visitors at Bear’s Lair on many an occasion.
The first thing Erland did was complain to Brandr, “Frode has become a Jomsviking? You told me I was too young.”
“You
are
too young.” In Brandr’s experience, some males were men at sixteen, whilst others did not mature ’til much later. Erland was of the latter type.
are
too young.” In Brandr’s experience, some males were men at sixteen, whilst others did not mature ’til much later. Erland was of the latter type.
Arnis thumped his brother on the shoulder, causing Erland to stumble. “Lackwit! Dost forget why we are here?” Then he turned to Brandr with a grim expression on his face. “We bring bad news, Jarl Igorsson.”
Jarl?
“What? Me?” he nigh squawked. Those standing hairs on his neck were now waving a warning to him. There could be only one way that the odal right of jarldom would pass to him. Through his father and three older brothers.
“What? Me?” he nigh squawked. Those standing hairs on his neck were now waving a warning to him. There could be only one way that the odal right of jarldom would pass to him. Through his father and three older brothers.
Which was impossible.
It had to be.
Arnis put a hand on his arm in sympathy.
Sympathy?
“They are all gone.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to digest what Arnis was saying. “All?”
Both Erland and Arnis nodded.
“The Sigurdssons came in the night,” Erland explained. “Killed and maimed everyone in sight. Father, his wives and concubines, your mother, our brothers Vidar, Bjarn and Sveinn. Our sisters Maeva and Gerda are dead, along with their babes. Housecarls, cotters, everyone slaughtered. Arnora and Kelda survived, no doubt because they were too old to be of any use.” Arnora was Vidar’s mother, and Kelda was the longtime cook at Bear’s Lair. “In truth, hardly anyone was spared by the whoresons, except Liv, who was amongst a handful of women taken captive.”
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