Breaking Point

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?”