Tall, Dark and Devastating: Harvard's Education

Harvard shifted in his seat to face her. “But that’s what working in a team is all about. You don’t have to do it on your own. You’ve got an issue with this particular exercise. That’s cool. We can do a buddy jump—double harness, single chute. I’ll do most of the work—I’ll get us to the ground. You just have to close your eyes and hold on.”

“No. Thank you, but no. A woman in this business can’t afford to have it look as if she needs help,” she told him.

He shook his head impatiently. “This isn’t about being a woman. This is about being human. Everybody’s got something they can’t do as easily or as comfortably as the next man—person. So you’ve got a problem with heights—”

“Shh,” she said, looking around to see if anyone was listening. No one was.

“When you’re working in a team,” Harvard continued, speaking more softly, “it doesn’t do anybody any good for you to conceal your weaknesses. I sure as hell haven’t kept mine hidden.”

P.J.’s eyes widened slightly. “You don’t expect me to believe—”

“Everybody’s got something,” he said again. “When you have to, you work through it, you ignore it, you suck it up and get the job done. But if you’ve got a team of seven or eight men and you need two men to scale the outside of a twenty-story building and set up recon on the roof, you pick the two guys who are most comfortable with climbing instead of the two who can do the job but have to expend a lot of energy focusing on not looking down. Of course, it’s not always so simple. There are lots of other things to factor in in any given situation.”

“So what’s yours?” P.J. asked. “What’s your weakness?” From the tone of her voice and the disbelief in her eyes, she clearly didn’t think he had one.

Harvard had to smile. “Why don’t you ask Wes or O’Donlon? Or Blue?” He leaned past P.J. and called to the other men, “Hey, Skelly. Hey, Bob. What do I hate more than anything?”

“Idiots,” Wes supplied.

“Idiots with rank,” Bobby added.

“Being put on hold, traffic jams and cold coffee,” Lucky listed.

“No, no, no,” Harvard said. “I mean, yeah, you’re right, but I’m talking about the teams. What gives me the cold sweats when we’re out on an op in the real world?”

“SDVs,” Blue said without hesitation. At P.J.’s questioning look, he explained. “Swimmer Delivery Vehicles. We sometimes use one when a team is being deployed from a nuclear sub. It’s like a miniature submarine. Harvard pretty much despises them.”

“Getting into one is kind of like climbing into a coffin,” Harvard told her. “That image has never sat really well with me.”

“The Senior Chief doesn’t do too well in tight places,” Lucky said.

“I’m slightly claustrophobic,” Harvard admitted.

“Locking out of a sub through the escape trunk with him is also a barrel of laughs,” Wes said with a snort. “We all climb from the sub into this little chamber—and I mean little, right, H.?”

Harvard nodded. “Very little.”

“And we stand there, packed together like clowns in a Volkswagen, and the room slowly fills with water,” Wes continued. “Anyone who’s even a little bit funny about space tends to do some serious teeth grinding.”

“We just put Harvard in the middle,” Blue told P.J., “and let him close his eyes. When it’s time to get going, when the outer lock finally opens, whoever’s next to him gives him a little push—”

“Or grabs his belt and hauls him along if his meditation mumbo jumbo worked a little too well,” Wes added.

“Some people are so claustrophobic they’re bothered by the sensation of water surrounding them, and they have trouble scuba diving,” Harvard told her. “But I don’t have that issue. Once I’m in the water, I’m okay. As long as I can move my arms, I’m fine. But if I’m in tight quarters with the walls pressing in on me…” He shook his head. “I really don’t like the sensation of having my arms pinned or trapped against my body. When that happens, I get a little tense.”

Lucky snickered. “A little? Remember that time—”

“We don’t need to go into that, thank you very much,” Harvard interrupted. “Let’s just say, I don’t do much spelunking in my spare time.”

P.J. laughed. “I never would have thought,” she said. “I mean, you come across as Superman’s bigger brother.”

He smiled into her eyes. “Even old Supe had to deal with kryptonite.”

“Ten minutes,” Wes announced, and the mood in the plane instantly changed. The men of Alpha Squad all became professionals, readying and double-checking the gear.

Harvard could feel P.J. tighten. Her smile faded as she braced herself.

He leaned toward her, lowering his voice so no one else could hear. “It’s not too late to back out.”

“Yes, it is.”

“How often does your job require you to skydive?” he argued. “Never. This is a fluke—”

“Not never,” she corrected him. “Once. At least once. This once. I can do this. I know I can. Tell me, how many times have you had to lock out of a sub?”

“Too many times.”

Somehow she managed a smile. “I only have to do this once.”

“Okay, you’re determined to jump. I can understand why you want to do it. But let’s at least make this a single-chute buddy jump—”

“No.” P.J. took a deep breath. “I know you want to help. But even though you think that might help me in the short term, I know it’ll harm me in the long run. I don’t want people looking at me and thinking, ‘She didn’t have the guts to do it alone.’ Hell, I don’t want you looking at me and thinking that.”

“I won’t—”

“Yes, you will. You already think that. Just because I’m a woman, you think I’m not as strong, not as capable. You think I need to be protected.” Her eyes sparked. “Greg Greene’s sitting over there looking like he’s about to have a heart attack. But you’re not trying to talk him out of making this jump.”

Harvard couldn’t deny that.

“I’m making this jump alone,” P.J. told him firmly, despite the fact that her hands were shaking. “And since we’re being timed for this exercise, do me a favor. Once we hit the ground, try to keep up.”

P.J. couldn’t look down.

She stared at the chute instead, at the pure white of the fabric against the piercing blueness of the sky.

She was moving toward the ground faster than she’d imagined.

She knew she had to look down to pinpoint the landing zone—the LZ—and to mark in her mind the spot where Harvard hit the ground. She had little doubt he would come within a few dozen yards of the LZ, despite the strong wind coming from the west.

Her stomach churned, and she felt green with nausea and dizziness as she gritted her teeth and forced herself to watch the little toy fields and trees beneath her.

It took countless dizzying minutes—far longer than she would have thought—for her to locate the open area that had been marked as their targeted landing zone. And it had been marked. There was a huge bull’s-eye blazed in white on the brownish-green of the cut grass in the field. It was ludicrously blatant, and despite that, it had been absorbed by the pattern of fields and woods, and she nearly hadn’t seen it.

What would it be like to try to find an unmarked target? When the SEALs went on missions, their landing areas weren’t marked. And they nearly always made their jumps at night. What would it be like to be up here in the darkness, floating down into hostile territory, vulnerable and exposed?

She felt vulnerable enough as it was, and no one on the ground wanted to kill her.

The parachute was impossible for her to control. P.J. attempted to steer for the bull’s-eye, but her arms felt boneless, and the wind was determined to send her to another field across the road.