Wetand Wild Page 3

  So much for giving her a shot. Shot misfired. I wonder if Ragnor would have done any better.

  Soon after, Torolf walked with his SEAL trainee buddies toward the dining hall, sweat still rolling off his body in rivers. He and the other guys walked a little funny from being rubbed raw between their legs by the wet sand. Despite his being in prime physical condition, his knees felt like rubber after all that exercise, and the day had barely begun. Alison MacLean walked straight as a poker in front of them, as if the run had been a snap for her.

  “I think she likes me,” Torolf pronounced with a grin.

  His teammates turned as one to look at him.

  Cage spoke for them all. “As my granny always says to my sister Marie, ‘Darlin’, a man and his ego doan make the gumbo boil.’ ”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means Alison MacLean doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you,” Cody interpreted. “Or any of the rest of us.”

  Dreams of being Demi Moore … uh, G.I. Jane …

  “Did my guys offend you today, Allie?” her brother asked as they sat down to eat in the officers’ dining room.

  “No. I’ve heard more suggestive grody jodies, believe me … some of them from women,” she answered. “If I get offended over a little bad language, I’ll never make it on a SEAL team.”

  Ian shook his head sadly at her. “Sis, it ain’t ever gonna happen. Bullshit movies like G.I. Jane aside, the Navy will never open the SEALs program to women. And it’s not a sexist thing, either. There are good reasons why—”

  She put up a halting hand to stop the explanation he was about to give. She’d heard it too many times before. From him; from her father, Rear Admiral Thomas MacLean, a member of the U.S. Government’s Task Force on Terrorism; from her brother Ross, a Navy pilot; from her brother Clay, a midshipman at Annapolis; and from dozens of Navy personnel through the years. That didn’t mean she would give up, but in the meantime she’d gone to medical school and was putting her talents to good use in other ways, indirectly fighting the terrorism she and her family abhorred … with good reason. “We’ll have to agree to disagree,” she insisted.

  He started to say something more, then stopped with a shrug of surrender. They both dug into their lunches, eating silently.

  “I saw Magnusson talking to you. What was that about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Was he hitting on you?”

  Alison had to laugh. Always the brother, looking out for his little sister. Not that she was little. “Not really.”

  “I’ll kill him. Did he ask you for a date, or say something vulgar? These guys don’t have the sense God gave a goose when it comes to their trash mouths.”

  Ian should talk! She’d heard more than a few blue words pass through his lips. “No, Ian, he didn’t ask me for a date. And give me credit for being able to handle myself if he did. Jeez! It’s not like he pinched my butt or anything.”

  “You don’t take matters seriously enough. Maybe I should stop you from running with my teams.”

  “If you issue such an order, I’ll kill you. Really. It helps me stay in top shape. I need to push myself.”

  “You look fine. Beautiful, in fact.”

  She patted his arm. “You’re my brother. Of course you would think that, but I’ve got news for you … I am not beautiful. Beauty isn’t what I’m aiming for anyhow when I talk about being in top shape. It’s important that I be as physically fit as any SEAL if I’m called out on a field op to provide medical aid to a team … or if the Navy ever gets its act together about female frogmen … frogwomen, that is.”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “It runs in the genes, honey,” she said, pushing her plate back. “I’m going to dash home for a quick shower before I do my afternoon rounds.”

  “I know your apartment is convenient for you, but I still wish you’d move in with me.” Ian had been bugging her to move into his house in San Diego since his fiancée dumped him six months ago, but Alison had refused. “Especially with those phone calls you’ve been getting lately.”

  Alison had made the mistake of telling her brother about the “breather” phone calls she’d been getting the last few months. Sometimes there were as many as six on her answering machine when she got home from work, and the calls came during the night, too. “They stopped weeks ago,” she lied. Really, all she needed to do was change her phone number. And she would, when she got the time. No big deal!

  Ian worried about her in other regards, too. Her entire family did. Ever since her fiancé, a Navy SEAL, had been killed in a Lebanese bombing five years ago. But she was fine now. Except for an extreme hatred of terrorists.

  When Alison was assigned to Coronado last year, she had rented an apartment—the whole second floor of an old Victorian house. “The Island,” as many locals called Coronado, even though it was really a peninsula, included a small town of tree-lined streets with Victorian homes juxtaposed with bungalows. White sand beaches lined the Pacific side and the scenic San Diego skyline graced the bay side. It was also home to the North Island Naval Air Station on the north side, and on the south end, the Naval Amphibious Base, where the SEALs trained. Downtown San Diego was an eight-mile ride over the Silver Strand, the neck of land that connected the “island” to the mainland.

  Her independence was important to her, but, more than anything, she loved her apartment, antique plumbing and all. Rather than tell her brother that, she said, “Sam would never let me move into your house, anyhow.” Sam was the huge white cat he’d inherited from his ex-fiancée—the only thing Sheila had left behind.

  “You have a point there,” he replied with a grin. The man did love his cat, though he pretended that he just put up with him.

  Just then, a young aide to the base commander walked up to their table. “Excuse me, Master Chief, sir, you need to come outside right away. There’s been an accident.”

  “What?” they both said at the same time.

  “Is it Doofus again?”

  Harry “Doofus” Harrison was a trainee on Team Two … the clumsiest oaf God ever created. Last week he fell off the climbing wall and almost knocked an eye out. The week before, he’d almost drowned himself in two feet of water. But, to give him credit, he had heart out the wazoo.

  “Nope, not Doofus this time. Team Five was crossing the road over from the grinder when a private food-service truck came barreling through. Drunk driver. Wasn’t watching where he was going.”

  “Anyone hurt?” Alison asked, morphing into her physician mode. She and her brother had already risen and were heading out, following the petty officer.

  “Couple of guys got minor scrapes, but nothing serious, thanks to Ensign Magnusson. He jumped in front and pushed his teammates back.”

  “And Magnusson?” she asked, alert to the concern in the sailor’s eyes.

  “Magnusson is in pretty bad shape.”

  Chapter Three

  A-Viking he did go, a-Viking he did go, hi-ho the … uh-oh! …

  Ragnor had left his homeland a sennight ago, but already he was having regrets. He’d expected to do a little pillaging of Saxon churches and rich farm estates, drink some stolen ale, perhaps sample the wares of some Saxon maids, overall have a good time and return home a little richer come autumn.

  What he had not expected when he’d joined his four longships with six of Forkbeard’s was the twenty Saxon ships manned with hundreds of armed soldiers that he saw on the horizon, royal banners waving in the breeze.

  “Uh-oh!” the king said to Ragnor even as he motioned for one of his larger longships to pull up alongside so he could jump over.

  Ragnor gave the old slyboots a killing glance. “Uh-oh? That is all you can say? I smell something stinksome, you wily whoreson. What is this about?”

  Svein ducked his head guiltily. “I might have kidnapped King Ethelred’s sister and her babe, along with some holy relics and a chest or two of gold coins.”

  “Might have? W
hen might you have done this?” I must be demented to have joined forces with this lunatic. I knew he was not to be trusted. Aaarrgh!

  “When you were off emptying out that monastery near Winchester.”

  Good honest work! Relieving fat priests of their jewel-encrusted chalices. Unlike …

  So you planned this all along, you slimy bastard!

  “Why?” Ragnor asked through gritted teeth.

  “Revenge for the St. Brice’s Day Massacre, if you must know. My sister Gunnhild was among those murdered … and she a voluntary hostage.” Svein batted his lashes in an exaggerated fashion and even feigned wiping away a tear. The old bag of wind!

  “That was several years ago, and Ethelred has paid you much danegeld in recompense since then. Not to mention your massive retaliation three years later.” Ethelred was a strange and disturbed monarch, everyone knew that, but that did not excuse this unprovoked affront by Svein.

  “My wrath is mighty and still unappeased,” Svein said with a shrug.

  Frankly, Ragnor believed that Svein was using the St. Brice’s Day Massacre as an excuse to pillage and plunder endlessly.

  As the king’s longship side-butted against his, Svein nimbly leapt onto it, and called out to Ragnor, “Good battle, my friend!”

  Hah! Some friend. But Ragnor had no time to dwell on that now. “To arms!” he yelled to his men, who jumped off their sea chests and took out weapons and armor, both leather and chain mail. The shields, stored along the rim of the outside of the longship, were quickly lifted and readied for use. Within minutes they were ready to engage the fast-approaching enemy. Sails were lowered and anchors thrown to steady the “fighting field.” The men-at-arms in his other three longboats followed suit. “It appears we are going to battle this day,” he shouted. “May Thor’s great hammer Mjollnir be with us all.”

  His men raised their swords high as they cheered and banged their shields. He pulled out his own favorite broadsword, “Foe Fighter,” laying his battle-axe “Head Crusher” at the ready. After that, he donned a sleeveless, knee-length tunic of chain mail. Unlike some of his men, he disdained to put on a leather or metal helmet with nose guard. It was all in Odin’s hands now, after all … or the Christian One-God. He said a silent prayer to both.

  Svein’s largest longship, the one onto which he’d jumped, managed to escape, but the rest of his vessels remained for the fierce battle which soon ensued.

  At first there were war whoops aplenty on both sides, along with shouts of “To the death!” or “Mark them with your spears!” or “See you in Valhalla!” But after an hour of fighting, the only sounds resounding on all the ships were the din of battle—swords ringing against each other and the screams of the dying. The deck of Ragnor’s ship was slippery with blood. Bodies lay about, both Saxon and Viking, staring sightlessly upward. Some were minus limbs or even heads. It was a scene out of hell itself.

  At the sight of all this carnage, Ragnor remained calm and dispassionate on the outside, but inside he felt like vomiting with horror. His sword nigh smoked with skillful death-doling; his soul nigh smoked with despair. So many good men would break the raven’s fast this day. So many!

  Ragnor’s men were well-seasoned soldiers; he was lord of the swordplay himself. But the foemen’s force triply outmanned them. Taking a slight respite to catch his breath, Ragnor was surprised from behind by a huge Saxon who latched one arm around his neck and used his other burly arm to lock Ragnor’s sword at his side. The brute must have weighed twice as much as he, and Ragnor was a big man.

  A spurt of rage burst through Ragnor then, both for himself and all his dead comrades. With the energy of a berserker, he broke free and raised his broadsword high, about to split the skull of his attacker down the center. But the red-haired monster, whose yellow teeth were bared, with spittle running down the sides of his mouth, lunged for him and slid on the bloody deck, hitting him square in the chest. Ragnor’s buttocks struck the ship’s rail, and both men went overboard.

  He struggled in the briny depths, pulled down by the weight of his armor and boots and by the Saxon warrior, who would not let go of him. First things first. Ragnor squeezed the throat of his enemy till his eyes bulged and his body went lifeless. Then he attempted to rise to the surface, his lungs burning. But he was down too low, and he kept sinking lower.

  As water filled his mouth and nose and then his lungs, he felt lightheaded. There was no pain as peacefulness overcame him.

  So this is how it feels to die. Not so bad. Mayhap my father and my brothers and sisters experienced the same thing. Ah, well. I would not have wanted a straw death. A Viking should not die in his sleep.

  He floated then, still underwater.

  I wonder if I will meet up with my family again today.

  I wonder if Valhalla will be as grand as the elders have proclaimed, with walls made of golden spears and a roof of golden shields.

  He laughed with morbid mirth as another thought came to him. I wonder if the Valkyries, those famous female warriors, will manage to bring back my “enthusiasm.”

  A strange white light appeared before him at the end of a long tunnel. Was this the channel to the afterworld? He wanted to go toward the light, desperately. But off to the left side he saw a fleeting, older image of his brother beckoning him away from the light. He alternately laughed, then winced with pain. Had he been wounded in battle, too? And to the right he saw a red-haired goddess, also beckoning him away from the light. Her green eyes were huge with fear. She was in some danger, and she appeared to need his help.

  How strange! Ragnor thought.

  But then he thought no more.

  The deed was done.

  Shattered dreams …

  “No way! I am not dropping out of SEALs,” Torolf raged at Master Chief MacLean from his hospital bed.

  “You have no choice,” the Master Chief said.

  “I will graduate into the teams. This has been my dream for too long to give it up now. No friggin’ way!”

  “You can ‘roll back’ after you’ve fully recovered. You won’t even have to start over with a new class; you can pick up in training where you left off.” The chief smiled kindly down at him, which was really scary … seeing the Professor of Pain smile at him. Sort of like Hannibal Lecter patting you on the head before he dined on your eyeball. “You don’t even have to repeat Hell Week.”

  “No way!” Torolf repeated.

  “You’ve suffered a major concussion, your body is bruised; your face is black and blue. You need to recuperate,” Lieutenant MacLean, the physician, said.

  “Commander Britton has signed you off for one month’s leave,” the chief said in one of his “don’t argue, I am God” voices. He laid a set of orders on the bed, down near Torolf’s feet, which were covered with a light blanket. “I’m assuming you’ll want to go home to Sonoma to rest. There’s a plane leaving at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. Make sure your doctor there gives the hospital here regular updates. Good luck!” He saluted then and spun on his heel. At the door he turned and said, “If it’s any consolation, I think you would have made a good SEAL. And I would welcome the chance to kick your butt if you return.” With those words, the chief left.

  Torolf glared at the chief’s retreating back and at his sister, the physician, who remained. It was probably silly, but he felt like crying, and he didn’t want to do it in front of a female.

  “It really is for the best,” she said.

  “Drop dead,” he said, repeating her words back to her.

  She just smiled, not at all offended. Therefore he decided not to apologize.

  After that, everyone left him alone, fearing his dark mood. In the middle of the night, Torolf rose from his bed, very carefully since he was still in pain. He dressed himself and made his way out of the quiet medical facility, unnoticed. He had a motorcycle no one knew about parked in a private garage in Coronado, against regulations. He would drive home to the family vineyard in Sonoma … or maybe he’d go somewhere else to get
himself back in shape. He wasn’t really worried about being stopped, because, after all, he had orders giving him a one-month medical leave.

  As he left Coronado a half hour later, traveling across the Silver Strand, he wondered if he would ever return.

  Damn straight I will, he answered himself almost immediately. I am a Viking. Vikings never quit.

  Die Hard, Die Soft … Whatever! … Dead is Dead …

  Ragnor shot straight up in the air from the water, like a dolphin, took a huge gulp of air, then felt himself being shoved back under by a heavy hand. He’d always prided himself on being leather-lunged, but this was ridiculous.

  Apparently, he hadn’t died after all … not yet. And neither had his Saxon enemy, whose hand was pressed down on top of his head.

  Enough is enough! Drawing on some inner energy and the will to live … now that he knew life was within his grasp … he shoved the hand aside, kicked the man in the groin, then swam swiftly to the surface. To his surprise, other heads bobbed to the surface around him, but they swam to a nearby yellow boat, and a measly boat it was, bigger than a small fishing boat but smaller than even the smallest longship. It wasn’t even made of wood.

  “What the hell was that about down there?” a man yelled in his face as he, too, came to the surface. It was not the Saxon warrior he’d been struggling with when he’d almost drowned, although this man’s short brown hair had a reddish tint, too. It must be another Saxon warrior. With a thunderous expression on his face, the man yelled out to what must be his comrades, “This jerk-off just kicked me in the nuts, deliberately.” Then he blinked as if in sudden recognition. “Magnusson, you dumb sonofabitch, what are you doing here? I thought you were gone.” A vein in his forehead looked as if it might burst.

  Well, of course he had kicked him deliberately. The man had been trying to drown him. As for being gone, he’d thought so, too. But how did the man know his name? He shrugged, guessing that his wordfame must have spread even to the Saxon lands.