Breaking Point

“Okay,” Gabe told her quietly, leaning toward her so that only she could hear him, “just relax.”

His deep voice washed across her. The tension in her shoulders dissolved. Bay hadn’t expected the officers of the team to show up. That added more pressure to her. Well, they wanted to know if she was going to be a liability or another gun in the fight on patrols. Bay couldn’t blame them for wanting to know.

Listening to Gabe’s direction and information, she dialed in the elevation and compensated for the windage. She’d lived in mountains, albeit not high ones, but the formula was the same. Mountains made their own weather, and wind was the single biggest challenge to a sniper or a hunter. The wrong assessment of wind speed could knock a bullet off course.

Bay studied the large square wooden targets that were set at twelve hundred yards. There were three red circles to create the bull’s-eye. It was understood their shots had to hit the center. If they fell outside the center, then that shooter was the loser. She had three shots and so did Hammer.

Lifting her chin, Bay angled a look up at Gabe. “Hey, is Hammer a sniper like you?”

“Yes, he is. The medic we just lost was another of our snipers. The chief’s in a bind because there’s no one available to come into our team who is sniper qualified. He doesn’t like us without two snipers on every patrol.”

“Can’t blame him there,” Bay agreed. That was bad news because, as she’d found out by going on patrol with Special Forces teams, those snipers were a must. There were so many situations when a sniper would make the difference between a team taking on casualties and not. Snipers were called “force multipliers” for a reason.

Gabe watched her expression. He couldn’t see her eyes behind those wraparound sunglasses and wished he could. Her mouth was soft and she was relaxed. “Okay, we’re taking the first shot. Ready?”

Nodding, Bay settled down into her position. This was a natural position her father had taught her. It was the rifle in her right hand, resting against her right shoulder. Her left arm was tucked in front of her chest, the bipod giving her rifle stability. The stock had to fit firmly and comfortably against her right cheek. She wasn’t using a scope, rather the iron sights on the rifle itself. Hammer had insisted on iron sights only. It made hitting the target tougher. Very few ever used iron sights, the scopes superior and delivering on target all the time.

* * *

GABE GENTLY PATTED her cap, an old sniper signal that meant “shoot.”

The multiple variables of the shot ran through Bay’s mind as her eyes narrowed, her finger brushing the two-pound trigger, her right hand steady on the Win Mag stock. Her father had taught her there was a still point between inhalation and exhalation. It was when her breath left her body and before her lungs automatically began to expand to draw in a breath of fresh air into the body—this was the perfect time to fire the rifle.

The Win Mag bucked hard against her shoulder, the brute force of the recoil rippling spasmodically through her entire body. Gabe was watching through the spotter scope, following the telltale vapor trail of the bullet.

“Bull’s-eye!” Gabe yelled, thrusting his fist into the air.

Relief sped through her. Bay eased out of the position, amazed. “Really?” she asked Gabe. He was grinning as he turned to her.

“You hit it perfect, Doc. Good going. You’re dialed in.” Gabe lifted his head to see Hammer snarling a curse as he settled into position. He then turned back to Bay. “What? You didn’t think you’d nail it?” He laughed heartily.

Hammer nailed the first shot, too. There was a lot of clapping and cheering from the platoon as he’d made a successful shot. No one had clapped for her. Maybe, Bay figured, the guys were stunned she’d made the first shot at all. Gabe was the only one who believed in her. Knew she could do it. She felt warmth flow through her. There was an unexpected kindness to him that wasn’t easily discerned on the surface, but she was privy to it. That and the care and protection she could literally feel he’d encircled her with. It was unspoken, but there. In spades.

“Okay,” Gabe said softly, studying the flags. He watched the heat waves dancing across the flat area in front of them. They were showing a wind direction change. Leaning down, he told her to dial in to a different windage setting.

Bay settled in, focused. Her mouth compressed and she willed her body to relax. She desperately wanted to make this next shot, but the breeze was erratically shifting. It lifted several stands of her curly hair as she took a breath and let it naturally leave her body. Finger pressed against the trigger...breath out...still...fire... The Win Mag bucked savagely against her shoulder, the bark of the shot booming like unleashed thunder throughout the area.

“Bull’s-eye!” Gabe hooted, pumping his fist above his head.

There was some unexpected, serious applause going on behind Bay. She twisted around and saw all three officers and their chief strongly clapping, a show of support for her. They grinned at each other like raccoons finding a bunch of crayfish in a stream. As if congratulating themselves on having the good luck to have her in their platoon. Turning back around, Bay saw the look on Hammer’s face. He sneered at her and then settled in to take his shot.

Gabe patted her on the cap. “Damn fine shot. You’re doing great, Doc.”

“Couldn’t do it without you, Gabe. You’re feeding me good intel.” And Bay knew that a good spotter could make all the difference as to whether the shot was accurate or not.

“Bull’s-eye!” Oz shouted triumphantly as Hammer made the center circle.

More clapping, hooting and hollering erupted from the SEALs standing behind Hammer.

Bay wiped sweat from her upper lip. She could feel it running down her rib cage and between her shoulder blades. It was hotter than hell out in this afternoon sun on top of this eight-thousand-foot mountain.

Gabe’s hand settled briefly on her shoulder, giving her a silent order to get relaxed back into the prone position. Bay felt less trepidation as his long fingers curved around her shoulder, as if to tell her it was all right, that she was doing fine. He appreciated her efforts.

Gabe gave her spotter info, the flags now stronger and then falling off. It was the worst kind of wind to shoot in accurately, and Bay compressed her lips, worried. She placed the stock against her cheek, feeling the perspiration between her skin and the fiberglass stock. Inhaling, she allowed her breath to escape until she was in that millisecond still point. She squeezed the trigger. The Win Mag recoiled hard, jerking her shoulder, the tremors rippling down the right side of her body all the way to her booted foot.

“Bull’s-eye!” Gabe shouted, slapping her on the back, grinning.

A few more SEALs were clapping now. The officers looked elated. Chief Hampton, from what Gabe could see, appeared damn relieved. Again, Hammer cursed loudly and seemed furious. Gabe gave his teammate a wicked grin.

Bay got to her knees, clearing the chamber and safing the Win Mag in her arms. She sat down with the butt of the rifle resting on her hip and watched Hammer shoot.

“Bull’s-eye!” Oz shouted.

The SEAL came out of prone position, glaring over at her, triumph written on his hard, lined face.

“It’s a draw,” Chief Hampton called.

“Like hell it is!” Hammer protested. He jabbed a finger toward Bay. “Let’s do one shot offhand, standing.” His lips curled away from his teeth. “That will separate the men from the pantywaist girls here.”

Bay was startled at the dare. Standing position at a twelve hundred yards? Nothing to support her rifle but herself? Gulping, she swung a troubled gaze over to Gabe, who was kneeling at her side. He scowled hard at Hammer. And then he shifted his gaze and locked onto hers.

“Want to try it?” he asked quietly.

“I’ve never shot offhand at home,” she admitted, worried. “I always used a tree limb or tree trunk to steady my rifle barrel if I had to stand.”

Bay tried to ferret out what she saw in his narrowing green eyes as he considered her statement. Then Gabe rose fluidly to his feet, the spotting scope in his right hand.

“Hey, Hammer,” he called.

“What?” the SEAL snarled, dusting off the front of his cammies, holding his rifle above the dust rolling off him.

“Tell you what,” Gabe said in a reasonable tone. “Whoever gets closest to the red center is the winner.”

Snorting, Hammer grinned. “Your girl ain’t gonna make the grade. No one shoots a sniper rifle without some kind of bipod to steady it.” He patted his Win Mag affectionately with is hand. “Me? I do it all the time.”

Gabe nodded. “Fair enough. But if she comes closer to the center than you, then the money’s coming her way. Agreed?”

Shrugging, Hammer laughed. “Yeah, fine, Gabe. You’ve always been one for dotting i’s and crossing t’s. She ain’t gonna make the center. I know that. So, sure, I’ll agree to it. She’s gonna lose. And I’m going to shoot first.”

Feeling desolate, Bay stood up after handing the sniper rifle over to Gabe. Her stomach knotted with tension. Never had she fired without her Win Mag being braced. The rifle was very heavy, and shooting without support was tough for anyone, man or woman. Bay’s heart dropped.

Dusting herself off, she stood, arms crossed, watching as Hammer got into position. She had shot in all the positions at Camp Pendleton, used a number of rifles and pistols, but never standing and shooting over four hundred yards with any weapon. It was, in her mind, nearly impossible to shoot at twelve hundred yards standing.

Hammer fired. The bullet hit just outside the red center. The SEALs went crazy with clapping and yelling. Oz was slapping his friend on his meaty shoulder, yelling triumphantly.

Turning, Bay took the rifle from Gabe, feeling glum. When she looked up at him, he held her gaze.

“You can do this,” he told her. “I’ll talk you through it, Doc. Just listen to me and follow my directions.”

His husky words flowed through her, giving her hope. Bay nodded wordlessly. She planted her feet apart. Gabe told her to shorten her stance a bit. She did. It felt more comfortable to her. Then, as she lifted the long-barreled rifle, Gabe came over and moved her right hand an inch forward. As she rested the stock against her perspiring cheek, he stood behind her and helped her adjust the stock more tightly against her face. Some of her fear dissipated as the rifle began to feel like a living extension of herself. Gabe planted the butt of the rifle deep into her right shoulder. His eyes met hers.

“Now,” he told her, “it’s very important to hold this exact position. It will give you the balance you need to steady this rifle.” He turned and used the spotter scope one more time. She’d already dialed in, but he was double-checking. The wind was inconstant. A gust blew across the area. If she’d fired at that moment, she would have miss the target. Gabe stood beside her, talking in a low voice, giving her direction, settling her nerves.

“Now take two or three breaths. Watch the barrel move as you do. First one, find your still point and then watch where that barrel rests at that time. Then take another breath, watch the barrel move slightly upward. Make sure you have that barrel pointed at the red circle through your iron sights as you come down on the exhale. See where it rests at the still point. If the barrel is slightly off, keep breathing, keep finding your still point until you know that barrel is exactly where you want it on the red center. Then fire.”

His words resonated. Thanks to her hunting background, Bay could focus. It was easy to listen to Gabe, fall into his quiet, low tones as he guided her, reinforced her.

It took three breaths, but as Bay reached the still point the third time, she squeezed the trigger. The Win Mag jerked hard against her shoulder. Bay was prepared for it, her slightly bent knees and legs absorbing the powerful jolt.

Gabe watched the vapor trail of the bullet. It struck just inside the red center. He gave a shout of victory, turning and slapping her on the shoulder. Bay took off her sunglasses, stared openmouthed at the target, and then up at him, feeling profound disbelief. He laughed deeply and shook his head, as if he didn’t believe it himself.

Clapping and yelling broke out sporadically among the SEAL team. The officers looked at one another, amazement written on their faces. Chief Hampton stood there, grinning like a feral wolf, rubbing his hands together. No doubt about it, he’d just discovered another sniper for his platoon.

“Bull’s-eye. You made it, Doc. Damn good shooting!” Gabe placed his hand on her head and patted her on the cap. “Damn good!”

Bay couldn’t believe she’d hit within the target! Even better was Gabe’s happy, deep, rolling laughter. It made her feel good. Equally important, Bay had proven her shooting ability to the platoon. Now they realized she was another gun in the fight. She might not know patrol tactics, but Gabe would teach her and she’d become an asset to them.

Glancing behind her, she saw the officers and chief applauding. Was it relief she saw in their faces? Bay thought so. She was incredibly grateful that the contest was over.

Hammer cursed, slammed the toe of his boot into the dirt, raising a cloud of dust. He glared over at her.

“You just got lucky, Thorn. That’s all.”

Gabe took the rifle from her, safed it and rested the barrel down toward the ground. “Oh, come on, Hammer, at least be a good sport,” he cajoled, grinning. He stepped over to where Hammer and his entourage stood, holding out his hand. “You owe Doc money.”

Oz pulled out a wad of cash from his left cammie pocket and bitterly slapped it into Gabe’s palm.

Bay left Gabe’s side and walked over to Hammer. She offered her hand to him. “That was mighty fine shooting, Hammer. You’re right, I just plumb got lucky. You’re a better shooter than I’ll ever be.”

Hammer stared at her and then at her hand. Whether he wanted to or not, he reached out, grabbed her hand and shook it.

“This settles nothing,” he growled softly. “So you can shoot at targets. Big deal. Let’s wait and see how you do in the middle of a firefight.” He turned and walked away, the Win Mag thrown over his shoulder.

CHAPTER FOUR

“CHIEF,” HAMMER CALLED, “can we talk to you for a minute. In private?”

Chief Doug Hampton was just coming in at 0700 to his office when four of his SEALs were waiting for him. “Let’s go inside,” he said, opening the door and gesturing toward the planning room.

Just then Gabe arrived at their HQ. He halted just inside the entrance and watched as the Chief sat down on the stool. Four SEALs stood nearby. His intuition told him something was up. Hammer lifted his head and looked over at him.

“You might as well be in on this, too,” Hammer said to Gabe. “Come and join us.”

Gabe nodded and stood near the Chief.

“What’s on your mind?” Hampton asked Hammer.

“That woman. We’ve talked between ourselves last night, and we don’t want her in our platoon.”

Hampton pursed his lips and nodded. “I see. Your reasons?”

“She’s not a SEAL,” Hammer growled, exasperated by the obvious.

“So?” Hampton murmured.

“So she’s not trained, dammit! She doesn’t know our tactics, our formations, if we get attacked. Hell, what are we supposed to do if we have to fast-rope out of a helo? She’s not trained for that. Do we have to carry her and make ourselves targets in doing so?”

Gabe dragged in a slow, deep breath. There was genuine concern on the four men’s faces. Hammer was heading up the group, but he had had similar thoughts himself. Bay wasn’t trained in many of the situations where they knew what to do, but she didn’t. And in a firefight, there wasn’t time to teach; it was a matter of survival. He kept his mouth shut as Hammer paced the room from one side to the other. Concern and frustration were etched on everyone’s face.

Hampton rubbed his hands on the thighs of his cammies. “Your points are well taken,” he said. “It’s a good argument except for one thing, Rettig.” Pierce Rettig was the enlisted SEAL’s real name and Hampton used it when things got serious.

All four SEALs had the chief’s undivided attention.

“What’s that?” Hammer demanded testily, jerking to a halt.

“We routinely have Navy photographers, videographers, CTT boys from the Air Force who call in the heavies and close air support for us, FBI dudes, linguists or cryptologists who are assigned to go out with us,” Hampton said. “They aren’t trained SEALs, either, but we need them on certain types of patrols or direct action or recon missions. You’ve never objected to any of them coming along. So why now? Why her?” He opened his hands, his voice remaining reasonable.

Hammer cursed. He glared at the other three SEALs and then jerked his gaze back to the chief. “You’re backing her because she did sniper-quality shooting yesterday afternoon.”

Hampton smiled a little and held up his hand. “Let’s stay on the point, Rettig. You’re pissed because she’s a woman and not a man. You’ve never bitched about any guy who was assigned to your platoon before this, and you’ve been out on plenty of patrols and missions with non-SEAL assets.”

“Bullshit!”

“It sure is,” Hampton said quietly, holding the SEAL’s angry glare.

“Then I want to talk to the LT about it,” Hammer growled. “I’m not done with this, Chief. And I don’t like that you’re not handling it. That’s your job.”

“I did my job, Rettig. You just don’t like my answer or my solution.” Hampton’s voice dropped. “This is bigger than you, me or the LT. This woman is highly trained in many areas, and none of us can say we don’t want her and discharge her from this squad just because of gender prejudice.”

“That’s a bunch of crap,” Hammer snarled, walking back and forth in front of the chief, his thickset shoulders bunched with tension. “I don’t care what the Pentagon cooked up.” Hammer stopped and jabbed an index finger at the door. “That woman is trouble. And I guarantee,” he grated, breathing hard, “she is gonna get one or more of us killed because she’s not a SEAL!”

Hampton straightened a little, holding the angry SEAL’s gaze. “And what if I told you, Rettig, that there have been other women in other SEAL teams before this and that hasn’t happened? That they’ve worked very effectively in those teams without causing casualties? Matter of fact, they’ve saved men’s lives. And some of the women have lost their lives, as well, but not because of ineptitude. They’re in firefights all the time right along with the men.”

Shaking his head like a bull getting ready to charge, Hammer rasped, “I don’t believe you.”

The other three SEALs eyebrows went up collectively on Hammer’s challenging grate. It was one thing to be pissed off, but you didn’t call your chief a liar to his face. The three of them exchanged uneasy glances with one another.

Doug Hampton’s face turned hard. Hammer was pushing his weight around. If he’d been LPO, he’d have taken him out back and pounded some sense into his head. But Hampton was the man in charge of the entire platoon and wielded plenty of power. The buck stopped with him. Gabe wondered how Doug was going to handle Hammer, directly challenging his authority, his face beet red.

“Rettig,” Hampton said, standing up, “it’s time you and me had a little chat outside.”

Hammer scowled, no doubt because his superior was six feet three inches tall, thirty-five years old and in top shape. He had five deployments under his belt and knew more about fighting in Afghanistan than just about anyone. Hammer turned and looked at his three friends to see if they wanted to join him. They all backed off, their hands held up, a sign that Hammer was on his own.

Wiping his mouth, Hammer growled, “And if I don’t?”

Hampton shrugged nonchalantly. “Then I’ll beat the crap out of you right here in front of them. Your call, Rettig, because you’ve outlived your welcome with me.”

“Aw, dammit, Chief!” Hammer spun around and huffed and puffed around the room. He kept giving the chief furtive looks, trying to figure out what to do. How to back down gracefully and not come to blows.

Hampton was slowly rolling up the sleeves on his cammies to just below his elbows. “Ready?”

Gabe hid a smile. Doug Hampton could be a damn intimidating and dazzling manager with a recalcitrant SEAL when he had to be. Gabe was glad he’d had four deployments with Hampton to know he was manipulating the hell out of red-faced Hammer.

“Look,” Hammer said, holding up his hand, “I’m not about to fight you, Chief.”

“Well, then,” Hampton said in his reasonable tone, “you’re just going to have to make an attitude change, Rettig.” His voice hardened as he strode up to the SEAL and got into his face. “Because,” Hampton ground out, “you’re going to work as a team. That’s what SEALs are all about. You will—” he jabbed his index finger into Hammer’s chest “—make every effort to get along with Doc. And I won’t say this again, because next time...if there is a next time...I’ll kick your ass. Got it?”

“Yes, Chief,” Hammer breathed, his voice deflated, “I got it.”

“Good,” Hampton murmured, easing away from him. He stepped back and began to slowly unroll a cuff. “I don’t know why you don’t think she can’t fast-rope.”

Hammer gave him a shocked, quizzical look.

“As a matter of fact, I think you should get to know her a bit more. Now, I agree, Doc is a very unassuming, quiet woman who wouldn’t think of bragging on herself in any way, shape or form. She acts like a SEAL. Humble. Never talks about herself or what she’s been trained to do.” Doug rolled down the other cuff. “I read her personnel file, Rettig.” Hampton lifted his chin and stared hard at the SEAL. “She learned fast-roping at Camp Pendleton. The women who went through that one-year immersion combat course learned a lot of black op methods, including kill box routines and CQD, close quarters defense training. Yeah, maybe she’s a little rusty on fast-roping, but she’s got her special gloves, she’s got the strength and I know Gabe will refresh her if that’s what your team has to do on a particular mission.”

Hammer scowled. “You’ve got to be kidding me? She can fast-rope?”

Hampton glared at the SEAL. “I wouldn’t kid you, Rettig. Doc doesn’t know our tactics and patrols, but she’s a quick study. If I were you, I’d be thrilled pink she was assigned to us. Has it been lost on you that if your sorry ass gets pumped full of lead out there, she’s the one who’s going to try and save your sorry, prejudicial ass? And she’s a linguist. Won’t it be nice that you can get her to talk to the local farmers in these villages? And that she’ll not only understand what they’re saying, but give us accurate translation? You know how bad Afghan terps are? I find it refreshing she’s here and can translate for us. Furthermore—” Hampton slowly pulled the Velcro closed around each cuff around his thick wrists “—the LT and I are jumping up and down for joy she’s been assigned to us. Right now there are no SEALs available to fill our open slot. We’re damn lucky to have gotten her or we would be operating a man short, down a sniper, and I damn well don’t want to go there. Do you?”

Hammer stood quiet and tense, disbelief written all over his face. He didn’t move. “No, Chief.”

“Well,” Hampton said, sadness in his voice, “we lost Billy three days ago. Yesterday, Doc showed us she can hit the broad side of a barn. Frankly, I’m ordering Gabe to get her up to speed on sniper tactics as fast as he can because, dammit, she can consistently hit a target. And there are no more snipers we can get our hands on anywhere in the SEAL community right now. I can’t even get a straphanger. There just aren’t enough of them graduating through SEAL sniper school. It’s a rough course and most are washed out in the process. So we are looking at her as our backup sniper. I haven’t told her that yet, but the LT wants it done pronto. She’s a gun in this fight, Rettig. And you should be damn relieved about that.”