Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 04] Read Free Page B

a girl? Are you, Viking?”
    Ensign Torolf Magnusson, the object of that tirade, looked up at his instructor, Master Chief Petty Officer Ian MacLean, and wondered idly if that bulging vein in his tormentor’s forehead might just blow. One could only hope.
    “Haul ass, boy,” the Master Chief continued to yell. “Remember, winners never quit. Are you ready to quit? We haven’t had a quitter today. Yet. You ready to give it up, loser? Huh? I’d love to have
you
ring the bell.”
    Oh, shit! Here we go again. Like I would ever quit overa dickhead like you. Like I can’t handle a measly spill into a mud pit. You’re not going to break me. I survived Hell Week. I can survive you.
Torolf, one of the eight members of Team Five in SEAL Class 500, crawled out of the ditch where he had fallen during the obstacle course known in BUD/S training as the Devil’s Spawn. BUD/S was the acronym for the SEAL training program Basic Underwater Demolition/Seals. Training was done here in Coronado at the Naval Special Warfare Center. Sometimes, like today, Torolf wondered why it had always been his dream to be here.
    He spat a wad of crud out of his mouth, wiped the mud out of his eyes with the back of his dirty hand, then levered himself up and out by muscle-strained arms. Standing to attention, he said, “Yes, Master Chief, sir.”
    Master Chief MacLean stood glaring at him through dark Matrix sunglasses, hands on hips. On his shirt shone the coveted trident pin that all SEAL wannabees aimed for. Better known as the Budweiser, the trident pin, featuring an eagle grasping Neptune’s pitchfork in one claw and a weapon in the other, was granted only to men who had gained SEAL status.
    Without having the order repeated, Torolf dropped to the ground to do fifty push-ups, on top of the five hundred he’d already done that day. And it was barely oh-nine-hundred on a bright California summer morning.
    His seven teammates, equally wet, dirty, and bone-tired, stared with seeming solemnity at him as he completed his “punishment.” None of them cracked as much as a grin, knowing full well that they could be next.
    Seaman Justin LeBlanc, that crazy Cajun from Loo-zee-anna, did wink at him, though … a brief flutter that could be interpreted as a blink if noticed by the chief or any of the three other instructors in attendance. Cage was his swim buddy. In SEALs, swim buddies could never be more than six feet apart.
    Petty Officer Second Class Sylvester “Sly” Simms, a big black dude from Harlem who used to model men’s tighty whities for
Esquire
, gave the chief a surreptitious finger behind his back.
    Petty Officer First Class Travis “Flash” Gordon crossed his eyes, as if a bug had suddenly crash-dived on his nose.
    Seaman Frank Uxley, nicknamed F.U. for obvious reasons, didn’t blink or gesture; he’d been doing duck squats all morning for failure to lift his IBL (Inflatable Boat, Large) fast enough in a predawn surf op. No way was he chancing a repeat of those hamstring-punishing exercises.
    Lieutenant (jg) Jacob Alvarez Mendozo—JAM—moved his lips slightly; he was probably praying, being an ex-Jesuit priest. JAM always claimed he had God on his shoulder, while all Torolf had was that puny-assed Thor.
    “You boys need a little loosening up before breakfast,” the Master Chief said. “What say we go for a short run … say ten miles?”
    What a comedian!
    Torolf knew that ten miles meant it would probably be fifteen … maybe more. It would be an uncomfortable run in heavy boondockers, with sand between their toes and in every bodily orifice from their early-morning beach roll-arounds. They were in full ruck today, which meant BDUs and carryingabout seventy-five pounds of military field gear. At least they weren’t carrying their IBLs on their heads while they ran, which was the norm.
    Torolf refused to show the Marquis de Master Chief his displeasure. There had been a contest of wills going on between him and the