Whatever Gods May Be Part 7

A step behind Rhys, Jamie hadn't yet achieved the position of attention because the ground now rolled like the deck of a s.h.i.+p in heavy seas. The scene before her started to recede, which annoyed her. She really wanted to see this part.

* 61 *

In what seemed to Jamie like slow motion, Rhys waved to the back of the truck. "Hey, Moss, all three." Moss tossed out a sixty-pound black box. "Squad One," he said without emotion. "Squad Two," he said as the second box thudded into the dirt. The third box landed at the chief instructor's feet, drawing a whistle from the man. "Squad Three."

Several seconds pa.s.sed. No one made a sound. Jamie had to blink a few times to keep her vision from going blurry.

Rhys cleared her throat again. "Marine Scout/Sniper Cla.s.s Two-Eight-Zero-One has completed its Combat Opponent Confidence Exercise mission, Gunnery Sergeant."

A boisterous cheer erupted from the rest of the cla.s.s, now bunched behind the chief instructor, who signaled for quiet. "Escape?" he said.

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant," said Rhys. "Also-" She signaled to Moss again, who jumped out of the truck and reached back in to tug at an object clearly heavier than sixty pounds. With one ma.s.sive hand, Moss pulled out a hogtied Pirate and carried him about five feet to the chief instructor.

As Moss let the man go, Rhys finished. "We've captured an enemy combatant."

The Pirate hit the dirt belly-first and grunted, inspiring another long, elated roar from Cla.s.s 2801. Moss dropped cross-legged to the ground, a serene smile on his handsome face as his eyes gradually closed. And then he was gone, engulfed in blackness. Everything was gone, except for Rhys's voice.

"Drama queen," said Rhys, sounding to Jamie like she had moved to the far end of a long tunnel. And then she was gone, too.

* 62 *

Chapter seven.

proMise How'd you do it?"

Oh G.o.d, please no. How could the Pirates have gotten her back? Had the lockpick, the escape, all of it, been a dream?

Jamie's eyes flailed open to find a low-lit room and high-tech guardrails rising up on either side of her. Hospital. The relief was intoxicating. Really is over. Her eyes closed and she tried to relax into the comfort of a pillow behind her pounding head.

Yet every cell in her body shrilled. Oh jeezus, I saw an IV line...

Pharma. It burned cold where the needle violated her left hand and it roiled up her arm in a ruthless plunder of her strength, her reason, her will. What kind of s.h.i.+t are they pouring into me?

"Shush." Rhys's voice, almost whispering. "Gwynmorgan's still out."

"Okay, okay."

Fontana? But Jamie's eyes wouldn't open again. She was dizzy, she was sinking. She wanted to run, but her body didn't work, and in her head all the thoughts and images that ever formed there brawled chaotically with each other.

"So come on, Rhys. How'd you do it?" Fontana repeated.

"Gwynmorgan can pick locks."

"No s.h.i.+t."

No s.h.i.+t no s.h.i.+t no s.h.i.+t ricocheted across Jamie's brain until it coalesced into something she could hang on to. Gotta get that IV line out.

"I have a question for you," said Rhys. "Why didn't the Pirates release us with the rest of the cla.s.s?"

* 63 *

"Answer depends on who's talking. Latest version seems to be that you guys offered what they're calling 'a valuable training opportunity.'" Pause. "But-"

"But what?"

Jamie's hands had been crawling toward each other. Now her right hand grabbed for the needle in her left. Pull it! When she did, the effect was immediate. Everything hurt more, everything became clearer, all the world calmed down.

"Well, by some remarkable coincidence, you were the only ones who paint-blanked any of their guys. Gwynmorgan got two, so did Moss. You and Arnoldt each nailed one."

"f.u.c.k!" Rhys's voice pitched low and venomous.

"Word is they crossed way over the line. Messed with Moss and especially Gwynmorgan really bad. Worse than you and Arnoldt."

"f.u.c.king a.s.safra.s.s," Rhys said. "That explains a few things." Jamie liked the way Rhys sounded. Protective, maybe even a little possessive.

"Scuttleb.u.t.t's saying Karpinsky wilted double-time," said Fontana.

"Word is he told them right off it was Gwynmorgan who gave the alert.

Told them she'd been out there for a while, and right after Moss hooked up with her the two of them must've seen something." How'd you do it? So that's what they meant. Jamie shuddered against the recollection, against the escalating pain. But at least the world made sense.

"And here I was worrying we might've gotten a little too stungun-happy," grumbled Rhys.

Fontana snorted. "So, ready for the good news?"

"There's good news?" Rhys's tone dripped sarcasm.

"Karpinsky's been dropped on request. And the whole Reconnaissance Field Interrogation Training Program is under formal investigation-what they do, how they do it. Officers scrambling for cover, NCOs transferred. It's one big f.u.c.king scandalous jackup."

"And n.o.body wants to fry our a.s.ses?"

"h.e.l.l no, Rhys." Fontana chuckled. "All four of you are in the Scout/Sniper Finish with bells on. You guys've given our bra.s.s one whomping gloat."

v * 64 *

"G.o.d, woman, you're soaked. Must've been quite the downpour," said Rhys when Jamie entered their room. Short hair wet and spiky from her shower, only a towel wrapped low around her waist, magnificent b.r.e.a.s.t.s glistening, Rhys stared. "The price of going last, huh?" Jamie decided the best reply would be a minimal shrug, offered as she peeled her gaze off Rhys to lay her E112 sniper rifle in its designated position in the cabinet next to the door. She'd managed to avoid the thrall of those b.r.e.a.s.t.s and look right into Rhys's eyes. Even so, she couldn't figure out if Rhys knew yet.

Now she had two reasons to keep her back to Rhys: The temptation of Rhys's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and she didn't want Rhys to ask about her day. Jamie started removing sodden gear and tried to ignore the trill of arousal set off by even this sidelong glimpse of Rhys unadorned. "The op order's been revised," she said to the wall. "I'm teamed with Moss next. You got Arnoldt."

"Yeah, I know," Rhys lamented. "Wish me luck." Scout/Sniper Cla.s.s 2801-now twenty-six strong-had moved to dormitory-style barracks, two to a room. So for Jamie, fourteen-hour days were punctuated by vertiginous nights in the bunk right below Martina Rhys's. Night after night, she fell asleep imagining the galvanic power of Rhys's touch, dreamed of Rhys wrapped around her, only to wake pulsing and wet and impoverished.

At least the days offered no opportunities for such inventions; the members of Cla.s.s 2801 were far too busy.

Usually the pigs, as the instructors labeled all scout/sniper trainees, operated in teams of two and four, alternating as spotter and sniper. But on this day near the end of the first phase of their training, they'd each worked alone on very long distance targets in an evolution called the Known Distance Solitary Shoot. Rhys had gone second out of twenty-six and finished up hitting the black four out of five times at 1500 meters-a fine performance that Jamie, the last shooter of the day, heard about well before she got to the 1500-meter line.

Yet for all the compet.i.tiveness of Scout/Sniper School, Jamie didn't think about Rhys's shot as something to beat. Getting into the zone, into that immaculate bubble with an E112 sniper rifle served as its own reward.

One of the instructors called the electronic-firing E112 a "masterpiece" and Jamie couldn't disagree. It combined accuracy, * 65 *

range, durability, quick-swap barrels, and light weight with a pulsed nano-laser calc array in its smartscope.

"This weapon," the instructor said as he cradled an E112 and held up a sleek new-generation .416-caliber bullet between thumb and forefinger, "is designed to put ten of these within five inches of each other at a thousand meters. Any pig who can't do that with this baby does not belong here."

Jamie melded with her E112; together they hunted their target.

The weapon relieved a snipe of all that calculating, of course, thanks to the smartscope-but, as Jamie was learning, this had always been the easy part anyway. The hard part involved stillness.

For Jamie, shooting started with the calm of that immaculate bubble, which so many other recruits at Parris Island never quite found.

It enveloped her while she took aim, absorbed the calculation readouts, visualized the bullet's trajectory. She sensed a profound secret she could almost comprehend when the calm deepened into a still point between her last exhalation and her next inhalation-a still point that proclaimed its transcendent Now and nothing moved, nothing in all the world but her one finger separate from the rest of her making its one minimal flick. Then came the clap of sound, the rifle b.u.t.t recoiling its satisfaction into her shoulder as she watched the wedge-shaped trace of the bullet finish its fated journey and slam down the target amidst a distant burst of dust.

Everyone else had finished the Known Distance Solitary Shoot by the time Jamie faced the target 1500 meters away, so only the instructors saw her hit black five out of five at that distance, then again at 1800 meters, and, finally, at 2100 meters. More than two kilometers.

Certainly no record, but sure as h.e.l.l the best she'd ever shot.

Even so, Jamie didn't want to talk with Rhys about that, didn't want to see the squinty resentment that Rhys wouldn't be able to mask.

Better to talk about tomorrow.

And why not? The marksmans.h.i.+p fundamentals and observation exercises of Phase One paled next to the upcoming tests of their abilities in stalking and unknown distance shooting. Tomorrow began the make-or-break part of Scout/Sniper School. Long slogs through swamp and thicket, fistfights with gargantuan insects, sleepless nights. Crawling through underbrush carefully enough not to rouse birds or crickets.

* 66 *

Hunkering motionless for hours disguised as a thicket. Lying dormant for days at a time in your own urine waiting to engage a target.

So say something, dammit. But saying something would require turning around, and maybe Rhys had taken off that towel...

Jamie found Rhys's lack of self-consciousness glorious-and terrifying. Every time Rhys dressed or undressed in front of her, she struggled not to gawk. Rhys seemed oblivious when, always a nanosecond late, Jamie looked away to carefully peruse the floor, to hope the flush of embarra.s.sment wouldn't creep above her neck to flame across her cheeks.

Then sometimes Rhys would slide by too close, too slow in the tight s.p.a.ce. And Jamie's breath would catch and her body would cease all movement, as if immobility would keep the hum of her need from exciting the molecules of air around her like a tuning fork.

This time, though, Rhys didn't budge. "Orders got changed because of Fontana," Rhys said. "Scratched his cornea on a bush during the burn-through yesterday. Had to drop, so I end up with Arnoldt." Jamie turned around. Christ, Rhys, how the h.e.l.l do you find out about stuff so d.a.m.n fast? "Fontana's out?" she managed to say. "Jeez, that's s.h.i.+t luck." She meant to say more, but she'd found Rhys staring at her and couldn't pull in a full breath because her gut had seized up.

"C'mon, Gwynmorgan, let me help you get that hydration pack off your back." Rhys stood now in front of the gear cabinets. They were inches apart; despite the distracting proximity of Rhys's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Jamie noticed that Rhys's abdominals, too, had tensed.

Jamie turned away again, exhaling, swallowing against the cramp in her throat while Rhys pulled a strap over one shoulder. Rhys's fingers lingered. Did they linger on purpose? Could the heat on her neck be Rhys's breath, or just her own hysterical imagination?

A hint of honeysuckle-Marty Rhys's scent-filled Jamie's nostrils and the heat rose to caress her face. Which was probably why she never registered the clumsy clomping in the hall outside getting louder, closer-not until the door burst open and Arnoldt blurted, "Yo, girls, it's almost chowti-"

Jamie froze, but Rhys whirled to face him. "For chrissake, Arnie," she barked, "I'm menstruating here! How about knocking first?" Mouth agape, Arnoldt stumbled backward out of the room, * 67 *

slamming the door as he retreated. Jamie couldn't move, couldn't look at Rhys. What did he see? Was there something to see?

After a long pause, Arnoldt's subdued voice came tentatively from the other side of the door. "You guys ready to get chow? It's, uh, eighteen minutes and counting. Beef stew tonight, y'know! And mashed potatoes!"

The women glanced at each other and tried not to giggle. Whenever possible, Arnoldt was first in the chow line. And Arnoldt's favorite chow was beef stew.

"I need to wipe down my weapon, Arnie," Jamie called to him.

"And I gotta shower. How about saving us a couple slots? We'll be there in twenty."

"Sweet! Me and Moss'll head over now." And he galumphed down the hall.

"Jeezus, Rhys, you have a real gift." Jamie shook her head, let the grin take her face before she dipped her head. "I bow before the master.

I think maybe you finally got us a bit of- What?" Rhys glared at Jamie. "Heard about your twenty-one hundred meters."

f.u.c.king A. "Marty, I-"

"How the h.e.l.l did you do that?" Dark eyes blazing, Rhys took the step toward Jamie that brought their bodies together, and then she claimed Jamie's mouth.

Oh. My. G.o.d. She's. Kissing. Me. Every nerve ending in Jamie's body fired at once and she plunged into the sweet lilt of Rhys's breath, the opulence of Rhys's lips, Rhys's tongue. She heard a moan-her moan, pulled out of her by the current pulsing between them. Her jittery hands clasped Rhys's hips. Her c.l.i.t punched double flips and triple flips that soared into her belly, into her chest as Rhys's tongue a.s.serted, then lured, then caressed.

"Gotta stop," Rhys murmured too soon.

"R-Raincheck..."

"Promise?"

"Oh yeah, Marty, I sure as h.e.l.l do. Cross my heart." v Everything was squared away at last-weapons, gear, and * 68 *

uniforms cleaned and stowed, studying done, quarters inspection-ready. The barracks building had gone quiet and dark. And the gibes rippling through the chow line had made it clear that on this night, on any night henceforth, n.o.body would be barging in without knocking first.

Judging by Rhys's second-thoughts glance during chow, Jamie knew she should be having second thoughts, too. Straight, gay, frontside, backside, the Corps had accepted intimacy between marines-but with two notable, old-line exceptions more rigorously enforced than ever after queers became legal and c.u.n.ts got the right to qualify for combat units: No fraternizing between officers and enlisted personnel, and no s.e.x between marines in the same unit. Both were considered detrimental to unit cohesion and order, and all culprits faced inevitable reprimand, demotion, and rea.s.signment.

I shouldn't do anything, Jamie decided as she stripped down to the Marine-issue coyote-brown tank top and mid-thigh briefs she always slept in. But she stretched herself out on her bunk, not under the blanket, and battled to remain still. The kiss had done that. The kiss had made her incapable of not blatantly staring while Rhys's sleek form emerged out of the uniform's woodland camouflage. In Rhys, Jamie beheld everything she imagined a woman should be, everything she was not.

Rhys had a kind of blond abundance. There was something sumptuous about her face, an exuberance in those unlikely brown eyes, a ripeness that showed her to be truly whole, from the inside out. When at last she tapped off the ceiling light, a moonbeam angled through the room, casting new shadows across the resplendent curves beneath her underwear.

From the lower bunk, Jamie watched, waited. Would Rhys decide that sometimes a kiss is just a kiss, promises be d.a.m.ned?

Like she was ready to climb into the upper rack, Rhys planted a foot on the bunk frame, then looked down. "Ever done this before?"

"No," said Jamie, who had lost the fight for stillness. Rhys was nearly three years older; now the gap felt cavernous.

Rhys shook her head and softly repeated it. "No."

"I've wanted to, though." Jamie should've stopped there, right there. Not another word. Not another twitch. She had rules about this.

About caring too much, needing too much. Showing too much. Let * 69 *