Page 10 of Keeping a Warrior

But instead of violence, he was greeted with apathy and glum faces.

“What’s up?” he asked cautiously. “The training trip been canceled?”

Someone grunted. “Nah, man. Worse.”

Worse? This training trip was an important component of their deployment workup. Without it, they wouldn’t get their certification to go downrange. What could be worse than it being canceled?

Nobody would elaborate, so Rhys sighed and went to the small fridge to grab a Rip-It energy drink. He propped his butt against the counter as he sipped it, studying them and waiting them out. It was a motley group currently sprawled about on the ragged chairs and couches, these men of SEAL Team Three, Task Unit Rebel, Delta platoon.

There was a former lawyer, two former cops, a couple guys not long out of high school—just a bunch of dudes from varying backgrounds with differing beliefs and outlooks, all of whom had been forged in the fires of BUD/S to come together as one cohesive unit.

Then there was Rhys. A team augmentee, or enabler, he was Air Force special ops—or Chair Force, as Smudge liked to rib—not Navy. As a pararescueman, his specialty was tactical medicine, his duty to handle any battlefield casualties, which would allow the more highly trained SEALs to keep their guns in the fight.

Since team guys always wanted to keep the “Doc” happy, he hadn’t been subjected to a whole lot of hazing, which he sort of regretted. Although brutal at times, new guy hazing was a time-honored and traditional form of team building, and Rhys couldn’t help but feel a sense of disconnect from the tight-knit camaraderie the rest of the guys enjoyed.

His little tantrum over Lani hadn’t helped, either.

Rhys crumpled the Rip-It can in his fist and tossed it into the recycling bin, wishing the guys would tell him what was going on.

Finally Smudge grunted, “Today marks the end of the world as we know it, boys.”

Answering grunts from around the room, but still no one said anything. Rhys grit his teeth, his patience with the cryptic looks and statements at an end.

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” he snapped. “Now.”

Even that gauntlet tossed into the middle of a room full of alpha males didn’t get a response. At last Mullet—a redneck from Kentucky, so nicknamed because of his love for ’80s music—squinted in his direction.

“Just found out we’re gettin’ a female,” he growled in his thick Southern drawl.

Rhys stared at him, at a total loss. “What? What do you mean?”

“A female enabler.”

Rhys still couldn’t figure out what the problem was. There were plenty of women attached to the SEAL teams in support roles, serving as cryptotechs or in admin. They deployed with the teams, served with them. Maybe they weren’t assaulters or had boots on the ground during missions, but women were an integral and much-needed part of any task unit.

“And...?”

Mullet’s squint turned into a glare, and Rhys raised his hands. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. There are women everywhere in this building. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is she’s gonna be assaulting with us, numbnuts. She’s not in admin.”

An assaulter? Rhys was totally bewildered. Although ground combat units, including special operations, had officially opened to women, none had made it through the SEAL training pipeline, as far as he knew. Not yet.

The only woman he’d ever known of enabling a direct-action mission had been—

It hit him. “A CST? You’re getting an Army CST?” Nods around the room, and Rhys laughed in relief. “Guys, that’s a good thing. I worked with a CST on my first deployment as a PJ, which was what, four years ago? She was amazing, managed to gather intel about a cave complex that ended up shutting down a major explosives corridor.”

A few of the guys perked up at that. “You worked with a CST? Was she squared away?”

“Totally,” Rhys assured them. “Professional, fit. She had no problem keeping up with us on patrol.”

He’d never forget how she’d carried that injured interpreter on her back. The sheer determination on her face, the guts...

“Yeah?” Mullet crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Well, this one we’re getting is, uh, problematic.”

“In what way?”

Before anyone could answer, the door opened to admit Lieutenant Bradley. “Gentlemen.”