Page 9 of Down and Dirty

MacLean nodded. “Let’s face it. There’s no way a woman, no matter how strong, would be able to withstand a real Hell Week. For example, I think we’ll pass on log PT. Those telephone pole buggers weigh three to four hundred pounds each.”

“So do IBSs.” Inflatable Boats, Small, were heavy rubber boats, an integral part of BUD/S training. “You gonna eliminate those, too?”

He shook his head. “No, we’re gonna give them a try. Somehow they seem more manageable. I don’t know. We’re playing by ear… or muscle. But don’t worry, we’ll push them to their limits. They’ll have to work harder than they ever have in their lives to survive… till they can kick ass and take names like any special forces unit.”

“And afterward?”

“Once trained, they’ll be incorporated into the new U.S. Liberty Teams.”

Zach frowned. “That antiterrorist squad? I heard about it starting up a year or so ago, then nothing.”

“It’s still in the works. Just ran into a few snags, which could be expected when you try to combine SEALs, Green Berets, Army Special Forces, and every other Rambo-like idiot warrior group in the world, not to mention, now, WEALS.”

“I can see dozens of complications with this WEALS program. Sex, as in instructors and officers hitting on the women. Serious distractions, like breasts bobbing all over the place. Female periods. PMS, for chrissake!”

“That’s not the half of it. In pretraining last week, we were doing duck squats when one of the women accidentally farted. F.U. and one of the other instructors laughed. She burst out bawling with embarrassment and ended up ringing out.”

Any SEAL trainee, or WEALS trainee for that matter, could DOR, drop on request, at any time. All they had to do was walk to the northeast corner of the grinder where there was a ship’s bell, place their personalized helmets on the ground, and ring the bell three times. In fact, there was a 40 percent dropout rate during the first phase of BUD/S. He had no idea how high it would be for WEALS, which had started with ninety-five women.

“And there’s more. The Navy has appointed a female ombudsman, Captain Lenore Feldman, to handle complaints from the WEALS trainees. Think anal with a capital A. Her big thing is memos.” The commander picked up a memo as if it were something repugnant. “Look at this,” he added, shoving a pink slip his way.

MEMO

From: Captain Lenore Feldman

To: Commander Ian MacLean

Subject: WEALS

PMS is a legitimate medical condition according to Code 722, Article 7.

Zach shook his head at the absurdity. “I can only imagine the scenario: ‘Please, Instructor Floyd, sir, can I be excused from PT today? I’m in a bad mood.’”

“Here’s another one. Can you believe it?”

MEMO

From: Captain Lenore Feldman

To: Commander Ian MacLean

Subject: WEALS

Excessive hollering in some circumstances can be considered harassment. No nexus, but open to interpretation, case-by-case basis.

“You know, SEALs are not the most politically correct beings on the planet. Next they’ll be giving us sensitivity training. Find our inner female, or some such crap. This is going to be a nightmare,” Zach concluded.

“More like a field of land mines. We’ll have to be careful where we step, but I’ll be damned if I’ll change special forces training just to accommodate these women. If they want to join the game, they’re gonna have to play by our rules. Anyhow, we’ll have a briefing later this afternoon. All SEALs, SEAL trainees, and any testosterone-oozing body within a mile radius of the compound will know by tomorrow what they can or cannot do.”

Including no laughing at farts. Unbelievable! Zach nodded. “So this is going to be my punishment.”

“It’ll be fun.”

Zach was too appalled to say anything but, “Hoo-yah!”

A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do…

Britta figured that she must have landed on her head when she fell over the cliff, knocking her unconscious. Or was she dead? Could this be the famed Other World? If so, its glory had been vastly exaggerated, in her opinion. There was not a gold sword or one-eyed god in sight.