Breaking Point - Lindsay McKenna

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of the Pentagon.”

      Groaning, Gabe shook his head. “I don’t mind mentoring, Doug, but damn, a weekly report? Can’t you cut me some slack?”

      Hampton smiled evenly. “No can do. It’s all yours, thank God. But I am going to invite myself along every once in a while on the next few missions to make sure Hammer and those other three fall into line. I won’t have him splitting the team.”

      “I don’t know what Hammer will do,” Gabe said. “One thing for sure, if he tries anything stupid out there with her, he’ll answer to me. And I won’t be nice and invite him outside to beat the hell out of him. I’ll take him on the instant it happens.”

      Raising one eyebrow, Hampton nodded. “Good. She’s to be treated like any newbie. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t care if they razz or tease her, but anything beyond that—”

      “I have her six, Doug. Don’t worry about it.” Six was a term used by the military when an enemy plane flew up behind an American pilot’s plane and was getting ready to shoot it down. It meant Gabe would protect Bay, should it come down to that.

      Hampton gripped his shoulder. “You’re in the breech, but I wouldn’t have any other SEAL in that sorry position. Can you go help the guys get that tent fixed up for her today?”

      Gabe eased off the stool, his M-4 in a sling across his chest. “No problem.”

      “You going to sit her down and show her patrol tactics and formations?”

      “First thing on my list,” Gabe promised. “After evening chow.”

      As Gabe stepped outside in the heat of the afternoon, he waffled. Should he go find Doc? Invite her to the chow hall? Part of him wanted to, but another part didn’t. Still, he was her mentor and that had him walking down the dusty street between the many tents to go find her. Even after his conversation with the chief, Gabe felt nagging worry about the confrontation with Hammer. He sincerely hoped the SEAL would fall into line. Doc didn’t deserve his misguided prejudice.

      So far, Doc had shown all of them she could shoot. That, in and of itself, was a phenomenal shock. A good one, and Gabe grinned to himself, chuckling over yesterday’s competition. Hill people might appear to be plain and unassuming, but Gabe had learned early on they were smart and possessed backwoods common sense that would dazzle everyone.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      BAY COULD HARDLY contain her excitement as the Chinook helicopter landed at Bagram Air Base near noon. Chief Hampton had ordered Gabe to take her to the U.S. Navy Supply Terminal to get outfitted with SEAL gear and weapons. As they disembarked out the rear of the helo into the sunlight, the heat was stifling. Bagram Air Base sat a bit north of Kabul and it was all desert. Just like Iraq.

      Gabe seemed to know his way around, guiding her through the Helicopter Operations Building and requisitioning a beaten-up white Toyota pickup truck from a Marine sergeant friend of his outside the doors of the busy place. The airstrip was alive with helo activity. An enormous C-5 Air Force transport was landing at the fixed-wing operations and runway area. Apache combat helicopters were trundling toward a takeoff point with a full load of rockets and Hellfire missiles on board. The noise and activity were high and constant. It reminded Bay of a busy beehive.

      They arrived at Naval Supply, a large warehouse on the other side of the base. Bay had been at Bagram only one other time, and that was the flight into Afghanistan from Iraq. The landing had been at night, so she never realized just how big this base was.

      Gabe parked the truck out in front of the warehouse and climbed out. Like everyone else, he carried a weapon, an M-4 rifle he had in a sling across his chest. A SIG Sauer 9mm pistol rode low in a drop holster on his right thigh. On his left thigh was a SEAL SOF knife in a sheath. As she met him and walked into the air-conditioned building, she was proud to be at his side. SEALs stood out from other military personnel. Maybe it was the gear they wore or the confident way they carried themselves. Or both.

      Gabe halted at the main counter and handed the Navy yeoman, a young woman in her early twenties, a requisition slip. She read it, looked from him to Bay.

      “SEAL gear for a woman?” she asked, unsure.

      “Yes,” Gabe said. The yeoman frowned, scratched her blond head and shrugged. He wasn’t going to tell her anything if she started to pump him with questions.

      “There’s no women’s sizes in SEAL gear. You know what section the gear is in?” she asked him.

      Gabe nodded. “I just need you to sign that and I’ll take her down there and we’ll collect her gear.”

      Bay could tell the yeoman was flustered. She was sure other women came here for military gear, too. Especially military police women. The look in her eyes, however, was questioning the SEAL gear order. Bay followed Gabe down a wide aisle where pallets of supplies were piled up nearly to the ceiling.

      “You’ve done this a few times,” she said as they walked beside each other.

      “A few.”

      “I thought that yeoman was going to faint.”

      He smiled. “It’s a little unusual for a female to show up needing SEAL gear—you have to admit that.”

      Bay nodded and scanned the area. “I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived at Camp Bravo. It was nice of the chief to get me the gear I’ll need in order to work with your team.”

      Gabe halted in the clothing section. “I just hope we can find a size that fits you,” he muttered, looking through the cammies. “You’re going to have to wear a man’s uniform.”

      Shrugging, Bay moved over and looked through the sizes, her fingers moving quickly through the hanging desert cammies. “I’ll survive.” She grinned over at him.

      This morning when Gabe had found her at the chow hall eating breakfast, he seemed subdued, preoccupied. Had something happened earlier? If so, he hadn’t said anything. Still, Bay could feel the energy around him as she always felt around people, places and things.

      “I think these will fit. Let me try them on.” She pulled a pair of cammies off the rack and took them to a fitting room.

      Within an hour, Bay had her cammies, a set of good desert boots, H-gear harness, jacket, cold-weather gear and a rucksack. Then Gabe took her over to the Navy Armory, nearby.

      Bay stood looking at the rifles and pistols setting on racks behind the counter. “Why are we here?” she asked him. She patted her M-4 across her chest. “I have everything I need, don’t I?”

      “Well,” Gabe hedged, “not quite.” He turned and noticed the confused look on her face. For a second, he felt blinded by her natural beauty. It unnerved him. “The chief wants you to get a .300 Win Mag.”

      “What?”

      He tried to get his mind back on task. “You really impressed the LT and chief out there yesterday with your shooting, Doc. We’re short a sniper in our squad, and he’s hoping you’ll agree to train in with me on sniper ops. As a backup,” he added. Her eyes widened enormously, her lips parted as she digested his words. “Want to add this to your training résumé?” Gabe sincerely hoped she’d say yes.

      “But I’m not a trained sniper, Gabe.” Bay protested quietly, keeping her voice down because the warehouse was filled with military men and women. “I haven’t gone through sniper school. Won’t the guys think—”

      “It doesn’t matter what they think,” he parried quietly, holding her unsure stare. “Chief decides. If he feels you are qualified, sniper school or not, Doc, he’s not going to waste whatever skills you have out there on coming missions.”

      It made sense to her, but it was still a shock. “Okay,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll try, but no promises.”

      “You’ll be carrying the Win Mag on some missions but not all

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