skills.”
Janey nodded and smiled encouragingly. “I’m sure you’ll learn a lot of useful things from Sergeant First Class Boudreaux.”
Claire knew her friend was worried about her being able to take care of herself, but at least Janey wasn’t haranguing her like her dad. Once she got back from San Lucas, it was time to get her own place.
“We’d better move before we cramp up.” Janey took off jogging backward, her face mischievous. “Here’s a new cadence especially for you. ‘I wanna be a Green Beret.’”
“I wanna…be a…Green Beret.” Claire was starting to puff again.
“‘Live the life of sex and foreplay…’”
“Janey!”
Chapter Two
“READY TO GET UP AND at ‘em?” Her father’s falsely hearty voice boomed through the large conference room at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. A gleaming wood table dominated the room with photos of base commanders and world maps framed on the walls. He gestured at one of his aides to set Claire’s gear under a white dry-erase board. Claire was scheduled to start her training the next day, but her father had insisted on a meet-and-greet with her trainer before sending her off, and the commanding officer had wanted to inspect her gear. “Learn all about the great outdoors, eh, kitten?”
“Dad, please,” Claire muttered. Bad enough she looked like some tricked-out Victorian explorer with seventeen pockets on her super-expensive, brand-new, quick-dry khaki vest and cargo pants. Bad enough she was like Jane about to meet her own personal ape-man. Bad enough she was twenty-four and was still called “kitten.”
She tried to ignore her dad and her churning stomach, in that order, and focused on a large painted wooden logo on the wall. Black and silver, the words De Oppresso Liber were painted in a semicircle under a six-pronged star. She walked closer—the star was actually a pair of crossed arrows over a long, lethal-looking knife.
According to what Claire had found out searching online after her run with Janey, the Green Berets didn’t need any arrows or knives. They could probably kill somebody with a paper clip and a plastic drinking straw—the bendy kind.
De Oppresso Liber. She guessed from her French and Spanish classes that the Latin motto meant From Oppression Freeing or something like that. Freedom from oppression. A noble goal.
In her own little way, that was Claire’s goal, too. Not that anyone would consider her oppressed. After all, her father was one of the most powerful politicians in America, her family had plenty of money and she had never wondered if she would have enough to eat. Nothing to complain about, yet…
She wasn’t truly free because she hadn’t tried to be. No Declaration of Independence had flowed from her pen, no charge up San Juan Hill, no stand at the Alamo. Well, maybe not that last one—she had cried when she visited the mission-fort in San Antonio and seen where real heroes had given their lives for their beliefs.
But it had always been easier to go along with her dad’s plans for her, especially after her mother died, when they had clung to each other in their grief.
Claire snuck a look at her father, who was giving a long list of instructions to his assistant. Her father had moved on, had even casually dated a few widows or divorcées. She was actually okay with that, knowing that he would always cherish the love he had for her mother. He had a good and full life, but Claire? Not so much.
Clinging time was over for Claire Cook, the Human Kudzu Vine. Her turning point had come six months ago on the second anniversary of her mother’s death, when she had steeled herself to look through the family photo albums her father had shoved to the back of the library closet.
Her mother had been the antithesis of “cling,” especially in the black-and-white photos of her as a young girl and then the faded color pictures of her as a teenager—always in the settlement or the jungle surrounding it. The only difference between her and the local girls was lighter skin and more clothing, on the insistence of her parents.
Claire moved along the wall to look at several photos of the base, as well as photos of men in green or tan uniforms. Each one’s face was carefully turned away from the camera or otherwise indistinguishable on film. Men building shelters, carrying weapons, reading maps. Men who had no doubt about who they were and what they were meant to do.
Seeing her mother’s joyful face and remembering the stories and struggles of their lives in San Lucas, Claire had carefully closed the album and written her grandfather’s successor, Dr. Schmidt.
Her father’s droning voice had stopped, and a new electric current ran through the room. She turned away from the wall. Three men stood inside the doorway, the older one some kind of commanding officer and the younger two his subordinates.
Her father leaped to his feet and gave the officer a hearty handshake. “Ah, Colonel Spencer, we spoke on the phone. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“Congressman. Ma’am.” The colonel gave her a curt nod. Claire nodded in return, noting he didn’t verbalize his own delight. The colonel looked like a tougher twin of her father, his silver hair clipped close instead of styled, his green cammies neatly pressed.
If the colonel was spic-and-span army, his men looked like they belonged in the army jail. Were soldiers even allowed to wear beards? The taller, blond guy looked like he might be the cheerful type on a good day, but obviously today wasn’t a good day. He, on the other hand, looked like Miss Susie Sunshine compared to his companion. Claire had a nasty feeling that the darker man more closely resembled a man named Luc Boudreaux than Blondie did.
Blackbeard in the flesh. His eyes were two pieces of black coal, cold and glittering. His hair waved well past his collar, his beard covering most of his tanned face. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved in months. Janey’s words about being fresh from the sandbox popped into Claire’s head. Fresh from the desert to the swamp. No wonder he looked ready to spit nails.
Colonel Spencer gestured to his men. “Congressman Cook, Miss Cook, I’d like you to meet Captain Magnus Olson and Sergeant First Class Luc Boudreaux. Captain Olson has kindly released Sergeant Boudreaux from his current duties to serve as your trainer.”
Their lips tightened briefly under all the facial hair. How much pressure had her father exerted on them? They certainly didn’t look like eager volunteers.
A knock sounded at the door. Claire gasped. “Janey, what are you doing here?” Her friend stood in her dress uniform, her hat under her arm.
Janey wouldn’t meet her eyes and snapped a perfect salute to Colonel Spencer and Captain Olson. The colonel returned it and the captain waved his hand vaguely toward his eyebrow. “First Lieutenant Jane Merrick reporting for duty, sir.”
“At ease, Lieutenant.” He took the packet of papers Janey offered him and scanned through the sheets, a cynical smile spreading over his face.
“Duty?” Claire asked. As far as she knew, Janey’s Pentagon stint was to last at least another six to eight months. Why would they send her to Ft. Bragg? “Are you here on account of me?”
“Sir, my commanding officer ordered me to report to Fort Bragg as a special liaison between his office and yours.” Janey still refused to look at Claire, but the tips of her ears were turning red. Captain Olson and Sergeant
