Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,53

had no idea how these guys weren’t dropping from exhaustion. Hemingway was showing signs of wear and tear. Cuts, bruises, sore muscles and chills. He was also experiencing nightmares.

Shea yawned, covering her mouth. It was the middle of week three and Shea was standing near Ensign Adrian Lane. He was one of the younger officers and his encouragement of his men only made them even more loyal to him. But there was barely any effort on the dark-haired, handsome officer’s part. He was a natural born leader. His focus was always on his men.

It was ten minutes to five, and most of the men had mustered for PT, looking beat, but determined. Shea knew from experience that if they had a bad muster, they would get surf torture. One of them stopped in front of Lane. “Sir?”

Lane continued to check things off his list, his duties taking up a lot of his time. The class leader had to prepare the IBSs, vehicles, first aid equipment and classrooms for the day’s training. But there was no impatience in his tone. “Seaman Battersby.”

The candidate lived up to his name. He looked worse for wear.

“I can’t take this anymore.”

Lane looked up from his clipboard. “You want to quit, Battersby?”

“Yes sir. DOR. I thought I could do this, and that I wanted it, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“There’s no shame in admitting there’s a different path for you, seaman. You’re decorated, have a fine record and will do extremely well as career Navy if that is what you want to do. Don’t waste time or energy in beating yourself up. It’s an intelligent decision. The right one for you.”

“Ensign, we’re running out of time,” Hollister said firmly, but Lane ignored him.

“You know my record?” Battersby said, his voice hushed.

“I know all your records. It’s my job and my duty to know everything about you. Do you think I take that lightly?”

“Adrian! We’re going to be late, and it’s wet and sandy for us.”

Lane turned and said, “We’re going to get wet and sandy no matter what. Now focus on getting muster and an accurate count, Hollister. Add one DOR. You got this.”

Lane reached out and set his hand on Battersby’s shoulder and squeezed. “Good luck to you.”

“It would have been an honor serving with you, sir. I’m the one who’s poorer for my decision.”

“Thank you. You were a solid performer, and I’m sorry to see you drop out. Ring the bell and go see Proctor Keegan.”

“Yes, sir.” Battersby brought his hand up to his temple for a fierce salute. He held it for a moment as Lane returned the gesture, then Battersby turned and jogged to the bell, rang it three times, and set his helmet next to the long line of green to the left of the brass. He disappeared into the offices.

After PT and chow, the students jogged with their boats in the low carry, hanging on to straps all the way to the Hotel del Coronado where they were going to get instruction in rock portage. Shea caught her breath as they came to a halt near their IBSs, forming into their boat crews.

She watched as they manned the boats and headed north, just beyond the breakers. The surf was pounding today, roaring into shore, surging on the high tide. She shaded her eyes and looked toward their destination—a pile of rocks, jutting out into the ocean, forming a dark and treacherous jetty. The candidates would have to land their IBS on the high boulders that was a recipe for disaster, one wrong move resulting in broken bones, and if things went terribly wrong—death.

The surf hammered the rocks with white foam, soaring spray and violent waves. Her heart lodged into her throat as Hemingway’s boat crew came in for the maneuver. After seeing Lane’s leadership this morning, she felt marginally better that he was the one in charge. From what she’d seen, Hemingway’s boat crew was tight-knit, often the winners of the races, and encouraged and supported each other.

“They’ll have to do this at night during Hell Week,” Max said as he walked up beside her.

“Next week,” she murmured.

He nodded. “How’s the kid holding up?” His interest was keen, and she could tell by the expression on his face that he cared a lot.

“He’s a trooper, never complains and is in good spirits. He’s made a good friend—Milo Prescott.”

That soft smile hitched up one side of the man’s face. “Yeah, a good sailor. He’s going to make a fine SEAL.”

“Many of