Miguel Delgado, the team’s tall, balding commander, just grinned. “Have fun,” he said before following Doyle out the door.
As Becker and Walsh, the teams’ respective COs, huddled over the plans left by their superiors, Jackson found himself under the intense scrutiny of a blond man with light-blue eyes. Max, if Jackson remembered correctly.
“Can I help you with anything?” he asked with a cock of his eyebrows.
“Just trying to figure out what all the hype is about,” Max replied thoughtfully.
“The hype?”
“You guys have quite the reputation, but I don’t see what—”
“Wait, what reputation?” Dylan had overheard the comment and was drifting over to them.
Max shrugged. “You know, that you’re all major players.”
“He means whores,” Duke said with a grin, joining them too.
“And party dudes,” their teammate Hunter added.
“And rumor has it, y’all got arrested for streaking last year.” That came from the enlisted SEAL that Team Eight called “Lancelot”, a tall man with dirty-blond hair and laughing brown eyes.
“How dare you, sir.” Seth usurped the conversation with a smirk. “It was for brawling, thank you very much, and no charges were filed.”
The members of Team Eight hooted. “Sorry, my mistake,” Lancelot said in amusement.
Duke grinned. “Notice they haven’t denied the whore part.”
Seth grinned right back. “I didn’t realize the East Coast teams were a bunch of girly gossips.”
“And FYI,” Dylan said cheerfully, “we were warned about your reputation too, so don’t go all pot-kettle on us.”
“Dude, we’re not judging,” Hunter replied, sounding sincere. “We were just fishing ’cause we want to party with you.”
Jackson chuckled, though he honestly wasn’t surprised by Hunter’s response. From the moment the members of Team Eight had walked into the classroom, he’d known they were the East Coast clones of him and his buddies. Most of the Eighters were young, in their early to midtwenties, and they were rowdier and more outspoken than the majority of soldiers stationed on this base. Team Eight did have its Beckers, though—there were definitely a few stoic faces in the room, all business from moment one—but these four were clearly kindred spirits. Sporting cocky grins, quick to laugh, and giving off party-dude vibes.
“Seriously,” Duke agreed, his blue eyes twinkling. “We’ve gotta get some beers while we’re here. Exchange war stories.”
“Whore stories, you mean,” Max cracked.
The next round of laughter was interrupted by a sharp whistle from Team Eight’s CO. “I need my tangos over here,” Walsh barked.
The SEALs snapped to attention and marched off without delay, while Jackson and his teammates were ushered to the door by Becker, who needed them in a separate room in order to go over the details of the mission.
“Enough chatting, ladies,” Becker said briskly. “We’ve got a rescue to plan.”
A little over seven hours later, the training mission was underway. It wasn’t nearly enough time to plan and execute a foolproof extraction, but the hasty timeframe was part of the exercise. The powers that be wanted to evaluate how well the SEALs could carry out a rescue with very little planning.
Jackson and Seth had drawn the short straw and were playing the hostages today. They were currently in the bowels of the USS Hoover, a submarine stationed at the Point Loma Naval Base. Their hands were secured to a pair of pipes with the same painfully tight wires that were also coiled around their feet, while their “guards” watched them closely to hinder any funny business.
It was the kind of training demo Jackson hated. Being left out of the action was frustrating as heck, and he knew Seth shared his dissatisfaction as they sat there on the damp floor while their teammates got to have all the fun.
Shooting the shit wasn’t encouraged during these exercises, but the four of them broke the rules, captors chatting with hostages as they waited for their respective teams to make a move.
“Connor’s gonna smoke your guys,” Duke said smugly, an MP5 submachine gun hanging loosely from the strap on his shoulder.
While Jackson and Seth were completely unarmed, Duke’s and Lancelot’s weapons were equipped with blanks, but all four men wore the same camo gear with high-tech sensors that would register if one of them was “hit”. The sensor emitted a white light for a non-lethal injury, blue for a lethal one, and red meant dead. Both Jackson and Seth sported a couple of white ones already from the “beating” they’d endured during interrogation.
“Which one is Connor again?” Seth asked.
“Black hair, black eyes, didn’t say a word during briefing.” Duke chuckled. “He’s the strong, silent type. Best sniper you’ll ever meet.”