Breaking Point. Lindsay McKenna

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 of them. It just depends on the type of op, but you’ll have to carry it outside on your rucksack like I do. It’s more weight.”

      Gazing up at the four Win Mags standing on the rack, she nodded. “It’s not a problem. I carry sixty to eighty pounds of medical gear on my back already. I’m a mobile operating unit.” She turned and looked up at him. His face was unreadable, those green eyes dark and thoughtful looking. “I can do it.”

      Gabe called over a Navy personnel man and produced another requisition slip.

      Bay was excited about the Win Mag. It brought back happy memories with her father. She wondered obliquely if he was looking over her shoulder as she was given the rifle. Moving her fingers across the fiberglass stock, she heard Gabe asked for a SIG Sauer pistol. She raised her head and saw one produced by the Navy guy behind the counter. Frowning, she laid the rifle on the counter.

      Gabe picked up the pistol, checked it out and was satisfied. He turned, handing it to her butt first. “You’ll wear one of these, too.”

      Stunned, Bay stared down at the specially made German pistol. “But...” She gulped. “Oh, I can’t, Gabe.” She held up her hands and took a step back. “Only SEALs are allowed to wear that pistol. It’s specially made for them. Even I know that.”

      Gabe seemed surprised at her reaction. “That’s true, but you’re with our team now. You need to always wear it wherever you go. It’s never not a part of your daily gear you wear, Doc.”

      Panic ate at Bay as she stared at the pistol. She hesitated.

      “What’s the problem?” Gabe demanded.

      Licking her lower lip, Bay said, “I want to fit in, Gabe. Not stand out. Half those guys don’t want me around. I—I didn’t go through SEAL training. By all rights, I haven’t earned the right to wear a SIG. It just seems like a slap in their faces, to me. That I’m pretending to be something I’m not.”

      Gabe laid the SIG on the counter, understanding her concerns. There was genuine anxiety in her blue eyes. He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment. “Look, Doc, what you don’t understand yet is where we patrol, the missions we undertake. We’re in harm’s way all the time. You can’t have enough weapons and ammo on you, believe me.” He wanted to leave his hand on her shoulder but forced himself to release her. “You’re worried Hammer and his guys are going to ride you about wearing it, aren’t you?”

      Nodding, Bay chewed on her lower lip. “It will be one more thing they’ll hold against me. They’ll accuse me of—”

      “Bay,” he said, purposely using her name to get her to focus, “read my lips. The chief wants you fully equipped. If you don’t look like a SEAL out where we patrol, that’s not good, because the Taliban we have to deal with sometimes will only respect us because we are SEALs. Got it?”

      His logic was sound. Bay felt a shiver where he’d unexpectedly touched her shoulder. “Okay, I guess I can take it....”

      Gabe picked up the black nylon drop holster and said, “Lift your arms away from your waist.”

      Taken aback, Bay realized he was going to place the holster around her waist. For the next few minutes, Gabe made sure the drop holster fit correctly. Pulling the two Velcro straps just tight enough around her thigh, he wanted the pistol to ride just above her knee.

      “There. How does that feel?” Gabe handed her the SIG. The SEAL pistol had no safety on it.

      Bay placed the pistol in the low-riding holster. “Okay,” she said tentatively. “I feel like a gunfighter.”

      Gabe grinned. “That’s what we are. Allow your hand to drop to your side. I want to see if your palm naturally comes to rest over the butt of the pistol.”

      Bay found his care and attention stabilizing. Intuitively, she knew Hammer and his men would say something. Probably many times over, for her to be wearing the SIG, the signature SEAL pistol. Gabe seemed unhappy with the holster position. He knelt at her side and raised the holster about an inch so that the butt was resting where her palm would naturally come to rest against her thigh. Finally, he stood back and critically studied his handiwork. Then he looked up at her.

      “Okay, that feels about right to me,” he murmured, gesturing toward the pistol. “Does it ride comfortably on your thigh?” She had nice legs, he’d discovered, while affixing the holster. Cammies hid a body pretty well, but working the straps, he could feel how taut her thigh was. Bay moved her hand a couple of times, her palm fitting nicely over the butt of the pistol.

      “Good.” He picked up a Kevlar vest, fitted it to her, got the level 4 ceramic armor plates for it and placed it over with the rest of her accumulated gear. She had to have a Kevlar helmet with a rail system, NVGs, night-vision goggles and a grenade launcher system for her M-4 rifle. Finally, they moved down the counter to where the knives were displayed.

      Bay gave him a distressed look. “I have to carry one of these big knives?” She pointed toward them, disbelief in her voice.

      “Yes.”

      “Listen, I’ve got plenty of scalpels in my medical pack. I don’t really think I need one more knife on me, Gabe. Do you?”

      Gabe laughed as he picked up a seven-inch SEAL SOF knife and held it toward her, butt first. “Your scalpels aren’t long enough, Doc. We usually wear this knife on our right outer calf if you’re right-handed. Some guys like it riding low on their left thigh. Or the left outer calf. Where do you want to wear yours?”

      Bay stared at the knife. The blade had tiny razor-sharp teeth beneath the lower half of it. Never mind the blade itself. Blowing out a breath of air, she said, “Okay...I guess my right calf?”

      “You can start there and later, if you find out it isn’t where you want it, you can move it.” Gabe knelt down, attached the Velcro nylon black sheath around her lower leg, just below her knee. He tried to ignore touching her, but it didn’t work. She was a large-boned woman with good muscling, and he could feel the firmness of her calf muscles beneath his fingertips. Standing up, he stood back, hands on his hips.

      “How does that feel?”

      Grimacing, Bay muttered, “It’s okay.”

      “You’ll get used to it. Comes in handy sometimes.” He looked at the watch on his wrist. “Hungry?”

      “I am.”

      “Okay, let’s stow this gear back at Ops, put it in a locker and we’ll grab some chow before we take a hop back to Bravo.”

      Gabe seemed to be out of his funk or whatever it was from earlier in the day. Her stomach grumbled because she hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, still emotionally stressed out over some of the SEAL team not accepting her. Bay didn’t want to tell Gabe, but the Special Forces guys had made her feel welcome from the beginning. They embraced her with eagerness. Here, it was like fighting every day to get a toehold of respect with everyone in the squad. SEALs were different, no question.

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