For the past two days they had been at Niland, near the Chocolate Mountains in the desert just east of the Salton Sea. Today they had split into squads for training in tactics, and each unit went in a different direction. They were to meet at a certain flat-topped mountain at 1400 for some joint operations.
The Navy bus they arrived in was loaded heavily with ammo. Each day they fired their weapons until they ran out of rounds, then worked the rest of the daylight with simulated firing drills and attacks on various gullies, sand dunes, and giant cacti.
The platoon marched back to the bus shouting the age-old Army chant: “You had a good home and you left. You’re right. You had a good home and you left. You’re right. Sound off. One, two. Sound off. Three, four. Cadence count. One, two, three, four — one, two…”
They went through twenty different verses to the ditty, some of them not fit for a family audience, and were marching with style when they came to the bus and stopped. The bus had pulled along the cool waters of the Coachella Canal of the massive irrigation network from the Colorado River that made the whole Imperial Valley green and areas to the west and north blossom with farm crops.
Senior Chief Sadler stared at the men. It had been a tough training day. “That water looks good, doesn’t it? I’m not saying you can take a swim and cool off, but I’m not saying you can’t. Fact is, I’m going to get my boots off and get my feet wet right now. Platoon dismissed.”
There was a shout from thirteen throats as the men dropped their packs, weapons, and combat vests, and dashed for the swiftly running waters of the canal. Every summer people drowned in the canal when they misjudged its swiftness. The SEALs didn’t mind. They had trained in this powerful flowing water and knew what it could do. They splashed into it with their desert cammies on. They could wash them and cool off at the same time.
Murdock, Sadler, and DeWitt watched the men.
“Good job, Senior Chief,” Murdock said. “I think you might work out in this job.”
“Thanks, Skipper. We’ve got a good team here. It’s pulling together like no outfit I’ve ever worked with before.”
“When their asses are on the line, the men know they have to work together, or they’ll die alone,” Murdock said. He dropped his weapon, pack, and pants, which had his billfold in them. “You guys going to let the men have all the fun?” He ran for the canal and did a surface dive, then floated downstream with the current.
It was almost 1800 when the men straggled out of the canal, dug out dry cammies, and changed clothes. They spread their wet clothes in the sun to dry.
Senior Chief Sadler blew three short blasts on his whistle. “Listen up. We have just been attacked by a group of twenty infantry from across the canal. Form up now in a line of skirmishers and return fire.”
They were all out of ammunition so they dry-fired a few times, then went bang-bang. Two minutes into the exercise the whistle blasted once. “End of alert,” Sadler said. “Get dressed and on the old pony. We’ll eat our last MREs on the way back and then stop at Jack in the Box.”
The men cheered.
“About time,” Jaybird called. “I got myself killed twice back there by hand grenades.”
“We noticed,” Sadler cracked. “Your service will be in ten minutes.” The rest of the SEALs hooted in delight. At last they had a mouth that could match Jaybird’s.
The trip back was routine, but it would take three hours. Bill Bradford sat on the bus dozing, trying to figure out what to say to Xenia when he saw her again. They were in the same little building, right next to each other. He knew her secret and he didn’t know what to do about it. He certainly wasn’t going to turn her in. She must know that. Was there any way he could help her? Maybe find some more outlets to hang her work? That would take time, and luck. Good painters were everywhere. You had to be distinctive to stand out and get noticed. He didn’t know what to do.
It was after ten o’clock when he pushed in the dark doorway at the gallery on India Street. He’d seen lights upstairs, so Xenia must be there. Bradford went up the steps, making some noise so she would hear him coming. She leaned against her doorway as he came down the short hall.
“Well, at least you didn’t bring the cops,” she said. “I’m almost clean here. I force-dried one to get some small cracks in the oil. Then sent it to Santa B. The other one is done, but I can’t force-dry it for three more days. You still talking to me?”
“Damn right. Trying to figure out how I can help you.”
“Hey, God couldn’t help any, what chance do you have?”
“God?”
“Sure. I used to go to church. They said pray. I prayed. They said put your troubles on Jesus. I heaped them all on his shoulders. None of it helped a fucking damn bit. So, if those two didn’t make a dent in my problems, why in hell do you think you can?”
“Hey, with a SEAL all things are possible. Let’s get our heads together and see what we can work out.”
“Oh, God, but I’ve been hoping you would say something like that. I’ve been fucking scared to death you would cut and run. Yeah, let’s get together, but first come in here, I’m in a real need. I’ve just got to have somebody about six foot two spread out on top of me and socking it to me hard and fast.”
It was nearly an hour later before they both came down from their highs and their breathing and heartbeats had returned to near normal. They sat on the side of the cot sipping at cold beers.
“Great,” she said. “Perfect.” She sighed. “I wish the rest of it was so easy. Once I get this last portrait out of here, I’ll breathe a lot easier.”
“Your last one?”
“Going to try. Going to work like a schizophrenic nymphomaniac and try to get a gallery in La Jolla to represent me. I’m going into the fifteen-hundred-to-five-thousand-dollar class and see where the goddamn chips fall.”
“Sounds good for a start. What about Laguna Beach?”
“Too much competition. There are a hundred forty galleries up there. Would you believe it? Probably twice that many good artists. No, I’m going to hit Long Beach, and LA and Beverly Hills. I’ll do good theater, dressing the part for each different location. If I try for a spot in redneck Santee, I’ll go nude.”
“So how do you force-dry an oil painting?”
“Some say it can’t be done. I set it in the direct sun for three hours at a time, then put it in my refrigerator for an hour, then back in the direct sun. Hardens the outside, but not all the way through. Then when the inside hardens completely in about three weeks, the outside will develop what I call my aging cracks. Looks pretty damn good.”
“Three more days?”
“Yep, if I can hold out and if the damn fraud squad doesn’t run right up my ass.”
“You keep the wet one hidden?”
“Oh, yeah. A sliding panel I built in the wall. Take a fucking magician to find it. Only you, I, and Rollo know where it is. If he ever gave me up, I’d slice his balls off.”
“Let’s see what you’re working on now,” Bradford said. It was a seascape off a windy hill with a huge house in the background and a woman sitting on the cliff watching the sea. Xenia had it about half done.
“Yes, I like it. What is it, three by four feet? Big enough to get a lot in there. Just don’t try to get in too much.”
“Yes, old master.” She poked him in the ribs. Then she kissed his cheek. “Damn, I like having sex with you.”
The next day, the SEALs training went wet. They swam ten miles with flippers and in wet suits, then jogged for four miles, and wound up with rubber ducks surfing in on the crashing Pacific waves. They went in and out three times, and the eight men in each boat made the surfing each time without dumping the boat in a breaker.