Goddess Rising Read online

  “That’s understandable.” Hammond leaned back against her desk and crossed her arms. “I have another question for you: Have you considered the CIA or the FBI?”

  Sam’s brows shot up.

  Hammond smiled. “I take it that’s a ‘no.’”

  “I guess the idea of being a spy never really crossed my mind.”

  “I was actually thinking more along the lines of a negotiator or an interrogator.” Professor Hammond cocked her head. “That’s a very specialized skill, Ms. Wyatt. But I think you may have a natural aptitude for that type of work. Coupled with your language interests, you may have an incredibly versatile set of options, don’t you agree?”

  Sam blinked.

  “You’re analytical, cool-headed, and perceptive,” Professor Hammond continued. “Not to mention the fact that you’re not afraid of confrontation. From what I can tell, you’ve got one hell of a poker face.” She pulled a book from the desk and handed it to Sam.

  It was a heavy, leather-bound copy of The Reid Technique of Interviewing and Interrogation.

  “I want you to read that and come back to me,” Hammond told her. “It’s just one school of thought related to the practice of interviewing and interrogation. If you’re interested in learning more about psychology as a major, let me know.”

  Sam held the book, feeling the spine as she considered her professor’s offer. “I’m going into the service after I graduate.”

  Professor Hammond smiled. “What better place to break your teeth as an interrogator than in the military?”

  Sam tucked the book into her bag. “Thank you, Professor Hammond. I’ll dig into this.”

  “I know you will,” her teacher replied. “You’re too curious of a mind not to.”

  Sam turned toward the door, already mulling over the possibilities.

  “Oh, and Ms. Wyatt?”

  She turned to look back at her teacher.

  “It’s not uncommon for students to have family obligations, though I recognize your obligations may be more public and pronounced than most,” Professor Hammond commented.

  Sam looked up at her in surprise. She wondered how much Professor Hammond knew about her family and her background.

  “I read an article about your father once,” Professor Hammond told her, perching on her desk. “Talented man. I imagine he’s grooming you in some way?”

  “He expects me to take over Wyatt Petroleum,” Sam admitted quietly. “I’m meant to follow in his footsteps.” And live in his shadow.

  Professor Hammond nodded understandingly as she leaned back. “My supposition is you can be the heir to the Wyatt business as well as be your own person. I don’t believe it’s impossible to be both.”

  Sam shifted. “I hope you’re right, Professor.”

  “Take a look at the book,” her teacher told her. “If you’re interested, come and see me. If not, no harm, no foul.”

  Sam felt the weight of the book, the little flutter of curiosity giving way to excitement.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

  Professor Hammond smiled briefly, standing up and moving toward the chalkboard. “It’s my job to suss out talent and develop it, Samantha,” she said over her shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another class to teach.”

  *

  September—Wednesday Morning

  Blackwell Drop Zone, Camp Swift, Bastrop County, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  Camp Swift occupied about twelve square miles of arid, rolling Texas plains, stretching as far as the eye could see. Like hundreds of National Guard facilities, the once-bustling infantry training facility and former POW camp for elite German soldiers captured during WWII, was now essentially a parking lot for Army Reserve equipment and vehicles.

  Her ROTC group was assembled around an airborne unit drop zone, awaiting instructions. It was still early, the air chilly with autumn dew. They were down from fifty cadets to three squads of a dozen each, competing to make the final Challenge team, and there was still more weeding out to do.

  “During today’s field training exercise, you will plan a raid on a troop’s location,” Colonel Sasser explained to the squadrons standing in formation. “You’ve each been assigned to teams with squadron leaders. Your goal is to extract a hostage from an occupied building,” he told them. “Today’s exercise is meant to test both your decision making and your tactical capabilities, while dealing with the potential for ambush, indirect fire, and enemy combatants,” Sasser continued. “This field training is also meant to test your squad leader’s ability to keep you focused and on task.”

  A lieutenant colonel handed Sasser a clipboard. Sasser read the first name aloud. “First Squad team leader, De Soto—step forward.” Sam watched from her peripheral as Alejandro moved out of rank and file, chin and chest up.

  Sasser began calling out a roster for Alejandro’s squad. Sam held her breath, praying she wasn’t named.

  She didn’t get her wish.

  “Wyatt, you’re with First Squad.”

  Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

  Sam stepped forward, eyes straight ahead. She felt Alejandro’s glare and refused to show any kind of emotion on her face as Sasser finished naming Second and Third Squads. Rita wasn’t in her group. Sam looked around her teammates, counted the friendly, indifferent, and downright hostile faces.

  “You have fifteen minutes to plan your approach,” Sasser told them. “All three squads will be timed for hostage recovery. Any loss of team members will result in points deducted and possible disqualification from the final rounds of the Ranger Challenge.” He looked them over with serious steel gray eyes, expression stern. “Any loss of leadership will result in automatic disqualification for the squadron.”

  So much for taking Alejandro out. But Sam wasn’t kidding herself—she knew she was expendable. Alejandro would take the point loss for letting her get killed off, as long as it meant she wouldn’t make it into the marksmanship tests coming down the pike. Tests she knew she’d pass with flying colors thanks to her Uncle Grant’s instruction over the years.

  “And one more thing,” Colonel Sasser told them. “In addition to being observed, your actions will also be recorded. The Corps has given Wesley Elliott, a fellow student, permission to photograph parts of the Field Training Exercises today. He’s covering a story for The Statesman on Rudder’s Rangers, and specifically, A&M’s legacy of winning the Ranger Competition.”

  You have got to be shitting me.

  Sam heard him before she saw him, the rapid-fire click, click, click of a high-speed shutter coming up from behind. Wes stepped out onto the grass, camera up as he zoomed in on the cadets. She could have sworn he was taking pictures of only her as her face reddened with discomfort, but his lens swung away from her as Wes aimed at Sasser. Which was just as well. Annoyance was raising her body temperature, and Sam was certain it registered all over her face, though she fought to remain impassive.

  Was he using her to get ahead? Had he just told her one more lie, in a line of many, when he’d sat across from her at his kitchen table and told her he wanted to start again? Apparently on the wrong foot, Sam thought, becoming increasingly agitated the more she considered it.

  “Just go about your business, cadets,” Sasser instructed. He glanced at his watch. “FTX begins now!”

  One obstacle at a time, Sam reminded herself. She had to watch her back with Alejandro and get through this exercise. Worrying about Wes following and documenting their every move was something she’d have to handle later.

  Sam took a deep breath.

  Let’s do this.

  Chapter 12

  September—Wednesday Morning

  Camp Swift, Bastrop County, Texas

  W E S L E Y

  The building First Squad surrounded was an ugly, raw concrete structure pocked with bullet holes from years of previous training exercises. Most of its windows had been punched out. The place was a maze of gray walls, industrial staircases, scrap metal ob
stacles, and heavy steel drums. It had an ominous, desolate feel to it that made one think of an abandoned, bombed-out building in a third-world country.

  Wes marveled briefly at what these cadets had signed up for. He had no doubt they’d be going into buildings like this in faraway lands with live rounds of ammunition and the very real possibility of not walking out again. In just a couple of years, girls and guys his age would have transitioned from beer bongs and frat parties to terrorists and IEDs. Amazing.

  He tracked Sam through his telephoto lens, watching as she prepped with her squadron. He’d seen her stiffen, surprise and irritation radiating off of her as he was introduced to the group. Samantha hadn’t looked at him while she’d stood stiff at attention in formation, but then she didn’t need to. It was obvious she didn’t want him there, and though he’d expected her displeasure, Wes hoped she also realized what a tremendous opportunity this was for him, and for her.

  Her G.I. Jane ambitions were exactly the kind of op-ed piece any paper would eat up. Men and women of all ages and walks of life would be interested in what she was doing, whether they agreed with it or not. As soon as the opportunity had presented itself in Purcell’s office, Wes felt certain he was the best person to do justice to her story.

  Wes was situated on the upper deck of the training building where Sasser and his battalion leaders were observing the exercise. It felt a little bit like looking at the open structure of a dollhouse, if said dollhouse were a rat maze designed to resemble a death trap. Wes watched as senior cadets and volunteer reserve officers got into position, acting as enemy combatants, swathed in black from head to toe.

  He scanned the area outside from a window until he snagged on Samantha’s small form, coming in low and fast on approach, her combat paintball rifle close to her body as she moved in silently with her team. Two guys broke off, one left, the other right, running in a fast crouch as the others settled behind anything that could provide them cover just outside the building.

  Wes followed the guy on the right, watched him recon the building, standing and signaling to the others in a silent hand gesture to advance. The group rose as one, deploying rapidly as they rushed the building in practiced synchronicity. Four in the front, the rest splitting up to the sides and the back. In less than ten seconds, doors had been kicked in and the squad entered the building from three sides, rifles up by their faces, making sweeping movements quickly but cautiously.

  Wes swung the lens, trying to spot Samantha through the labyrinth of obstacles as the group infiltrated the building. Firing started immediately, the muted thud of paintballs splattering against concrete and metal in a seeming disarray of garishly bright colors. Electric blue for First Squad and an orange red for the combatants dressed in black.

  A flicker caught his eye from the second floor landing as a combatant popped out, trying to get a bead on who was closest to the stairs. The combatant pulled back, but not before a shot landed near where his head had been just a second before he disappeared from view.

  Wes tracked the shot, caught someone ducking behind a steel drum. He focused his lens, saw Sam’s profile as she held a broken piece of window glass up and out slightly, just enough to see behind her.

  Smart cookie.

  Wes managed to take a couple crisp shots of her assessing her surroundings before she dropped the glass and shuffled around the barrel, surging up to her knees and using the top of the steel drum to steady her rifle as she aimed and fired. She took out two combatants in quick succession, the thump thump of the paintball rifle rising up through the rafter’s observation deck where he stood.

  Hell, yeah. Sam was a badass. Wes grinned hard from behind the camera, watching her.

  He stayed trained on Sam as she narrowly dodged a return shot from another combatant. She ducked and rolled behind a wall, flattening her back against it as she looked up and around. Sam spotted one of her teammates and signaled to him about the location of the combatant up on the second floor. From Wes’s vantage point, the combatant would be able to take them out easily if Sam or her teammate tried to pop up over the barrels they had hidden themselves behind. Like fish in a barrel.

  Wes watched Sam slide down slowly, turning so she was lying on her back on the ground, legs crouched, boots firmly planted against the steel drum in a squat. It was an unorthodox move. Wes had zero military training but even he knew that. He heard Sasser’s grunt of disapproval. Wes tightened his lens again, zooming in. He watched her mouth moving; realized she was counting as she signaled her plan to her teammate.

  Sam hit five and heaved backward in a powerful push, sliding across the floor, aiming right at the second-floor landing. Wes had no idea how she’d nailed the timing, but her instinct was dead on. Sam pinned the combatant guarding the second floor in a tight center mass cluster just as he popped out to get a read on the landscape. Tap, tap, tap. Her teammate stood and shot to cover her, hitting the second combatant that came flying out behind his fallen comrade.

  Jesus, she’s a natural, Wes admired, camera clicking so fast, he’d hit the end of his roll before Sam was up and launching into another crouched run, ducking and dodging as she narrowly missed a few hits. He changed the film as quickly as he could, eyes on her as she raced toward the stairs for the second floor.

  Wes lifted the camera just as Sam made it up the second flight, someone on her team following close behind her. Sam stopped suddenly, two-thirds up the concrete stairs, just under the landing. She flattened herself to the wall, peering up and over the staircase, and with a tight hand gesture, signaled her teammate to stop.

  Wes zoomed in. From his position, he could see two combatants waiting on the second floor, rifles trained on the entrance. They couldn’t see Sam, but they knew someone was coming, and she couldn’t see them, but she knew they were waiting.

  Wes held his breath.

  *

  September—Wednesday Morning

  Camp Swift, Bastrop County, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  The intel they’d been given at the start of the exercise indicated that the hostage was likely being held on the third floor. Only one way in—and that was up the stairs and through the open doorway, almost a certain death box.

  They hadn’t been issued any smoke grenades for this exercise, nothing explosive. No obvious means for distraction or a cloud of smoke to hide behind. She’d have to find a way in there without getting killed first. Even if it was only death by paintball.

  Stealth. They had to use stealth and some kind of distraction. But what?

  Sam sat with her back against the wall, remembering to breathe, her heart bouncing so hard it was almost hard to hear anything in the ruckus below.

  “What do you want to do?” her teammate Vin Stephens whispered, crawling up beside her just under the landing. He was a junior from Nevada. Third-generation Army brat—born soldier. Good at poker—always seemed to have a stack of cards on him.

  Yes! Sam’s eyes widened. That was it.

  Sam turned to him. “You got a deck on you?”

  Stephens shot her an amused look. “What, you want to play a hand right now?”

  “You got mechanic’s skills, right?” she asked. “You do tricks and shit, right?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked in confusion.

  “You think you can fling the cards hard and fast enough to distract whoever’s up there so I can get a shot in? I just need a fraction of a second.”

  Stephens fished into his top left pocket. Yanked a pack of Bicycle playing cards out. “Worth a try.”

  “I’ll go in low,” Sam told him. “You try to divert their eyes away from the door for a split second, and I’ll be able to take down at least one of them while their eyes are following the cards.”

  “It’s not a frag grenade, but it’s better than nothing,” he muttered.

  They moved silently up the stairs, careful to stay low and to the side. Sam popped her head up like a groundhog, saw no one in her immediate sight l
ine and figured whoever was waiting for them had ducked behind the wall, waiting.

  She knelt, one knee to the ground to steady herself, as Stephens stood up behind her. He flung a handful of playing cards fast, throwing them down the short hallway so they scattered like colorful birds, just like a magic show. Surprised, one of the combatants released a salvo of paintballs while Sam leaned around the corner of the landing. She shot the first guy she saw, just a hair of a second before he’d looked away from the card trick right back to the entrance where she was kneeling. Aiming over her, Stephens shot the second guy in his way.

  “Clear,” he called, keeping his rifle up as he moved through the room. “Good thinking,” Stephens murmured as he moved toward the next room, his rifle moving in tight, practiced arcs.

  “I owe you a pack of cards,” she answered, close behind him.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Stephens replied. “I’ll just take all your money the next poker night.”

  A little wave of pleasure made her grin, even as she kept her rifle up, following him as they approached the next staircase. She’d never been invited into anything with the ROTC boys, and Stephens was solidly inside that circle.

  “Good job, Stephens.”

  They both spun as Alejandro launched up the stairs behind them, weapon raised, his face focused.

  “Wyatt’s idea,” Stephens answered.

  Alejandro said nothing, looking over the two combatants who were playing dead. “Let’s clear this floor and get up to three.”

  Sam took careful steps behind Stephens as they cleared the second floor. When they made it to the final staircase, Stephens turned and looked at Alejandro for direction.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “No other means in,” Alejandro replied. “It’s up or out.”

  “That’s suicide,” Sam responded, looking up the doorway to the third floor. “We’ll be lucky if we get any shots off before they blow us away.”