An hour later, she was polished and lacquered to within an inch of her life. Her hair was swept up in a sophisticated French twist, and her makeup was flawless. She’d even taken time to shape and polish her nails.

She had to admit, it felt weird to put on pantyhose and high heels after months of running around in fatigues and combat boots.

Schneider insisted she wear a skirt. Orders from above and all. Must show a little leg for the boys. The higher-ups had also insisted on her wearing service dress whites. No surprise there. Might as well go full recruiting poster with this appearance.

As she slipped into her uniform, it dawned on her why SEALs were forever tugging at their dress uniforms. The heavily starched collar rubbed at her neck horribly after the soft, floppy collars of tactical combat shirts.

She paused in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the office door to give herself a critical once-over. Only thing that would make her look more girlie would be a sparkly evening gown.

Ugh. The press was going to love her. And the SEALs were going to hate her with a fiery passion. She didn’t even want to think about how her BUD/S instructors would retaliate against her for dressing up like this and prancing around in front of a bunch of reporters.

She took a deep breath. Here went nothing. She followed Schneider, her heels clicking loudly, and she caught herself wincing at the noise. She had become adept at the silent heel-to-toe walk of special operators, but it was impossible to do in three-inch stilettos. Mincing along on her stupid heels, she followed Schneider into what looked like the wings of a stage.

“Is this the base theater?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“How many reporters are out there?” The buzz of voices from around the corner was shockingly loud.

“Theater holds 550. Every seat’s full.”

“Bloody hell,” she muttered.

“You’ll walk across the stage to the podium in the middle. There’s a prepared statement waiting for you. I would have run it past you, but I was told you were incommunicado on some secret assignment.”

Yeah. Pretraining to be a SEAL.

Schneider continued, “You’ll take questions for about ten minutes, and then there will be a photo op with you and the Naval Surface Warfare Commander, Rear Admiral Duquesne. That’s pronounced ‘doo-cane.’ Don’t mess it up, or he’ll tear your head off. Got all that?”

She threw the guy a withering look. “I’ve been doing press conferences at the Pentagon longer than you’ve been legal to drink.”

The kid warned, “Heads will roll, starting with mine, if you flub this thing.”

“I got that memo, thanks.”

“All right, Lieutenant Tate. Are you ready?”

She smiled a little. “No. But let’s do it anyway.”