The guy on her right stood up, swearing, and waded ashore a mere three minutes into the eight-minute immersion session. A minute or so later, she heard the loud triple clang of a brass bell ringing across the training facility.

“The exodus begins!” one of the instructors shouted in glee. “Who’ll be next? How about you, Tate? Are you having fun yet?”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” she shouted back enthusiastically. “I’m having a fine morning, sir! Glad to be here, sir!”

Thankfully, nobody called on her again, because her teeth started to chatter so badly she didn’t think she could talk. But she knew the drill. They’d drop the trainees’ core temperatures to a safe but unholy, awful 91 degrees, pull them out, and run them to a sand dune to warm them up, roll them in the sand like powdered donuts, then run them back to the surf to rinse, lather, and repeat.

While she waited for the cramps and convulsions to set in, she contemplated how interesting it was to know what was coming next. She certainly didn’t relish the coming pain, but thanks to Griffin and the Reapers, she knew she could handle it. And that made all the difference.

The bell rang two more times before they finally staggered out of the surf for the last time.

“Where’s the lipstick now, Tate?” someone hollered about six inches from her face.

“Don’t n-need it, sir!” she shouted back, shivering from head to toe. “I look f-fabulous with b-blue lips!”

The instructor started to grin, but stopped himself at the last moment. Griffin had assured her the instructors cracked themselves up all the time, and that she should look for moments of humor to break up the continuous psychological assault that was BUD/S. Plus, the instructors liked the students who were cheeky enough to make them laugh now and then.

Three more guys DOR’ed—dropped on request—before the run was over. Six down, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Hooyah.

She’d learned at Camp Jarvis to take one day at a time, and the next week passed in a blur. She was by no means the top physical performer in the class, but she wasn’t the last, either. She fell slightly below the middle if she had to guess. Griffin had commented that often the most physical guys with the best times didn’t have the mental toughness to hack the course. She held on to that thought.

But she was competitive. She set a private goal to make it into the top half of the class before the three weeks of INDOC ended.

Sadly, Grundy didn’t drop out. He was forever making snide comments and agitating for the instructors to kick her out, but he didn’t call her a whore again. It was a small victory, but she would take it.