Griffin ran every step beside her, did every push-up with her, powered through every pull-up that she did, swam every lap that she did. It was damned hard to argue that his demands were unreasonable when he was capable of doing all of the things he asked of her and more.

In their instructional sessions, covering anything from breaking down an assault rifle blindfolded to extreme survival techniques, he was forever popping out with some tidbit that made the job easier or more effective. How was she ever going to absorb everything she needed to know to keep up with a man like him?

She had to admit she was glad that she and the other women were getting this private pre-BUD/S training. No way would she have survived the onslaught of physical demands, mental challenges, and emotional abuse if she’d gone into it cold.

As it was, she worried that Griffin and the other men were still taking it too easy on her and the girls. If she was going to survive BUD/S for real, she needed to be pushed hard enough to simulate that grueling course in every way.

As weeks passed, she realized her muscles and mind were gradually adapting to the stress. She had to hand it to these guys. They knew how to train a SEAL. Now, if they would only give the women a chance to succeed at being real SEALs in the field…

November passed, and it was a week into December when Sherri found herself lying face-first in the freezing cold surf, unable to do one more push-up.

This morning’s PT had involved doing four-count lunges while holding a giant log over their collective heads. Kenny, Jojo, and Sam had joined the women in the endeavor since whichever lucky girl went to BUD/S would be part of a similar boat team and do group exercises. The SEALs were all about teamwork, after all. If one person couldn’t push back up off their bent knee, the other five people ended up taking the extra weight of the log, which made their lunge recoveries all that much harder. It was a diabolical demonstration of all for one and one for all.

When all three women had collapsed, unable to do another lunge, Kettering—whom she’d privately begun to call the Antichrist in her head—dropped them into planks and started calling out push-up sequences.

“Down!” A long pause. “Up! Down!” Another longer pause that made Sherri’s arms, already exhausted from that blasted log, tremble. “Up!”

Every now and then, an incoming wave swooshed over her face while they were waiting in the down position. Because it was important not to breathe while doing maximum physical exertion, apparently.