He shrugged. “I can’t deny that you’re hard to miss. Especially the way you look tonight. But if SEALs are doing their jobs right, no one sees them at all. In those circumstances, your looks shouldn’t be a factor. And you can always cover your face.”

Huh. That actually hadn’t occurred to her.

She took another bite of gumbo and, since talking seemed to be the purpose of this little tête-à-tête, decided to go for the gusto and share her greatest fear with him. “I’m going to end up being trotted out, wearing perfectly pressed and starched uniforms, looking like a recruiting poster and acting like a trained monkey, sporting a gold trident I won’t have earned and won’t deserve. You’ll know it, and I’ll know it. And every man who’s ever been a SEAL will know it. That offends me.”

Griffin was silent for a long time. His face passed through several expressions, settling on something very close to reluctant respect. Then he said very quietly, “What are you planning to do about it?”

“I have an idea. But I’m going to need your help.”

Chapter 8

Griffin stared at Sherri. Yet again, she’d shocked the living bejeebers out of him. Never in a million years would he have guessed that she would see through to the heart of the matter like this.

Profound relief flowed through him that she at least understood now what a Budweiser stood for. If the past two months had accomplished nothing else, at least he’d done that.

Of course, she was dead right in her prediction. The brass would make a performing monkey out of her. They might send her on the occasional tightly controlled mission—with a cadre of embedded journalists and cameramen in tow to record it—but nobody was going to let the first female SEAL come anywhere near harm’s way, let alone die in the field.

“What’s your idea?” He was interested to hear what she’d cooked up. She knew how the Navy senior leadership rolled better than most and would know how to get around them if anyone could.

She leaned forward. “I want to—”

The door behind them burst open, and Grif was out of his seat, facing the threat and reaching for the Ka-Bar knife strapped to his right ankle before the door hit the wall.

He noted in a detached corner of his mind that Sherri had come out of her seat almost as fast as he had. In her case, though, she held her hands in front of her in a classic martial arts stance. Not accustomed to being armed, yet. The detached instructor part of his mind made a mental note to fix that deficiency at the earliest possible time.

It was Ken Singleton who raced through the open door. Griffin stood down.

Kenny blurted out, “Cal’s office, stat. Both of you.”