Page 21 of Keeping a Warrior

Chapter Four

“Who’s ever driven in a convoy before?”

Every hand went up.

“Who’s ever driven in a balls-to-the-wall, oh-shit-I’m-being-shot-at-where-the-hell-is-it-coming-from type of convoy before?”

This time only a few hands went up, including the more senior SEALs in the group...and Devon’s.

To his credit, the tactical mobility instructor only blinked twice before going on, “Who’s taken a rally driving course before?”

A couple of the guys had, and once again, Devon.

“Well, all right. Let’s pair off by experience and less experience. Go!”

Several dudes made a beeline for Devon, but Rhys was right there. He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned triumphantly at the losers. “Too slow.”

“Ah, fuck off, Chair Force.” Muttering, they slunk away to find other partners.

Each pair was assigned an instructor. Rhys and Devon’s was a tall man with weathered brown skin and a whitish-gray beard.

“I’m Les Camarillo, Special Forces ODA 555, the ‘Triple Nickel.’ Nice to meetcha.”

A Green Beret. Rhys was impressed. This course was gonna be no joke.

Les shook both their hands and then led them over to a battered old Pontiac Grand Am. “Let’s see what you can do, young lady.”

They all donned helmets. Devon climbed into the driver’s seat, Rhys in the passenger’s, Les in the back.

“Nice and easy around the first few curves, and then we’ll pick up the pace after you get a feel for the car.”

Despite its outward junkyard appearance, the car was well-maintained. There were four-point safety harnesses for every seat, and the interior was reinforced with roll bars. The engine roared as Devon shifted into first and accelerated down the road.

Rhys hung on to the doorframe, his elbow propped in the open window. Hot wind rushed in, the dust tickling his nostrils and stinging his eyes. Off to his right, rows and rows of derelict airplanes sat baking in the desert sun, an eerie sight that sent a shiver up Rhys’s spine.

Airplane boneyard off to the right; civilian airfield off to the left, and smack-dab in the middle of it all, the U.S. Special Operations Command Parachute Training Facility and Tactical Mobility Course.

“Gun it around that next curve!” Les shouted.

Devon downshifted and floored it. Suddenly they were confronted with a huge pool of water which stretched clear across the road. They hit it at eighty miles an hour and hydroplaned.

The car’s back end drifted up and to the left. Smoothly, calmly, Devon steered into the skid, righting the car’s nose and getting them back on track without missing a single beat.

“Yeah!” Rhys pumped his fist out the window and laughed in sheer exhilaration. “Get some!”

Each curve revealed an obstacle. One time it was some cardboard cutouts of terrified civilians in the middle of the road, another time a “sniper” in the trees. Les patiently coached Devon through some advanced evasive techniques, but she didn’t need all that much help.

“Last easy curve, and then it’ll be our redheaded friend’s turn.”

Rhys gulped. Devon would be one hard act to follow.

As she sped around the bend in the road, Les suddenly leaned forward and held a piece of cardboard over her eyes.

Rhys shouted in alarm when the car drifted, the left front tire leaving the road in a spray of gravel. She corrected gently and got them more or less centered, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Without a word, Les jerked away the cardboard. Up ahead were some orange traffic cones, and Devon had a split second to gauge the distance and avoid them.

“Hit ’em and you fail!”