Page 7 of Hot & Heavy

horse, but then all a cowboy had to do was just hang on. In skydiving, it took a leap of faith to go out that door, but then the ride took over.

A superstitious lot, SEALs did the oddest things for good luck… odd to civilians, that is. Instead of a rabbit's foot, Cage carried an alligator tooth in his pocket. Omar did this odd chanting thing under his breath. Pretty Boy ate oatmeal and only oatmeal the morning of a jump. JAM, of course, had a crucifix hanging from his neck, despite regulations that SEALs wear no jewelry, including dog tags; at the last minute he would stash it in his boot. Sly, who swore a blue streak on most occasions… effin this and effin that… abstained till his feet hit the ground. Slick chewed gum… spearmint only. Ian personally insisted that he always be the last guy off the stick.

They wore helmets, breathing masks, night-vision goggles, fingerless Kevlar gloves and jump suits, some of which would be discarded once they completed their insertion. Those items would be hidden from sight till the extraction a day or two from now when a chopper would come and lower rappeling ropes to them. Under their suits, they wore camouflage, and they would cammie up their faces, too.

The oxygen was needed because they would be free-falling through the atmosphere, starting at 25,000

feet and not opening their stealth chutes till they were at about 2,500 feet from the ground. The greatest advantage of HALOs was that they allowed the plane and the teams to pass below the enemy radar.

In full combat ruck, they each carried roughly seventy-five pounds of provisions, everything from top-of-the-line weapons to radio equipment to GPS (Global Positioning System) locators to NVGs (night-vision goggles) to MREs (meals ready to eat).

The noise of the engines precluded any conversation, so, they mostly communicated with hand signals or through headsets fixed to an inter-team channel. Two minutes before they hit the drop zone, the jump master mouthed and at the same time signaled by raising his arm, "Stand up." Then, "Hook up."

The eight of them hooked up to the static line, a cable running the length of the cargo bay. Some of them made the sign of the cross, even those who were not Catholic. They stood practically ass to belly, wanting to go out and land as close as possible to each other.

"Stand in the door!" was the next order. The whole stick shuffled forward and the point man, Cage, stood with palms on the outside edge of the open doorway, feet slightly apart, one foot a little behind the other, legs bent slightly. When the jump master yelled "Go," Cage went out with a wild whoop, immediately followed by Pretty Boy, JAM, Geek, Omar, Sly, Slick and then Ian, who was always the tail.

The plane's engine droned off into the distance. They were on their own now.

Belly dancing was not her thing…

After two years and nine different harems, Madrene knew, even if the various caliphs and sultans did not, that she was not cut out to be a houri. And, truth to tell, her belly button wouldn't hold a jewel no matter what they tried.

Women of the harems were supposed to be sweet and beautiful and compliant, none of which described Madrene. And she certainly did not know how to dance, or want to learn, with or without a bloody ruby stuck in her navel. Yech! It was silly, really, and she'd told the eunuch teachers so, earning her the first of many switchings with an olive branch. At least those didn't leave scars as Steinolf's leather whips and rope ties had.

She should be insulted that she'd been discarded by one Arab potentate after another. Not so! Although being sold a sennight ago to this bedouin tribe in the Arab mountains after two years of swallowing sand in the Baghdad region was a bit of a blow to her pride. Especially since the men… and women… here smelled ripe betimes, like the back end of a camel, an animal she had come to loathe. Sheikh Fakhir's large tribe did not follow the Norse practice of frequent bathing; in fact, she'd yet to see one of them set soap to skin. Not like the city Arabs who bathed and perfumed themselves daily, men and women alike.

She was less than aromatic herself, being forced to follow the nomadic tribe's practices.

"Tell me again how you came to be here," demanded Zena, Fakhir's fourteen-year-old third wife.

Madrene was only his fourth concubine, which meant that Zena could order her about. The little halfbrained maggot!

When she'd first arrived in this land, Madrene had been able to speak bits of the Arab language because of the trading she'd done as mistress of Norstead. After living here for two years, she'd become proficient. Thus, she was able to understand Zena's words.

Right now, Zena… short and very plump… was admiring herself in a piece of polished brass that Fakhir had given her when she'd pleased him particularly well in his bed rugs. Madrene knew he was pleased because they all slept on rugs in the same tent, all seventeen of the family and workers, and everyone got to hear all of Fakhir's grunts and Zena's squeals of pleasure. Holy Frigg! You would think a pig was being stuck.

Instead of obeying Zena's order, Madrene said, "I cannot understand how you can bear to have Fakhir slake his lust on you. What any man needs with three wives and four concubines is beyond my comprehension."

"It is a sign of his wealth," Zena said in her usual condescending manner. If she only knew how ridiculous she looked when she turned up that hooked nose of hers. "You envy me, that is why you speak so disparagingly of my husband."

Oh, yea, I envy sharing bed furs with an old man who has seen at least fifty summers. A repulsive, hairy man who has stomach problems which cause him to break wind at the most inappropriate times. Like during prayers… or lovemaking… or riding his favorite camel. That was what Madrene thought, but she did not dare share those sentiments with Zena, who would report back to her beloved spouse. Fakhir was already angry with Madrene, feeling that he had been duped in his purchase of an accomplished concubine… her. Ha, ha, ha!

Zena picked up a date from a wooden bowl and popped it into her mouth. "Entertain me, or I will tell my husband that you displease me. He will have you beaten… or something."

It was the "or something" that worried Madrene. While she pondered the threat, she continued to work the wooden churn which would eventually, after great strain to her arms, turn the camel's milk into a loathsome form of butter. Better this than the curdled camel's milk she'd made yesterday, which hung inside the tent in a large leather pouch. To the Arabs' delight and her dismay, one camel, even without drinking any water, could produce five buckets of milk per day.

You'd never know that she was supposed to be a pampered concubine, not that the leisurely life mattered a whit to her. Madrene had run her father's large farmstead for years, and milking a cow had always given her an earthy feeling of satisfaction. Milking a stubborn, spitting camel was a whole other matter!

"Did you hear me, you lazy wench?" Zena whined. "I want to be amused."

Madrene gave Zena a sweeping look that clearly showed which one of them was the lazy wench. Zena totally mistook her survey, and preened as if Madrene had been admiring her.

Madrene sighed at the uselessness of insulting the silly girl. "I come from a noble family in the Norselands," she said, even though she'd told Zena this story in one version or another several times before. "My holding was invaded and I was taken to your Arab lands."

"Why did your family not come to rescue you?"

"They are all dead."