Whisper 01: Trina and Lynn

He was asked to stay 'for a brief chat'.

After Lynn outlined all of the man's offshore bank accounts, and his undocumented and unreported contacts with senior intelligence officials behind the Iron Curtain Lynn had one piece of advice for him, "Either do as the President has told you. Or be carried out in a body bag. You don't get to 'retire' until you are 70. Boss's orders."

The deputy director doubted the President had said that - but he knew damn well The Coyote could carry it out himself or get The Snake or one of the independents to do it for him! The threat of terminate with extreme prejudice was very, very real!

Trina meanwhile took a Navy flight to the Seals basic training site to see firsthand the training this specialized unit was receiving. Two weeks later it would be off to Fort Bragg for Green Beret training.

She knew the macho men would try and run her little ass in the ground, toss snakes at her and try and freak out 'the little lady' that a pot load of macho bullshit.

She had seen a much different version in the newsrooms around the country and the White House press briefing room. But it was the same, "What's a pretty lady like you doing in this male domain? We'll show you and get you to run away squealing like a little girl!"

After half a day of watching Seals trainees being physically tortured, they took her to the advanced training areas which included survival skills. One of the training instructors, who growled in French "who's the cunt?" as Trina walked up was busy with something.

He then quickly tossed a live snake at her. Trina jumped back as the men started to laugh, but only long enough to determine what it was not and then an arm shot down like a cobra snatching the large bull snake behind its head before it could squiggle off after landing in the soft undergrowth.

She then tossed it like a curvy spear at the Chief Petty Officer's face. He failed to react in time and got himself bitten.

"Fucking Seal's 'lightning reflexes' my late grandmothers pruned up ass," Trina growled at her escorting officer as the CPO pried the snake off his face and dropped it into the undergrowth unharmed - it wasn't the snake's fault - as he glared at her.

Some of the trainees snickered while her escort officer and NCO tried not to smile.

The Seal trainer was being an ass, but they would not denigrate his authority by dressing him down in front of his students. And frankly they probably would not have to.

She handled it without affront as if she expected it as she turned to one of the trainees and asked what they were doing, "Besides trying to fuck a snake!"

The vulgarity surprised the men, who tended to get crude in the middle of hard training.

That afternoon's training continued into hand-to-hand combat and using a combat knife.

The instructor, having been told what had happened, asked her if she wanted a demonstration when Trina surprised him by pulling off her worn hiking boots and thick, cotton, practical socks and stepped up to the mat barefoot and bowed then approached after stretching and reminding everyone she was 100% all woman.

There were delicious curves, and muscles by damn, inside those clothes!

He looked at her questioning and decided to 'take it easy' on her but make his point - only to wonder what he had in his opponent as she moved slowly around, clockwise and counter-clockwise, her arms and hands hanging loosely by her side.

He fainted a couple of times to judge her reaction only to have her counter-faint instantaneously to evaluate his as he countered the surprising counterattack.

Trina knew the man had 60 to 70 pounds on her and considerable strength as well as length and leverage. And she knew she could not win in an all-out match, unless she literally went for the jugular. But she could hold her own in a sparring situation.

The NCO tried a leg sweep only to have her leap and snap kick him in the face bloodying his lip as the trainees collectively exhaled as she was landing lightly on her left foot.

The NCO stepped back, wiped his lip looking at his blood, spit out a glob and smiled. It was a wicked smile.

He faked a second sweep and punched, landing a glancing blow but taking one and then finding his feet being swept out from underneath him. He barely rolled out of the way of a heel spike aimed at his hip - if she gone for his gonads, she would have connected! And for almost three minutes they went at it.

He caught her on the cheek, scraped her eyebrow, splitting it partially open, but she smashed an instep and deeply bruised a calve. Then the survival instructor walked up and tossed one of the heavy rubber training knives at the NCO saying 'weapons' only to see Trina cartwheel over the first lunge and grab a two-foot piece of steel rebar lying beside the training mat.

She dropped into a fencer's stance and the escort NCO muttered, "Oh fuck!" to himself. It was heard by four or five of the trainees.

For the next 90 seconds Trina took the NCO to school, fending off his knife thrusts, whacking him heel to head with the side of the rebar, then flipping him and forcefully placing the tip of the rebar on his Adam's apple as she leaned over, sweat dropped off the end of her nose and chin - it was the east coast, and it was hot and humid - and growled.

"I was always taught to know your opponent's capabilities you SOB. I am still a world class fencer. You were better off hand to hand. You would have eventually had me there," she said as she flicked the rebar through the two-inch rubber mat 6 inches in the ground reaching down and grasping the instructor's wrist jerking him to his startled feet.

She then turned to 'snake man' and growled, "I get the rebar, and you get a real knife - like the one on your leg. Do you like your chances Mister Asshole?" she smirked her eyes daring him to take her up on it.

The man glared, his face turning beet red in what everyone thought was anger and then he broke out in a deep belly laugh.

"God damn little lady, I want to meet the man who can tame you. Shit no, I don't like my chances. Now I remember the TV footage from '72 your wrists and hands are too fucking quick for me," he said as he reached out a hand and said, "Permanent truce?"

"Yes, you miserable, cock sucking, asshole rimming, chauvinistic Neanderthal," Trina growled as she took his hand, and everyone laughed.

"Miss, could I impose on you to explain what you did," he asked. "Before today I would have said the old skills were useless, but damnit I couldn't get past your defenses - not without one or both of us getting seriously hurt," he said, reaching up to gentle wipe the blood off her eyebrow.

"Water," Trina responded. "I'm parched. I haven't had that hard of a workout in months!"

For an hour the instructors asked her to half-speed what was done.

"Okay you meatheads, bottom line she has close combat reaction skills. I bet we hand her a training knife, and it's close to the same. She's just able to do what we don't train to do, skillfully handle a long weapon which are subtle but highly effective changes in angle, location and altitude.

"Let me guess either judo or karate training in college?" snake man asked as he rubbed the snake bite on his cheek seeing her smile maliciously, "Both. For better eye hand quickness. First degree black in karate, second in jujitsu," she admitted as the instructors winced.

"Guys, that kind of opponent knows how to kill you with their hands," the hand-to-hand NCO softly said.

"I knew I was underestimating her because she moved so well, but I couldn't figure it out because it was a mixture of both martial arts and fencing movements. A wicked blend, ma'am. Wicked," he said, admiration obvious by his tone of respect.

After supper, the instructor leadership postponed the evening training to let Trina 'bullshit' with the trainees for an hour before they went out. Then for more than two hours she got to have a deep background talk with the NCOs - "no officers. Not a fucking one!" she demanded pleased she got what she wanted.

"Ma'am, you were the one that broke the story on the fuck-up in Africa, right?" asked the command master sergeant. "You do know some of the brass are still trying to figure out who talked to you," he warned her.

"Won't do any good," she said on her third beer. The first two were burned off from the aftermath of the afternoon's exercise. She would limit herself to this and one other.

"No one talked to me initially," she said. "I just heard bits and pieces and started digging."

After several other conversations, including a half dozen 'hypothetical' mission discourses that Trina knew were not fantasy but actually post-action reporting, the No. 2 NCO commented, "Miss T, regardless of the egg on faces, your stories got the agency wennies out of our litter box. Or at least the wanna-bes who don't know what it takes. The ones over there who have been in the real world of combat were being ignored," he said confirming what she had grown to assume had happened.

"And word is the president's man tore some new asshole today in the big house after the boss gave him overall 'see it all' authority."

"How in the hell did you hear that," the command NCO demanded, who was finishing his first six pack - Trina's nonchalance and her ability to take the shit and hand it back had rattled all of them.

"Had to visit with a brother from another mother about something before supper and he said the agencies, plural, are in an uproar. Ford gave the Coyote 'go/no go' authority over the President's signature on any special missions. Any - and all!"

"Thank God. The crazy sonofabitch knows how to check a plan to best protect his people and still accomplish the mission. Maybe we do have a life expectancy of more than days," the command NCO replied.

"Why's the Coyote crazy?" Trina said, intentionally slurring her words only to get an earful about a crazy, slap-together mission to rescue "the fucking green beanies" followed by "an even crazier two-man missions to get six out of the cages."

It was well after midnight before Trina had pried most of the details from the men.

She knew it would be a bitch of a morning, as reveille was coming in less than four hours. But she had a better understanding of what had been between her legs two days earlier! Oh my! She had bedded a fucking American hero - that no one would ever know about!

The next morning in the mess hall it was the two top NCOs and Trina - the officers had figured she knew her shit, and the seasoned dogs were the ones to talk to.

Besides she looked at them like uncles or grandfathers, the officers she distrusted thinking they were more interested in turf protection and/or getting into her pants.

She was correct on both counts.

Plus, they all, officers and NCOs alike, appreciated her bulldogged determination to let the facts fall where they may. And one of their brethren had heard she had raised bloody hell with her editors demanding 'equal play' 'above the fold' for her stories about their successful missions. She even threatened to quit and call her editors at the Christian Science Monitor - who would have cackled at the scoop at the Post's expense!

"Miss, I am fearful we talked too much last night about something, someone. Can we get you to forget that?" the command gunny plea fully asked.

"No, I won't forget it. But I also won't ever use it if you will answer one question for me, truthfully and completely. Is Lynn Hightower the Coyote?" she asked her eyes refusing to release his to dart towards his best friend's face for advice.

"Ah fuck!" the No. 2 NCO said. "How in the hell did you figure that out?"

Trina broke her visual hold and stared at her plate pushing some really nice grits around and asking herself how honest she was going to be with herself.

"I knew him casually while in high school, but never had a chance to date. And I agreed to never talk his shop with him. We did not talk since spring of 1969 until just three days ago," she said to remove questions about him being her source.

"Not to go any further. Please? My editors would send me to report on the butterfly mating tendencies in Greenland if they knew," she asked looking at the men as they nodded their heads yes. They had nothing to lose, and something 'interesting' to gain.

"I climbed out Lynn's bed to come down here," she said feeling herself blush as she held an eye lock on the two men

"And how does he feel about you?" the senior NCO asked softly realizing he had daughters within a couple of years of her age.

"We're going to find out this weekend," she replied quietly. "I knew he was the President's SF man. And we stay away from the subject by mutual agreement. And his boss knows about us.

"But I don't know the man. But all the scars are warning me that he is deep, complex. And probably, like most of you hardheaded idiots, he won't talk about it instead playing tough guy and letting the bad memories eat you up instead of talking about it and letting it out," she said firmly challenging the men to deny it was an occupational hazard.

"You got it bad?" the No. 2 asked, his daughter was the same age.

"I think so. The physical is there. I'm intrigued about his intelligence. Oh, shit I can't believe I'm talking about this with two virtual strangers," she moaned loud enough that a couple of NCOs glanced over and then looked away scared of the two NCOs.

While not scared of anything, other than their wives on a mad, they were scared of the two top kicks of the training school. Those bastards were flat out dangerous!

"Yes, we bottle it up too much. Generally, we talk to each other, but not enough. My wife used whiskey bottles on me, as in breaking them over my head, and his used broom handles on him after rolling his drunk ass up in a blanket to make him talk it out.

"They tag teamed us one at a time to force us to talk about our nightmares.," he said softly, not looking away from the young woman.

"I'm not sure how you get Lynn to talk, but I would start by asking him how he got a scar. Then peel back the information layer by layer like a sack full of onions, to get to all of the facts," he suggested. "At least that's what Becky did with me - when I woke up. She and Betty knocked him out, after beating me to a pulp," the No. 2 replied.

"Are you specializing in Special Forces?" the No. 1 asked.

"No, some of my editors have suggested I work other areas. But first I get to do a series on your training, and how your guys feel about the missions and training; then the beanies in about 10 days; then the Rangers," she said.

"Yeah, you want some old school guys with big balls, check into the Seabees," the command NCO said after quietly, sternly listening to the conversation. "They do their jobs while taking fire the whole time. And folks think we're crazy!"

"Then look into the chopper pilots and the submariners," the No. 2 suggested.

"We give all of them all the shit we can. But they are pros doing tough jobs with no recognition," he added not stating the obvious - that the description applied to them as well.

"Thanks fellas. Is there any way my love life's not the first topic for the NCO Club tonight?" she asked.

"Our lips are sealed, but I would just love for Dukey to see you hanging on Coyote's arm in answer to his question of the man who tames you," the No. 1 said smiling.

"Who said I was the one whose being tamed?" she smirked as the two men broke out in deep laughter.

"Fuck girl I think you just might be the one."

As Trina walked out to the flight deck to leave, she was met by four NCOs, Dukey, snake man, walked up to her, took off his weather beaten, sweat stained, but clean jungle hat - he had washed it last night and dried it - with the SF flash on the front and put it on her head.

"You have to go anywhere where there are SF folks, you wear that. When they ask you where you get it? You tell them Dukey gave it to you for whipping his ass," he said laughing. "And drunk or sober, no I'm not going blade on blade with you. You're too fucking quick!"

Trina spent the flight scribbling a lead, nailing it on the second try knowing she would now tweak it.

Then she outlined the flow of this story. They were honorable men asked to do dirty, dangerous jobs risking not only their lives but more importantly the stability of their own families, their own family's sanity, to protect this country.

She would include just enough of the sharp-toned displeasure at the failures of leadership to appease her bosses and make them see what she saw. She was able to write subtle about as clear as the neon sign on the Vegas strip. Men worthy of being their country's leaders will to sacrifice them so the others could enjoy their lives.

She would also include a snippet about them burying the horrors they had seen and participated in - to their own emotional detriment in hopes her editor would swallow the bait and let her follow up along those lines.

Landing shortly before noon, she went to the office and checked in with her editors giving them a quick summary: love the enlisted, officers were officers, even special Forces, trying to look smarter by seeing the big picture.

Then she asked her editors what they knew about the Seabees, chopper pilots and submariners learning that they knew a fair amount and would 'check around' to see how to turn her loose on those stories.

The editors grew up with Ernie Pyle and realized the knockout woman who was a talented writer could accomplish much the same - and it would take that to restore faith in the American military. Which was an honorable goal for the enlisted men, even if much of the brass needed to be flushed down the sewer.

They knew she was also gathering information about drug abuse in the military - but they knew better than to push her towards a preordained conclusion. She would call a spade a spade by just letting the facts fall as they may. Plus, the word was the brass was about to get really pro-active in dealing with the issue.

She then ran home, showered, did her lady business and packed for the weekend.

She was sipping her second glass of wine trying to figure if she had the nerve to uncover those wounds when there came a gentle knock on her door, she was learning was his.

She jumped up and got the door and jumped into his arms for a kiss.

"Wine?" he asked.

"Yes," she saucily replied. "After getting on the hand-to-hand mat with a beanie, hell yes," she said.

"You did what?" Lynn exclaimed looking at her incredulously as he took her glass from her hand and drank a sip deciding they had some common tastes in wine and went and fixed one, and only one for himself. He was driving, as they sat, and she told him briefly what had happened.

"Who was the snake man?" he asked.

"They called him Dukey," she replied.

"Elmer K. Duke, one mean, tough, hardnosed son-of-a-bitch who one would expect to keep his women dressed in toe sacks barefoot and pregnant," Lynn growled.

"You tangled with him! And dared him to get on the mat with you? With a real knife? Are you crazy?" he said shaking his head not believing what he was hearing.

"Listen buster. I'm a cunt in a world full of pricks. I have to battle toe-to-toe with them to earn any respect. If I try the skin flashing charm, they will just want me for what only you get to use me for," she growled obviously angry.

"Okay," he said. "Peace. Paz. Timeout. And in hindsight you did hold your own with the hand-to-hand man. He wouldn't let Duke cross the line. Although really, I don't think he would have crossed the line - just proven his point, which you didn't let him," Lynn said realizing he was angry Ing her and needed to defuse her mood. Quickly!

"His wife stands up to him regularly. And no, she doesn't wear a tow sack or go around PG all the time. He just wishes she would - so he'd have easier access," Lynn snickered getting Trina to giggle at the visual. While an 'older man' Dukey was a solidly built man and based on the bulge even when she wasn't in front of him, he was packing an interesting package.