Sandra Hill by Down, Dirty Page B

about some sugar cookies now, snuffie?” Chieftain F.U. said, standing practically toe to toe with her. “Snuffies are the lowest rank in a training compound, in case you didn’t know, and you ladies are the lowest of the low.”
    In her weakened condition, Britta could barely take her usual pleasure in noting that he was a half head shorter than her. That was no doubt why he picked on her. “Petty Officer Asado, why don’t you show us how it’s done?” Petty officer was the rank given to all the women who had not come up through their regular military. They would have assigned her the same rank she had in the Norse navy, which she had learned was a type of military. Instead, she’d demurred and accepted the same as the others. Besides, being an officer in WEALS gave no special privileges. All of them were treated alike. Badly.
    She flopped down to the beach for the exercise called “sugar cookies” and rolled over so that the sand clung to her skin, her clothing, her hair, and in fact some unmentionable places that sand should never be. The other women followed her example.
    “No, no, no, sweetheart. Put your face in it.” Chieftain F.U. placed a boot on the back of her neck so that sand went into her mouth, her nose, and her eyes. Then he used the same boot to tip her over to her back. “Now wiggle your hips a little, like a worm. That’s it. Pretend you’re getting nailed, and you like it a lot. Oh, yeah, baby. Now you look just like a sugar cookie. Good enough to eat.”
    Britta did not see the humor in his joke, but several of the men laughed.
    “That’ll be enough for now,” she heard someone say behind her.
    “Says who?” Chieftain F.U. asked.
    “Says me, maggot. Pick up your gear and meet me and the commander in his office at eleven hundred. And, ladies, at ease. You can go to your rooms to shower before lunch, then report back to the grinder at oh two hundred.” Under his breath, the same man murmured something about “inappropriate conduct for an officer.”
    It sounded like Zack-hairy coming to their defense, but it was hard to tell with all the sand clogging her ears.
    Moving clumsily to a sitting position, she blinked repeatedly, trying to get the sand out of her eyes. Unable to see, she took hold of the hand stretched out to her. When she was standing, she saw that it was indeed Zack-hairy, and for once he was not grinning.
    “You exceed yourself, lout, coming to my defense. I can protect myself.”
    “Bullshit!”
    “Crude oaf!”
    “Come on,” he said, still holding on to her hand and leading her back into the water.
    “No,” she squealed, trying to pull out of his grasp, to no avail. “No more salt water.”
    “It’s the best way, honey.”
    Still, she resisted.
    But then he lifted her in his arms, something the brute persisted in doing, though Britta could not recall any man but him being able to do it since she’d gained her full height at sixteen winters. “Here we go,” he said, tossing her into an enormous oncoming wave, which hit her like a stone wall, knocking her over, then tumbling her head over heels, repeatedly.
    Britta was not sure how much more punishment she could take, especially from this man. Now she had salt water in her mouth and nose and ears and throat, in addition to the sand. She was on her hands and knees crawling toward the beach minutes later, coughing, too tired to raise herself to a standing position.
    Zack-hairy sat on the beach, arms resting on raised knees, watching her. If he dared to laugh, she might very well pick him up and dump him in the ocean. And she could do it, too, in the mood she was in.
    When she got close to him, she managed to maneuver herself into a sitting position. And, actually, Zack-hairy’s maneuver had helped remove the sand from her eyes and some of it from her other body cavities.
    She was too exhausted to chastise him, like she usually did, but she could look. The man was too pretty for words. He matched her in height