Hard Beat

We are two men with extremely different backgrounds and experiences in life, and yet it’s unmistakable how similar our stories are. I stare at his picture for quite some time, wondering what atrocities he has seen, what life-changing events he has experienced, and can’t help but feel ten times closer to this man whom I’ve only known from our limited forms of communication.

Clarity comes at me loud and clear: Beaux wasn’t trying to steal my damn story. She was trying to capture a moment in time that relays an entire encyclopedia’s worth of information in a single snap of her shutter.

For hours, I get lost in the images. Over and over I flip through them until I have to take a break, because you can only look at the truth staring you in the face so long before it becomes a sign of your own stupidity. Sighing, I lean back against the headboard and consider how I could possibly make this right. Because as hard as it is to admit, I was wrong. Beaux’s an incredible photographer.

No one will replace Stella, and I need to come to terms with that right now before I waste more time fighting something that’s not even in front of me. While Stella was an incredible photographer, she looked through her lens at the world in a different light than Beaux does. It feels silly to justify it this way, but it’s so true.

Now, I need to figure out how to eat some crow… served right alongside a dash of praise. Problem is the very notion sticks in my throat like a blob of peanut butter. No one likes to admit they misjudged someone.

Especially a man.

For a while I debate my options, but eventually I figure straightforward is the best way to go about this; the least painful of all routes. I suck it up, knowing I’ll need to go find her, but just as I close my laptop, my phone rings. The screen shows a random sequence of numbers that appears to be a satellite phone, which causes excitement to charge through me like a current, and I immediately pick up.

“Thomas here.”

“Tanner, it’s Sergeant Jones,” the rigid voice on the other end of the line says as my hopes rise higher.

“Sarge! Long time, no talk.” A smile spreads on my lips because it’s been too long and oddly I’ve missed his stiff demeanor and dry sense of humor. More important, I miss the favoritism he shows me.

“You chose to come back to this paradise? Shit, why don’t you just enlist if you want to put yourself through the punishment?”

“And steal your glory? Nah, I couldn’t do that to you.” I laugh at our long-running joke.

“Thanks for your humility.” He chuckles. “So, uh, you want to tell me your source’s name?”

And here we go, right back in the continual dance of him asking and me refusing.

“You know I can’t do that, but I did let you know what I’d heard,” I say as a means of an apology. I had to let Sarge know it’s known to locals that his guys are privy to an upcoming meet, because if locals know, then possibly the opposition does too, and that puts Sarge’s guys in danger.

“Thank you.”

“No thank-you needed. A story is a story, but our guys’ safety comes first.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to Stella.”

“Thanks.” The line falls quiet and I hate the silence, so the next step of our dance. “So I have a favor to ask you.”

“Ahhh.” He laughs. “No, you cannot go out on the next mission.”

“C’mon, Sarge. I’m bored to tears here. Help out your favorite journalist.”

His sigh comes through loud and clear, and I know he’s thinking about it. At a time when the military hates the post–Iraqi Freedom world where embedded journalists are allowed, the press are considered both a blessing and a curse. When things go well, our presence is a good thing for the men in office because they have an unbiased commercial to use to rally support for the millions of dollars they are spending to combat terrorism. On the other hand, when things go to hell in a handbasket, there’s a documented blow-by-blow of the botched mission that can either turn public tide against the military objective as a whole or find a single person or unit as a scapegoat to blame the error on.

It’s a fucked-up position to be in: to tell the truth and gain trust, all the while having the pressure from the public and the politicos to skew it to their liking. But I’m also aware I’ve earned a reputation with Sarge for not oversensationalizing situations and being fair to his men and their missions.

And I’ll use this unique status to my advantage every chance I can get. He’s required to have so many embedded reporters with him a month, and he prefers to use me over others. His silence tells me that he hasn’t had anyone ride with him in a while, and that means I’ll get my turn sooner rather than later.

“There’s nothing going on but knock and talks right now,” he says, referring to U.S. military knocking on neighborhood doors and talking to the residents to try and gain information on what the political undercurrent is in that specific area. “My guys are lying low.” I groan because this means I’m going to be stuck in this goddamn hotel. “But, how about you come out, hit the range?”

“Are you throwing me a bone here? Something to get me out in the sunshine for a bit?”

“As long as you don’t start humping my leg, we’re all good.”

I don’t hold back the laugh, excited that I get to leave the confines of the hotel and the overly paranoid eyes of my counterparts. “Deal. But I have a plus one. My new photog. She has clearance and everything, but —”