Free News From the Red Desert by Kevin Patterson Page B

InformationIsFree.​com. Some of it, the memo speculated, may have compromised operational security and may have pertained to military operations involving Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom. Any contact with media personnel who ask about or refer to that website shall be reported to the sender of this briefing, the memo concluded.
    He set aside the memo and shuffled through his inbox. There were last-minute confirmations of attendance at Stewart Robinson’s discussion.
Foreign Affairs
had loved his book, as did
Foreign Policy
and the
Times
and the
Post.
Reading those reviews, Horner thought he could detect the envy of every foreign policy wonk in the country—intellectuals all, longing to be adventurers. And Robinson worked it well. He was charismatic and, when it served his narrative purposes, funny. Equally, the soldiers who followed the lay discussion about the war—and all the ambitious senior officers did—were struck by the meteoric rise of Robinson’s media profile. Speed trumps weight, pithy paragraphs trump credentials, and individuals’ stories are more gripping than collective ones: the sort of thing that made soldiers hate the press. Jessica Lynch becoming more famous than Tommy Franks. “Welcome to my world,” thought Horner as he adjusted the attendance figures for the talk.
    Robinson would be done his shower by now. Horner stood. He told himself he was still a journalist. It was just that now he worked on one big story. What a book he himself could write. He should start keeping notes. Then he felt ridiculous for even thinking that. But he should be keeping notes reflexively. A journal, maybe. He’d come here for a reason, after all. He had wanted to have a larger life.

    Horner parked his truck in the lot a few hundred yards from the barracks. When Robinson emerged, Horner was waiting near the door. “Better than a tent, isn’t it?”
    “When did these go up?”
    “Three years ago, I think. There were here when I got here.”
    “When I was last here, everyone was under canvas.”
    “But you were used to it.”
    Nodding. “On my walk I slept under the sky, most of the time.” The two men headed for Horner’s truck.
    “Does it still seem real to you that you did it—walked across this country?”
    “It often doesn’t.”
    “What do you remember the best?”
    “How shockingly cold it gets on a clear night in winter.”
    “I can’t imagine.”
    “You could, though. Go out on patrol with the guys.”
    “I was just thinking I should, actually. Anything you want to know about this reception we’re going to?”
    “Who’s coming?”
    “Mostly senior field officers. Majors to full colonels. The generals usually keep out of these things. Undefined terrain and all that. There will be a couple of CIA guys there.”
    “No doubt they’ll stick out.”
    “They usually do. Though they rarely say much.”
    “Will there be Special Forces or Joint Special Operations Command there?”
    “I don’t know. Depends on how busy they are. They don’t RSVP.”
    As they neared the truck, the sirens sounded and they exchanged a look, Horner inexplicably grinning and Robinson puzzled by Horner’s reaction. The major ran then, waving Robinson to follow him. They got to the blast shelter just as the first rocket struck. A hundred and three millimetres in diameter: you wouldn’t think it would pack so much explosive. But the report left their ears ringing and they both felt the concussion deep in their chests.
    Horner was not used to the rockets yet. Every few days there was an attack. Every few weeks someone was hurt, though no one had been killed by one since he had arrived. He was telling this to Robinson when he noticed how amused the Brit was by it all. By him. He realized he was talking too fast. He sounded scared and—worse—delighted. He stopped talking. The all clear siren rang. They stepped out from under the blast shelter and headed back to Horner’s truck. When they