As he followed Bacon out of the dining facility, he didn’t regret being open about Greg to the team. He’d never really been in the closet, but he’d spent too many years when he was younger watching his words, worrying about what others might think. Screw that. Life was far too short to hide, and besides, it was bound to come up at some point the next few weeks. Better to just get it out in the open now.
But Petty Officer Bacon did not seem to agree, all but glowering as he stomped ahead.
“You okay with walking or should I get a Jeep?” he barked at Spencer. Damn. He’d thought Bacon was the open-minded one of the group, but he was sure as hell acting put out.
“Totally fine with walking. Listen, if you have a problem with me—”
“I don’t.” A muscle worked in his jaw.
“You don’t like me,” Spencer said bluntly. Speaking of getting things out in the open, they needed to address this now. If Bacon was to be his handler, it benefited them both to not have an actively hostile relationship.
“I’d like you a lot better on any team other than mine,” Bacon shot back as he sped up his walking pace. “And at the risk of inflating what has to be a Super Duty size ego, I’m a fan of your writing stuff. But you’re the last thing my team needs.”
“You’re a fan?” Spencer couldn’t help but smile.
“Knew that would be the part you focused on,” Bacon grumbled. “You’re not a bad writer, okay? But we don’t need a reporter—any reporter—potentially fucking up our mission. And if you tell the LT I said that—”
“I won’t,” Spencer promised before Bacon could finish his threat. “I get your reservations, I do. But just give me a chance, okay? I’m not out to make you or your buddies look bad.”
“Why do you want this assignment anyway?” Bacon demanded. They were passing nondescript buildings and carefully manicured grounds, but Bacon didn’t slow down and point out the sights to Spencer, instead marching on.
“My book about injured vets sold well. My publisher would like to see more like that from me, and this was an easy freelance pitch to my old paper for the feature piece, so there’s that.” Spencer tried for light, which only made Bacon glower more. He was going to just leave it at that, let Bacon frown himself into next week, but then some of the truth spilled out. “I saw a number of spec ops guys in my research at Walter Reed. It got me intrigued about how modern warfare operates out in the field. And then one of them died last year. Felt like maybe I owed it to him to pursue this story, jump through all the PR hoops to make it happen.”
“He died in the line of duty?” Bacon sounded marginally less combative.
“No. Suicide.” The word hurt, almost like it scraped his throat on the way out, and his voice was unnaturally rough. Bacon went pale and slowed his pace.
“Fucking sucks,” he said with far more feeling than Spencer would have expected.
“Yeah, it does,” Spencer agreed. It did fucking suck, no two ways about it. Even now, his back went slick with sweat, stomach full of guilt and dread, as he remembered that awful phone call from Harry’s wife. But nothing would be served by telling Bacon how Harry’s death had utterly gutted him, so he kept his voice even. “But he saw things that few people ever do. And those stories, they feel...significant.”
Bacon was silent a long time, plodding along, looking down at his feet.
“I get it,” he said at last. “But not gonna lie, wish they’d assigned you elsewhere. Rangers, maybe.” He gave a forced laugh, then straightened his posture to point at the giant obstacle course they were coming up to. “This is the grinder. It’s where the recruits spend significant time, but we train here too.”
“Awesome,” Spencer said as a long column of young men jogged up. He thought he spied a few females in there too, but it was hard to say with all of them in identical camo uniforms and short haircuts. They were all young, many looking not yet out of their teens. They were accompanied by a couple of older men, the instructors most likely, judging from how they barked orders at the assembled recruits.
“Bacon?” One of the instructors broke away from the group. “What are you doing here, man?”
“Hey, Wizard. This is reporter Spencer Bryant.” Bacon gestured at him. His tone was far warmer than Spencer had heard it so far, personable even. Maybe he wasn’t a perpetual bad-mood guy, after all. “He’s going to embed with our team. LT wants him to see BUD/S today, so we’re going to watch your guys do their thing, if that’s okay.”