Chapter 1

 Chapter 1

When I heard that my colleague, Kevin Paskey, was shot while reporting live from Ukraine, I dropped everything and sprinted for the boss’s office. Desire to be the first and only candidate to take Kevin’s place fueled my urgency. Becoming a war correspondent wasn’t a passing fancy. It was the culmination of my work, my education, and my talents. It was a want that was so persistent, it had become a need.

My high-top Vans squeaked on the tile in the hallway before the editor’s office as I skidded to a halt. All the executive offices in the building had glass walls, so it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen me coming. Nor would my request be a surprise because it was no secret that I wanted to go to Ukraine. Now that opportunity was at my door, I would make sure it knocked.

I burst into the glass cube and made my request.

“Send me,” I said, out of breath. My heart was beating so fast that if she said no, I probably would have died on the spot from a massive heart attack.

Pamela Kemp, editor and chief of Titan Global News, looked up from the proofs scattered across her desk and raised her left eyebrow. I knew what that look meant. It meant she wouldn’t hand me the assignment without a major discussion. I would have to convince her that not only was I worthy, I was also hands-down the best candidate for the job.

Five years ago, when I’d interviewed for the job with Titan Global News, I was terrified Pamela wouldn’t hire me as a general assignment reporter. When she did, I was even more terrified that I would let her down. Working my way up the ranks, I currently held the lofty title of political correspondent covering the state legislature in Austin, Texas. Pamela’s tutelage had made me earn every bit of my experience. However grateful I was for the opportunities that had come my way, the time had arrived for me to move forward. In my mind, being a war correspondent was the next logical step.

“Jesus, Sheppard, ever since you saw that fucking movie, you’ve been insufferable,” Pamela said.

It wasn’t only since the movie Civil War came out, a story about a pair of journalists covering a future war in the United States that I’d longed to become a war correspondent. It was something I’d dreamed of my entire adult life. We both knew what I was asking for, but if she was going to agree to let me go, it would be because I made my case clearly and concisely, leaving no room for doubt that I was the best candidate. Since the first moment I’d opened a blank notebook with my pen ready to bear witness to the events there, or the first time I held a camera up to my face and twisted the focus, I had wanted to be a war correspondent.

“Send me to Ukraine,” I said.

This time both eyebrows rose, giving her an expression not simply surprised but also interested. “That’s amazing,” she said, looking at the expensive gold watch on her left wrist. “It took approximately four minutes for the news of Kevin’s injury to run from corporate to the newsroom.”

A burst of fear leapt from my heart when I thought she was putting me off. My desire to cover the war in Ukraine far outweighed any objections she might have. She knew me, and she knew I could do this. I was willing to stand there all day, hopping back and forth from one foot to another until it annoyed her enough to respond. She had to send me; she just had to.

Leaning back far enough to make her leather desk chair creak in protest, Pamela continued to observe me. Although I’d been with Titan for five years, her Vogue good looks and overwhelming confidence could still make me feel like a rookie reporter trying to impress upper management with my art of making obituaries sound exciting.

“Why should I send you?” she finally asked.

I had my response ready. In fact, I had practiced it over and over since being assigned to the college newspaper my freshman year. I’d rehearsed it enough to not even need notes. My time would come, and now, with the war in Ukraine, I finally had the experience, the knowledge, and the opportunity.

I held up my hand to count off the reasons. “I’m a writer and photographer. You get two for the price of one. I’ve been studying photography since I was old enough to hold a camera.” My dad bought me my first point-and-shoot when I was eight, and I’d never looked back. “I have a good eye for composition and form. Up to this point, Titan has been buying photos of the war in Ukraine from a freelance photographer. Taking the pictures myself will save the company thousands of dollars.”

This brought me to my second point. Although my ego wasn’t as big as some, I still had enough of one to take pride in my accomplishments. I waved to the awards hanging on the wall behind Pamela that showcased my talents as a writer and journalist. “Several of those have my name on them, confirmation of my ability to tell a story.

“Three. I don’t have kids, a spouse, or any binding relationships to get in the way.” I had friends, sure, but no one I couldn’t leave behind for a few months. My parents had long since passed away. I had no siblings. I dated some, but romantic entanglements, and I seemed to have a way of avoiding one another like a germaphobe avoided cold and flu season. “My passport and visa are all up to date. Plus, I’ve been a card-carrying member of Reporters Without Borders for years. Being ready to leave on a moment’s notice is a priority.

“Four. I’m in good physical condition.” What I didn’t say was I was in peak shape compared to Kevin, who was known to hoist more than a few drinks after hours and couldn’t make it through a two-hour meeting without sneaking outside for a smoke. “I work out at least twice a week. I can run a fair distance without getting winded. These are all things a war correspondent needs to be able to do.”

That brought me to my fifth and final point.

“Many people are more comfortable opening up to women.” Playing the female card was a long shot, but it still supported my point. “You know that being a woman these days can be more of an asset, especially since you’re such a badass yourself.

“And finally, there isn’t anyone who wants to go who can do the job better than me.” I held up my hand to prove I had hit all my main points. When the news of Kevin’s injury reached me, I had instantly made a do-or-die decision. Either Titan sent me, or I would quit and go freelance. I hoped I wouldn’t have to offer that ultimatum because going would be much easier with the backing of a corporate giant. Freelancers ran a higher risk of dying or being wounded due to a lack of equipment and money. Just the thought of trying to say those words paralyzed me with fear but my determination to go was stronger.

Pamela kept staring at me as if seriously considering what to do with me. I stood there like an idiot with my hand in the air, looking like I expected her to give me a high five and whip out a company credit card. I shoved both hands in my pockets and tried not to fidget, but I couldn’t stop. Usually, I wasn’t so forward. I’d grown up with enough insecurities and therapy to know that I had imposter syndrome which led me to believe my achievements were false. On some level, I knew that I was more than qualified, and I was the best candidate for the job. None of that eased my anxiety as the seconds ticked by. Pamela continued to stare at me like I’d just asked her to let me have her job.

After another endless moment, Pamela reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a book that she tossed onto the desk before me. It looked like one of those manuals put out by the military or even the Boy Scouts back in the 1960s. Instead of having a glossy  cover like similar publications, it was an eye-catching orange with a bold print title, Safety Guide for Journalists, and the subtitle, A handbook for reporters in high-risk environments.

“We’ve already sent the request to add your name to our embedded contract to replace Kevin,” Pamela said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a mischievous grin. Signing an embedded contract meant she’d promised I’d be good while I was in Ukraine and follow the rules. “I’ve had you on my shortlist since the beginning, but the upper brass wanted to give Kevin a chance.”

Holding the book was as good as holding a signed contract, as far as I was concerned. She wouldn’t have given it to me if she wasn’t going to send me. It took my brain a minute to process this.

“I know you have a very different style from Kevin,” she continued. “I expect you to send in a different kind of story. Even if doing so means you have to think outside the box.”

I picked up the handbook. The words high-risk and safety jumped at me. I was going where people were shooting at one another and tossing bombs around like a high school gym class throwing big red balls on dodgeball day. I nervously rolled the book into a tube, then forced myself to unroll it. I was going to Ukraine. I needed this information.

It was happening. I would laugh in the face of danger. A lifetime of hoping, dreaming, and preparing was within my reach. I would be fearless. All this danger was exaggerated anyway. They always highlighted the people who got hurt, kidnapped, or killed. Hundreds of journalists or scribes had covered wars since wars began and had come away unscathed. Being a war correspondent would be getting back to real journalism. For me, that was what counted.

Covering the political scene in America, where politicians passed out insanity like Halloween candy, had worn me down. I was convinced politics in America had become a one-way ticket on the crazy train. With this country’s growing hatred, violence, and bigotry, covering something as cut-and-dried as war would be a relief. War was black-and-white. Politics was an endless sea of gray.

Pamela was talking again. She told me that she had requisitioned some essentials for me. I was to report to Marge, our office manager, and pick up supplies. She tossed a large envelope across her desk. I picked it up and opened it. Inside was money, a lot of money. There were stacks of tens, twenties, and even a couple of hundreds. There was also a stack of hryvnia, the Ukrainian currency, and another pile of Russian rubles.

“I would recommend splitting up the money in three or four different places. If you get kidnapped or robbed, you won’t lose it all,” Pamela said. “Also, the first thing you’ll need to do when you get there is hire a fixer. Kevin’s fixer died in the same incident that wounded him.”

I tried to rein in my reeling mind and pay attention. I didn’t know the first thing about hiring a fixer, except I wanted someone who could speak English and knew the country, the politics, and the players. A good fixer could mean the difference between a Pulitzer Prize and getting crap stories. Hiring one was a decision I decided to worry about when I got to Ukraine. I liked to look someone in the eyes when I heard their pitch.

Which reminded me, I needed more critical information. “When am I leaving?”

“Next Tuesday,” Pamela said.

Today was Wednesday, so I had approximately a week to get ready. I had a million things to do, and the clock was ticking. Impatience and anticipation fought for dominance in my brain. I needed to get moving. It was a struggle to bring my focus back to the present moment. I was going to Ukraine to cover the war! My heart was pounding, and I wanted to stand on top of the building and shout it to the world.

Pamela gave me some more instructions. I shouldn’t wear bright clothing that might attract attention. Make sure that someone always knew my approximate location. Don’t wave my money around. Under any other circumstances, this information would have been cause for alarm. It was practical stuff anyone in a dangerous situation needed to know. Brushing aside her cautions, I vaguely assured her I would be careful.

“We’ve made you a reservation at the Raddison Blu in Kyiv,” she said. “It’s a base hotel where most of the press is staying. There aren’t any vacancies, but I paid a bundle to have them hold Kevin’s room for you. The last I heard, the lights were on, but they still have blackouts and brownouts.”

I could only imagine the cost of having a room at such a place. It also meant that keeping a story under wraps or trying to get a scoop would be difficult. There were no secrets when journalists lived in small spaces. Most of us couldn’t help bragging about whatever story we were working on or what awesome interview we had scored. I’d never met a journalist who didn’t have an inflated ego, myself included. Visions of camaraderie and exchanging exciting stories, danced in my head.

“One more thing, Nicole, and this is probably the most important,” Pamela said. She waited until I gave her my full attention. “You can’t be openly gay there. I’m not telling you to go back into the closet, but I am telling you to be very careful. You’re going to a place that killed women like us not long ago. That’s another reason the big brass was reluctant to send you. I fought for your right to go. Don’t repay me by getting killed.”

I assured her that I understood, even though I was kind of offended that she’d brought it up. I wasn’t going over there to pick up a mail-order bride. I was going to cover the war. I had always been kind of open about my sexuality. It was part of what made me who I was but not my entire existence. However, outing myself to everyone I met in a country where gays and lesbians were still persecuted wasn’t part of my itinerary. Other people weren’t that comfortable about open sexuality, especially in many foreign countries. I watched the documentaries. I’d read the stories. But hell, these days, being out was even becoming risky here in the United States. I would never deny it if someone asked outright, but this assignment was too important to let a little thing like homophobia stop me.

“I’ll see you again before you go, but as of now, transfer everything you’re working on to me for reassignment,” Pamela said. “Report to Marge in supply. She’ll provide everything you need. Take the rest of the week and get everything in order.” She stood, and for a brief, awkward moment, I thought she would hug me. Instead, she stuck out her hand. I shook it firmly and tried not to gush. She hated mushiness.

I left her office and took the elevator three floors down to where our office manager lurked in the basement of the Titan Global News headquarters. Once the elevator doors opened, there was a long hallway. The squeak from my sneakers echoed irreverently. At the end of the hallway on the right were two large double doors that opened to the press room. Before almost everything had become digital, the giant machine had turned out thousands of papers daily. The noise level had resembled standing directly under a jet, and the smell of ink had permeated the whole building. Even now, the scent of past issues lingered.

The double doors on the opposite side of the hallway opened to Marge’s domain. Instead of a desk, she sat behind a long counter. Behind her were towers of shelves, all neatly arranged and labeled. It brought to mind the layout of an auto parts store where I could tell the counter person, I needed a carburetor for a ’92 Dodge. Although she had to have been expecting me, Marge didn’t acknowledge me at first or indicate that she knew what I was there for.

“Nicole Sheppard,” I said. “I’m here to get supplies for going to Ukraine.”

“Wait here,” she said without looking up.

She pushed off the high stool behind the counter and disappeared into the stacks behind her. While I waited, I pulled the Safety Guide for Journalists from my bag and flipped through it. The first thing it said was to always keep the guide with you. That seemed a bit obvious, but okay. Then, there were the usual pages about how the guide had come into being and how important the work on it was. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. It wasn’t until chapter three that I got some helpful information. I skipped through the parts about what to do in case I was kidnapped. I had no intention of being kidnapped I scoffed to myself.

For some reason, I assumed that anyone in a foreign country who went and got themselves kidnapped had to be asking for it on some level. My arrogance caught me a bit off guard as I went back to the beginning of the chapter. I was not the kind of person who usually blamed the victim. If I was kidnapped, I would be smart about it because I would memorize this book.

While I was skimming the information about what to pack, Marge returned, pushing a small cart piled high with luggage and equipment. I had thought the list in the book was long, but she had brought a small mountain of gear.

Marge dumped the pile on the counter between us. The first thing she held up was a tan tactical vest with the word PRESS written across the front and back in big red letters. She came around the counter and dropped it over my head. It was heavy but not too heavy. She fussed around, circling me twice and showing me how to tighten the clasps, buckles, and strings.

I’d read somewhere that getting tactical vests to fit women was a problem for modern soldiers. Fortunately for me, Marge had foreseen the possibility of at least one female journalist going. I was five-four and weighed around a hundred and forty pounds. The vest was not uncomfortable, but it was bulky. It also had tons of pockets, Velcro, and carabiner hooks. That made me happy. I loved the thought of keeping an extra supply of pens in one of the ammo pockets.

“Tactical vest.” Marge thumped the breastplate directly under the word PRESS. It made a soft, hollow sound. “It won’t stop a bullet completely, but it could mean the difference between being wounded or being dead.”

She thumped the breastplate again, this time directly on the word PRESS. “This is supposed to keep you from being identified as an enemy soldier and keep someone from deliberately shooting at you. That doesn’t mean you won’t get shot. Plus, most of today’s warfare involves drones. I want you to remember this crucial fact. Drones. Can’t. Read.” She thumped her crooked knuckles against the PRESS to emphasize each word.

Of course, just printing the word PRESS in big red letters across my chest wouldn’t stop someone from shooting me. If that were the case, everyone in the country would print PRESS across their chests. It was cynical of me to think that way, but not everyone lived by a moral code like, don’t kill women and children, don’t shoot innocent bystanders, and don’t frag someone just trying to report the news. Still, I was glad to have the vest, and I would proclaim my nonparticipation to the heavens if it kept me from getting shot.

Next, Marge plopped a matching tan helmet on my head. It also had the word PRESS written in big red letters across both sides. I felt like a kid playing soldier with the neighborhood boys. “Roger that,” I said, slipping into character.

She scoffed at me and ignored my attempts to crack jokes. It was something I always did when I was nervous. I assumed she probably thought I was just another dumb kid asking for trouble because I wouldn’t pay attention to my elders. “What’s your blood type?” she asked.

“O negative.”

“Good. That makes you a universal donor.” She dug around in the pile on her desk and pulled out a Velcro patch with O NEGATIVE written across it in red letters smaller than the word PRESS but still visible. She affixed the patch to the back of the tactical vest. She took another one and attached it to my messenger bag. A third patch was stuck to a giant knapsack she pulled from the pile of stuff. It gave me the creeps to think of enemy soldiers strapping me to a gurney and draining my precious O negative to keep their war machine running. I swore they’d have to mop it up off the floor first. Another joke about back-alley blood transfusion died on my lips. If it ever came to the point where I was the one needing the transfusion, I would be glad my blood type was plastered all over my stuff.

When all the supplies had been tallied, they filled three big bags, and I hadn’t even started thinking about my clothes. Marge had stuffed one bag full of items like toothpaste and shampoo, soaps, candy bars, and other things that might be hard to buy.

“What’s all of that for?” I asked.

“War cuts off supply chains,” she said. She ought to have known since she’s practically been around since World War I, I thought sardonically. “You can also use some of it for currency. Believe me, if you’ve got five bucks but there isn’t any toilet paper anywhere to be found, that five bucks becomes useless and a roll of Charmin is pure gold.”

My new stash of electronic equipment included two phones. One of them was a satellite phone. A laptop, an iPad in a special drop-resistant case, and a cool solar charger for everything were also included. I did love my gadgets, but it was a lot. I was a bit overwhelmed by the sheer mass, and I was generally considered a pack rat.

“How the hell am I supposed to cart all this stuff around?” I asked.

She shrugged. “My job is to ensure you get what you need, not what you do with it after you get there.” She helped me out of the tactical vest and stowed it and the helmet in the duffel bag on the cart. “Always, and I mean always, wear the vest and the helmet when you leave the hotel. I don’t care how uncomfortable they are. You’ll get used to them.”

I nodded solemnly. Every bit of information I received impressed upon me that where I was going would be dangerous. I still wasn’t afraid, but it was no time to pretend that I was bulletproof.

Having adequately supplied me, Marge removed a document from her desk drawer. It was an itemized list of everything she’d just provided. I put my signature at the bottom. Marge peered at it for a long minute as if she suspected I’d forged my name. Finally, she signed and dated it, made two copies, and handed me one.

We left the basement through the press room and started up a ramp leading to the employee parking lot. While I pushed the cart to my car, Marge walked alongside me. She waited while I loaded everything into my trunk.

My previous interactions with her had been brief conversations over pens and notebooks. In the past, she’d guarded them diligently. She’d told me more than once that reporters tended to be wasteful. That was why this influx of supplies had left me a little off guard. Once everything was secured, I turned to say goodbye. After a long silence, she cleared her throat. I was amazed to realize that she was having trouble speaking. The thought of all the people who seemed to care about me now that I was going, caused me to fight back some tears of my own.

“Don’t get killed,” she said gruffly. She turned around and wheeled her empty cart back inside the building.

“I’m not planning on it,” I said to her retreating back.