Chapter One: A Journalist Strays
The smell of burnt rubber and plastic hung thick in the smoldering heat of the afternoon. Plumes of thick, black smoke rose in several places across the embattled enclave. The flimsy buildings that lined the streets Ambulance sirens screeched. Klara looked down at her phone that buzzed incessantly in her hand. Several notifications popped up on her screen. She could feel the rumbling aftershocks underneath her feet. Sighing, she turned to a small group of journalists who had been huddled on the side of the narrow street, their equipment either on their shoulders or in a pile on the ground. They had all been asked to come to the media building for a brief press conference when the air raids and bombings began. Klara had always rolled her eyes whenever she was asked by her editor to cover a press briefing. Whether it was city hall or here- the middle of a war zone, she abhorred the thought of wasting precious time listening to carefully prepared statements that were spoken by some flunky, statements that said so much without speaking a word of truth.
"I guess we'll have to make do without the canned statement," she said.
Her fellow journalists grimaced, all on their phones, trying to figure out how to get to the sites that had been bombed, calling and texting local fixers or other reporters who had a car. Klara chewed on her lower lip, absent-mindedly playing with the lanyard on her neck that had a laminated card that read: PRESS. She regretted having let her editor talk her into this morning's press briefing. If she had blown it off, she may have been able to cover a story with a bit more meat. But her editor's words echoed in her mind: No one skips a press briefing when this commander is giving one. He almost never has press briefings. He's like the fugazi of press people around there. Besides, believe me, he's not some flunky – he's an actual fighter.
Klara groaned as she saw her editor's eyes go wide on her laptop, his connection cutting in and out on their Skype call, his image freezing, making him look like a deer in headlights. He had promised to get her press clearance to get here – so now she owed him big time. And whether she wanted to or not, the press briefing would be her priority that day.
As she stood in the dessert sun, watching the flimsy buildings that lined the street, some wobbling from the impact of the bomb, she huffed in impatience. Without another look back at the others, she started walking in the direction of the smoke. She adjusted the strap of her camera, the weight of the lens uncomfortably rubbing against her neck.
"Where the hell are you going Klara?" shouted one of the producers.
Klara didn't bother turning back to reply.
"To do my damn job and tell the story!" she shouted, waving back.
By the time she had gotten to the site of the bombing, most of the wounded had been evacuated. A massive pile of rubble, probably a business complex by the looks of it, lay in a colossal crater. Steel wire, electrical wires, crumbled walls, pipes, and remnants of belongings rose in a foreboding pile upwards to the charred sky. Klara blinked. No matter how many times she had seen bombed-out buildings, not that she had seen so many, she was after all only 26, but nevertheless, it never ceased to amaze her at the sheer destruction humankind was capable of towards itself. She gaped at the ruins. The few people that were mulling about, eyed her with mild curiosity. In such a small place, it was easy to spot foreigners, especially the foreign press.
Unlike the grizzled men with their balding hair or tired goatees and khaki pants, Klara was unique among the foreign press. She was one of a handful of women journalists and the only female foreign journalist there and she was quite young for such a posting. The only other female journalist Klara had met, was a woman who was old enough to be her mother, and who had covered several conflicts in her career, including Bosnia. Klara tried her best to blend in with the seasoned reporters, attempting to cover her shoulder-length dirty blonde hair by bunching it up into buns or using the blue scarf that her mother had bought her in Marrakesh. She quickly realized she spent more time fiddling with the scarf, as it often slipped off her head, while she was shooting video or taking photos. She abandoned the scarf and shrugged off the open stares from men. She was grateful though, that the baggy clothes she wore hid her more womanly assets. Klara, though petite and short, had often been told by friends and past boyfriends that she had a very buxom body. She couldn't deny she had quite a full chest and when she wore tight jeans or shorts, her curves were very noticeable and invited the stares and grins of men all around. One of her best friends often referred to Klara as the Marilyn Monroe of reporters, though Klara wasn't exactly mad at the comparison. But perhaps more than anything, it was her bright green-blue eyes that warranted the most attention. Klara had gotten used to the compliments about her eyes from a young age. By the time she was in her teens, she embraced people's infatuation with how her eyes seemed to change color in different lights and in accordance with her mood. Alas, with her mood turning sour at having wasted her opportunity at a story, Klara, turned her head, trying to spy anyone who might offer her a news byte. The only individuals who had hung behind were a small group of masked soldiers.
Klara had been startled when she had first arrived, seeing everyone in army fatigues also wearing balaclavas or scarves so tightly wound around their heads, you could only see their eyes. She also wondered how they could breathe in the heat and dust. A local reporter told her that due to the soldiers being in what he called, "covert resistance groups" their identities had to remain secret for not only their protection but the protection of their families. It took some getting used to talking to the masked men, but eventually, Klara worked out a system of observing their mannerisms, their eyes, their hands, and their body language. She had gotten pretty good at it, as she had figured out, she had talked to some of the same men several times and even nicknamed them. As she watched the small group, she realized she probably had not spoken to any of them before. Inhaling deeply, she made her way to them. For their part, the soldiers had noticed the petite woman, but when they spied her press badge, they simply went back to their conversations, paying no more mind to her.
"Excuse me," Klara said gently.
One of the men who had been in deep conversation with the others looked up. He smiled.
"I think you may be a little late," he replied, teasing her gently.
Klara bit down on her lower lip, once again cursing her bad luck and her editor's poor scheduling. She nodded.
"Can any of you tell me what happened here?" she asked, taking her iPhone out, motioning that she would record them.
The other soldiers, all carrying AK47's turned to her, not meaning her harm, but simply curious.
"BFB" said one of them.
Klara arched an eyebrow
"Big...Fing... Bomb," she said slowly
She smiled at the sardonic joke. Just as she was about to ask another question, she heard the squeal of tires. She turned to see a battered van pulling up to the bomb site, the words PRESS in faded black letters on the side. One of the many producers she had briefly met was hanging out the window, dust blowing up into his face.
"Klara, come on, get moving we've got work to do!" he shouted, beckoning her over.
"I am working!" she shouted back.
"No, I mean – just get back here – the press brief was rescheduled – we're already late!" he yelled back.
Klara huffed in annoyance, she turned back to the group of soldiers, smiling apologetically.
"You don't want to be late for Commander Firdaus," one of them said.
Klara cocked her head to one side, readjusting her camera yet again.
"Oh, really and why is that?" she asked playfully.
Some of the soldiers snickered, readjusting their weapons.
"Well last time a reporter was late to his briefing, their credentials were revoked and they were sent home that very day," the soldier replied.
"All of their equipment was confiscated too," another chimed in.
Klara wanted to roll her eyes, but a pang of panic hit her suddenly. She nodded, quickly thanking the soldiers for their time, before she turned towards the battered press van, breaking out in a jog.