Tight Quarters (Out of Uniform 6)

Spencer didn’t miss that pointed pause, but he ignored it, shaking hands. “Happy to be here.”

The LT himself strode over. He carried himself like one of the royal guard Spencer always admired when he visited London—perfect posture, officious attitude, carefully measured strides.

“Bryant.” The LT stuck out his hand. “I’ve handpicked a SEAL to work with you. Petty Officer Bacon will handle everything you need while you’re with us. We’re about to run now, and then after, you can join us for breakfast, get to know the men.”

“Bacon. Get over here,” the senior chief bellowed over his shoulder. A young man who sported a finger splint on his right hand jogged over, resigned expression on his face. Handpicked. Yeah, right. More like this poor injured guy had drawn the short straw for the assignment. Spencer knew the SEALs weren’t likely to want him here, but he was determined to do his job.

Like the rest of the team, Bacon was in a gold T-shirt and blue running shorts. Lieutenant Mears had made sure that Spencer had similar attire and fatigues for when they deployed. He wouldn’t be given a weapon or other specialized gear, but the navy wanted him to blend in with the team, not be a giant “civilian right here” sign when they were in the field. Even with the right clothes, Spencer knew he still stood out. He was taller than the LT but shorter than almost all the rest of the team including this Bacon, who was tall and muscular—the build of an Olympic swimmer, wide shoulders and defined arms with a flat stomach and narrower hips.

Spencer honestly wasn’t sure whether Bacon was one of those ridiculous nicknames the SEALs were famous for or the guy’s given last name. He was young, but not painfully so, maybe somewhere in the twenty-five to twenty-eight range. He had close-cut auburn hair and a face that could grace movie posters even with slightly oversize ears and a nose that had clearly been broken at some point. Both of those things, however, made him that much more endearing and earnest seeming. He had a firm handshake when introductions were made, but no smile. Spencer had his work cut out for him, that was for sure.

“Bacon will run with you. Don’t be afraid to hang back. We don’t want you in medical on your first day,” the LT barked. “Your safety is our top priority, but you will not hinder the workings of my team, understood?”

“Understood.” Spencer nodded. “I appreciate this opportunity. I’ll try hard not to be a burden.”

“Glad to hear it.” The LT motioned him over as he introduced him to the rest of the men. They were a somber crew—lots of frowns, which he’d expected. No one wanted a reporter hanging around, disrupting their work. But Spencer still hoped to win them over. The medic, a young guy who couldn’t be more than twenty-two who everyone called Bullets, walked over as the senior chief announced the plan for the run.

“You sure you up to this? When was the last time you ran?” he demanded with rapid-fire questions, no pause for Spencer to answer. “Did the PR people request a physical from you? I just wanted to be prepared here.”

“I’m up to it. Ran yesterday. And yes, full physical and a stack of waivers. You won’t have to revive me.”

“Good,” chipped in another SEAL, this one seriously muscled even compared to his chiseled teammates. His dark hair was slightly longer than the other guys, more styled, and he had Mediterranean features—maybe Italian. “Would hate to see Bullets here crack your ribs on CPR.”

“Fuck you, Rooster.” Bullets shook his head. “One time I cracked ribs, and the reporter doesn’t need to hear our horror stories.”

“Oh, I’m here to hear all the stories.” Spencer offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. At least it was one that usually worked to disarm interviewees, but these guys were special cases, and no one smiled back.

“Let’s go,” the senior chief called. “Bacon, you stick to Bryant.”

“So, what happened to your finger?” Spencer asked as they started to jog.

Bacon took so long to answer, Spencer started to dread the next few weeks of trying to get information from this guy who clearly didn’t want to be stuck with him. But finally, Bacon spoke in a brisk monotone. “Dislocated it climbing a tree on a mission. Don’t ask where. I aggravated it yesterday training. I’ll be fine.”

“Sounds painful.” Spencer easily kept pace with Bacon, who seemed determined to run at a speed better designed for a junior high track team’s first practice than a group of SEALs, most of whom were far ahead now. “We can go faster.”

“Don’t want to push it. Did you remember to eat something?” Bacon demanded. Even at the slow pace, his body moved fluidly—he’d be a joy to watch if he wasn’t being so combative. “Bullets isn’t joking. He’ll be pissed if you pass out.”