The problem with Blohm wasn’t the sort of thing you expected in the Strike Force. Kristal didn’t know what facial expression would be appropriate. She was a little too eager for the extra rate than Farrell liked, but no question she was doing a good job filling in as First Sergeant under the worst conditions you could imagine.
Farrell had set a minilight on the sheeting in front of him. He didn’t need the illumination, but it showed the civilians that he was present and accessible. Now he turned the light off, then removed his helmet.
“Sit down, Blohm,” he said. “Thanks, Sergeant. Tell God that I’ll be unavailable for the next few minutes, all right?”
The present clearing was good-sized, now that there wasn’t a battle going on in it. You couldn’t call where Farrell sat private, exactly—certainly not from strikers’ helmets—but there was a respectful amount of space open around him.
The scout seated himself with cautious grace. He took off his helmet also. Light from the fire crackling twenty yards away accentuated the hollows of Blohm’s cheeks and eye sockets, and they were deep enough already.
“I waited till Sergeant Abbado got back to have this conversation, Blohm,” Farrell said. “You went out and brought them the last of the way in, I gather?”
“Yessir,” Blohm said. “Sir . . .”
He let the word trail off.
“What the fuck did you think you were playing at, Blohm?” Farrell said in a voice that never rose above the minimum necessary for the other man to hear him. “You knew it was your responsibility to guide the patrol back. I wouldn’t have given even odds of ever seeing Abbado and his people again.”
“Yes sir,” said Blohm. His body was still, but his palms were flat together and pressing so hard that they trembled. “Sir, I knew it was wrong.”
“Do you think we’re so short-handed that I can’t have you shot for desertion right now, Blohm?” Farrell said. “Is that what you think?”
“No sir,” Blohm said. Tears glittered in his eyes; the shiver in his hands had spread to his voice. “I know you can have me shot. I know you can.”
“Well, if you know that, you’re an even bigger damned fool than I thought you were,” Farrell said, relaxing. “Christ, man, you’re a lot of what chance we have of surviving this ratfuck. Thing is, I need Three-three just as bad. You lot nailed one set of our problems today, but I’ve seen enough of this jungle to expect something new in the morning. Were you figuring to guard a thousand civilians all by your lonesome?”
“Sir, I fucked up,” Blohm said. He wiped his eyes, angry at his weakness. “I—”
He paused, but this time he finished the sentence: “Sir, I never had anybody give a shit about me before. I can’t take care of her alone, I know that. I’ll do my job, sir. I’ll never not do my job again.”
“Go get some dinner, Blohm,” Farrell said, rubbing his temples. “We’ve got a lot of long days ahead of us.” If we live that long.
“Yes sir,” Blohm said as he rose, lifting his helmet with him. Almost shyly he added, “We’re having tapioca pudding again. I told her we would when I came back.”
He stepped away briskly. Farrell saw Seraphina Suares and a small child waiting for the scout just beyond the range their presence would be intrusive.
Farrell remained as he was. He told himself he ought get back to fooling with the order of march, but that was a lie. He didn’t have enough information to know where he should put his strikers, and he didn’t have enough strikers anyway. All he’d really be doing was clutching a security blanket. It wouldn’t save one single life tomorrow or in the days to come.
Tamara Lundie sat down beside him in the near darkness. “What I really want to do,” he said without raising his head from his hands, “is get drunk. But I can’t afford to.”
“In celebration of your victory?” Lundie said.
Farrell turned his head. He’d never get used to the blonde’s earnestness, not if this damned operation lasted a million years.