I just get stung by a bee?” he asked. “Grit your teeth,” she said, which didn’t sound promising. He gritted.
She pressed firmly on the back of his thigh with what felt like a sharp knife, heated white-hot—but when he looked, it was only her fingers.
“Hematoma,” she said. “I’d better have a look at your back.”
She helped him again with the body armor and removed the battle tunic for him when he had trouble twisting his shoulders around to do it. From her drawing in of breath, it was clear his back was worse than his legs.
“Will I live?” he asked.
“If we could preserve this, it could be an exhibit in a museum of modern art,” she said. “Very psychedelic. Any doctor would confine you to a week in the hospital.”
“Just as well you’re not a doctor,” Chisnall said.
“You’re in no shape to continue this mission,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment, knowing she was probably right. “I wish I had that choice,” he said eventually.
“You’ve taken some painkillers?”
“Yep.”
“Working?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll put some topical analgesic on it for you,” Brogan said. “At least you might be able to sleep.”
“Thanks,” Chisnall said.
She disappeared to get it out of her backpack and was back a moment later, pulling on rubber gloves. Then she squeezed the ointment onto her hands, warming it for a moment.
“You’re sure this stuff works on humans?” Chisnall asked. All their equipment and supplies were Bzadian army issue.
“That’s what they tell us,” Brogan said. She spread it softly on his skin, starting with his calves and working her way up. The mere touch of her hands was like fire but she kneaded his flesh gently, massaging in the cream. Slowly, the pain in his legs softened to a dull ache.
“What are you two doing in there?” Price called.
“Playing doctor,” Brogan said.
“Why do officers get all the fun?” Hunter said.
“Yeah, this is real fun,” Chisnall said. It felt as though Brogan were sandpapering the skin off his shoulders and rubbing salt in the raw, bloodied flesh beneath. He held his breath to stop from crying out, until the painkiller took effect and his shoulders returned to something near normal.
She finished, stripped off the gloves, and lay down on her back next to him. For a moment they really were just two teenagers on a camping trip, not two soldiers behind enemy lines on a vital and deadly mission. He felt like kissing her.
“Ryan, what’s really going on? Something tells me there’s more to this mission than meets the eye.”
The fabric of the bivouac moved a little. Perhaps it was just a brief puff of breeze, but something told him otherwise. Brogan opened her mouth to continue, but Chisnall held a finger to his lips. He cocked his head, listening. There! Was that just the slightest shuffle of a footstep outside?
He nodded to Brogan, who caught his meaning instantly. She reached down, gripped the edge of the camo sheet, and flung it back.
Hunter was squatting just outside. He looked awkward and embarrassed.
“Shouldn’t you be on watch?” Brogan asked.
“Just wanting a word with the skipper,” Hunter said.
“Go ahead,” Chisnall said.
“It can wait,” Hunter said. “It was just … Nah, I’ll talk to you later.”
He walked away, down to the riverbed. Chisnall watched him go. How long had he been standing there, listening to their conversation? Did he really have something to say, or was that just an excuse?
Brogan closed the flap again. “We’re in-country now,” she said. “About time you filled me in.”
“Can’t do that, soldier,” Chisnall said.
“What’s the reason for all the secrecy?” Brogan asked.
“I have very specific orders,” Chisnall replied.
“Back at Fort Carson, you weren’t a strict follower of orders,” Brogan said, and the side of her leg brushed against his. He moved his leg away. This was not the time, nor the place.
“We’re not back at Fort Carson,” Chisnall said.
“Who picked the team?” Brogan asked.
“I had some say in it.”
“What jerk picked Wilton?” she asked. “Every time he opens his mouth, you just don’t know what’s going to come out of it. I’m terrified that he’s going to give the game away to the Pukes once we get inside the base.”
“This jerk picked him,” Chisnall said. “Wilton’s a little loose. But who else do you know who could shoot the eye out of a fast-moving eagle at five hundred meters, and do it three times in a row?”
“He’s got that,” Brogan admitted. “But it’s not going to be much help if we’re sitting in a Puke jail cell or blindfolded and