Gregg Hurwitz - Minutes to Burn

Justin crossed the room and stood beside her. She embraced him around the legs, and he hugged her face to his stomach, her cheek warm against his flesh. He lifted her hair up in the back and gently rubbed her neck.

"You know," Cameron said, her voice slightly muffled by his stomach, "we're going to have to be professional on this mission. Like we're nothing more than fellow soldiers." She turned her head slightly and began kissing his stomach. "I don't want our judgment to be impaired by the fact that we're married."

"Mine never is," Justin said. "Ask the mail lady." He crouched and kissed her gently on the forehead, then high on her neck, right where it met the corner of her jaw.

"I'm serious," she said.

"Relax, babe. We're part of the most notoriously casual trained fighting force in the world. I forgot how to salute."

"You didn't have to fight for the right to join the teams," Cameron said. "Not like I did. I'm not gonna fuck this up for other women. So let's remember that it's going to be like we're not married. Rules of conduct are important. We can't show each other any favoritism, can't put the others at risk because of emotional entanglements."

Justin tilted her head back, looking into her eyes. "I hate emotional entanglements," he said. "I'm just looking for a quick lay here, lady."

Cameron pulled him toward her. They kissed, long and slow.

He stood. The towel dropped to the floor.

Tank banged on the front door and Cameron opened it. A cluster of green plastic canteens hung together like grapes from her kit bag, and her M-4 was slung across her shoulders. She'd outfitted the gun with some extras-a night vision scope, a laser designator, and an M203, 40mm grenade launcher. She was dressed in full cammies and black jungle boots. Justin scrambled behind her, grabbing his last few things.

Tilting his head, Tank indicated the van behind him, engine running. "Four and a half minutes late," Cameron said, smiling. She could see that Tank wanted to help her with her gear, but he knew better. Instead of offering, he nodded and headed for the van. When he climbed back in the driver's seat, the vehicle seemed to settle a bit on its chassis. Tucker swung open the passenger door and hopped out, his green, long-sleeve T-shirt pulling tight across his chest. He met Cameron halfway up the walk, his eyes tracing the cracks in the concrete. "Hey, Cam," he said.

"Hey Tucker."

He reached out to take her weapon, but she shook her head. "I got it," she said.

Tucker followed her silently to the back of the van. She swung the door open and tossed her bag in on top of Tank's and Tucker's. Derek, Szabla, and Savage were going to meet them at the base.

Cameron slammed the back doors and leaned against them, staring up at the dark sky. "Sunset was blood red today," she said. "Did you see it?"

Tucker nodded. "Earthquake weather."

He pushed up his sleeves, crouched and lit a cigarette, pinching the filter and letting it swing between his legs. For the first time, Cameron noticed the shadow of healed needle tracks running up the insides of his arms. Thin dark skids, most of them ending in the dot of a faded bruise. His flesh looked red in the glow given off by the brake lights. The asphalt was still shimmering from the afternoon rain.

Tucker inhaled deeply and sent a cloud of smoke down toward the pavement. It rose, clinging to his body. He glanced up and noticed Cameron's eyes on his arms. Protectively, he crossed his arms, pulling them to his chest. Cameron looked away uncomfortably, but when she turned back, Tucker's eyes were still on her.

Slowly, he uncrossed his arms, revealing again the pattern of scars. "Been a long road back," he said. He looked down at the asphalt, as if he could see his reflection in it. His voice wavered a little bit when he spoke again. "It's good to get a second chance."

Cameron pushed herself up off the van. Tucker did not look up. "You're a good soldier, Tucker," she said, though she wasn't sure why.

His head bobbed a bit with what she guessed was a smile. "You ever had something you loved?" he asked. "So much you couldn't give it up?"

He flicked the cigarette butt, and it sizzled out on the moist asphalt. "No," Cameron said. Justin came out onto the porch, closing the door behind him, and

Tucker rose and circled back to the passenger seat of the van.

27 Dec 07

MISSION DAY 1

The C-130 banked and finally began its descent into the airport at Guayaquil. It circled twice, then made its approach from the east, sweeping low over the stretch of river where the Rio Babahoyo flows into the Rio Guayas. Cameron unbuckled and stood, leaning against the wall so that she could peer through the small round window out past the two prop engines on the wing. The water was muddied and thick with sediment, a wide rippling stream of rich brown. The earthquakes had induced landslides and rockfalls, which had clogged the river network, especially the drainages to the coast.

Square patches of factories and warehouses checkered the country-side, and up ahead, Cameron could make out the smog wreathing the city. Two of the runways were out of commission, having been split with large fissures, and men in orange vests ran back and forth between construction trucks, barking commands.

Derek and the others were applying sunblock and putting in their extended-wear, UV-protective contact lenses. Cameron sat back down and followed suit. Tank ran the lotion through his flattop like conditioner, rubbing it into his scalp. The soldiers also Velcroed solar cells to the shoulders of their cammy shirts, the flat batteries positioned like tiny officer shoulder boards.

The plane screeched to a halt on the tarmac, bouncing them slightly in the red webbing of the cargo seats. Derek stood, slapping his hands to his thighs. "Szabla, you guard the pallets once we unass."

She nodded, grabbing the M-4 by her side as the other soldiers disembarked. Red lettering stretched across the main wing of the terminal- Aeropuerto Simon Bolivar Guayaquil. The dead tufts of grass around the taxiway were baked brown and yellow, nodding in the breeze. The air was thick and slightly moist; Cameron could feel the humidity through her lungs when she inhaled.

Though it was still early morning, a wall of heat hit them when they stepped clear of the plane's shadow. "Holy Christ," Savage said. "Don't this fuckin' beat all?"

Rex removed a Panama hat from his bag, unrolled it, and placed it with a slight tilt on his head. The sun glared off the tightly woven straw. The combination of the hat and his clothes-white shirt with twin pockets, khakis-gave him the distinctive air of a rubber baron in Malaya. In addition to a brown leather briefcase, he carried several circular nylon bags, padded and zipped shut.

Cameron was grateful for the fifty-percent nylon ripstop cammies- they were light and breathable, and the long sleeves provided protection from the sun.

Rex glanced over at her and Szabla. "Hey, Thelma and Louise," he said. "Get your sun hats on." He pointed to an orange electronic bill-board situated on top of one of the hangars: Minutos para Quemarse-

4:30. The translation was written beneath: Minutes to Burn.

Szabla grimaced and headed to the ramp to join Tank in unloading and unbuttoning the aircraft pallets, which held the cruise boxes, kit bags, and comms boxes full of Rex's GPS hardware. The cruise boxes, 3 x 2 x 1.5 foot collapsible cases of sheet metal, stored the general-purpose gear.

A U.S. army private jogged out from the airport, heading for the squad. In addition to his regular uniform, he wore the light blue beret and blue elastic belt of the United Nations. Derek walked forward, waving off the private's salute. They spoke for a few moments, then Derek signaled the squad to follow him.