Gregg Hurwitz - Minutes to Burn

The airport was in complete disarray, filled with uniforms and a few clusters of civilians. When Cameron stepped through the cracked glass doors onto the sidewalk, she was surprised by the crowd and the congested traffic. Though the earthquakes' effects were evident in the uneven pavement, buckling walls, and heaps of rubble, the life of the city went on. She realized she'd expected to find doors and windows hammered shut with planks like in some bad late-night movie about a plague.

A teenage boy scrambled forward and attempted to grab the weapons box Szabla and Tank were carrying, but Szabla turned, quickly slinging her M-4, and side-kicked him, hammering the bottom of her boot just beneath his ribs. The boy collapsed on the pavement, moaning. A nearby policeman, a clean-shaven man with a front tooth that was turned sideways, sprang forward and began screaming at Szabla in Spanish.

"You'd better back off before I straighten out that fucked-up tooth of yours," she growled.

Rex, who'd been punching the numbers on his sat phone in frustration, trotted over and exchanged a few heated words with the Ecuadorian policeman. The policeman threw up his arms. Szabla set the box down, peering at the policeman over Rex's shoulder. "I got more if you want some, you mother-"

Cameron drew Szabla back so Rex could finish dealing with the policeman. When Tank moved over and stood silently behind Rex, the policeman quieted down a bit. After helping the boy to his feet, the policeman stormed off. Rex turned to face Szabla, his mouth tight. "He was just trying to help you with your things. Trying to get a tip."

"He wants a tip?" Szabla said, pointing at the box. "How about: Don't touch my fucking ordnance. I don't give a shit where we are. These are M-4s."

"There are different rules down here."

"No," Szabla said, stabbing a finger in Rex's face. "There are different rules here. When we get to the science shit, you can run the science shit, but for now, keep your mouth shut and your ass out of my way."

"Next time, before you kick," Rex said, picking up his bag, "try 'no gracias.'"

"Sorry," Szabla said. "I only speak French."

"Then try 'non, merci.'"

Derek walked through the doors with Tucker and the private at his side just as a chiva pulled up to the curb. The private pointed at the open bus with its thatched roof. He took one look at Derek's expression and shrugged apologetically. "We're overbooked on military vehicles, and the UN takes priority."

They loaded the gear and sat on the edges of the chiva, M-4s lazing outward on cocked arms, pointing at the open sky. The weapons were high-speed versions of M-16s, shooting 5.56 rounds, thirty rounds per magazine. Most of the squad had tricked them out with flashlights, scopes, and other trinkets.

Savage glanced down at the M-4, much smaller than the M-60 to which he was accustomed. "Fuckin' pea shooter," he grumbled.

"I wouldn't complain," Derek said. "It's a step up from a shiv."

The city was gray and run-down, and the driver drove a mad winding path through blocks filled with warehouses and shabby buildings. It took Cameron a few moments to realize that the meandering path was actually strategic; the driver was seeking out the streets that were still intact. The amount of construction under way was astounding. Everywhere she looked, Cameron noticed building crews, orange cones, yellow cranes, and trucks. The hot smell of asphalt made the pollution all the more oppressive.

A little boy made a gun with his hand and pointed it at the chiva. Savage lowered his gun jokingly, aiming it at the boy, and Derek slapped it to the side.

Rex was trying not to appear nervous around the weapons. He sat beside Cameron, his feet up on the split plastic seat in front of them. "Lovely, isn't it?" he asked. "Two and a half million people living on converted mangrove swamp."

The driver turned a hard right, barely avoiding a large divot, and suddenly they were on a street filled with high-rises. Vendors pushed carts, and bicyclists flew by on both sides of the chiva, so close Cameron was amazed they didn't nick the bumpers. They turned up a street that ran along the west bank of the Guayas, and Cameron craned her head, checking out the different military outfits overseeing construction and running vehicle checkpoints. A platoon of iwias, Ecuadorian specialty troops, gathered by the river's bank. Farther along, a UN tank was stopped beside a large statue of two men shaking hands, the white and sky-blue flag rippling against the backdrop of the river. A number of French soldiers sat around the tank, legs dangling over the sides, eating sandwiches and drinking Coke from bottles. The tall, chain-link fence of the cordon loomed ahead.

A major stepped forward as they slowed at the checkpoint. He examined Derek's military ID, tilting it to check the holograms. "Mitchell, huh?" he said. "Team reserves?"

"Yes, sir."

"Nice ride."

Derek took a moment before answering. "Thank you, sir."

The major bobbed his head, the faintest beginning of a smirk crossing his lips. "Got a call this morning regarding your mission." He pulled off his soft, blue beret and ran a hand up the back of his bristling gray hair. He tapped the end of Derek's M-4 and Derek lowered it. "No weapons out past checkpoint. We have the city center secure." He glanced at the squad in the chiva. "Last thing we need is a bunch of…" He stopped short, clearing his throat.

"Soldiers," Tucker said. "We're soldiers."

"How long are you here?" the major asked Derek, ignoring Tucker.

"Lifting out tomorrow," Derek said. "0700."

The major handed back the ID. "I don't want to see any of you carrying within my AO. You're to keep all weapons and ordnance under watch at the hotel. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

The major knocked the side of the chiva, and it pulled through the checkpoint. Savage snapped the major a crisp, exaggerated salute. The major looked over and Savage winked at him, clearly enjoying the major's expression as the chiva turned the corner. "Christ on a stick," he muttered. "What an asshole."

The chiva cut inland and pulled up to the hotel, a decrepit colonial-style high-rise on Calle Chile. Two guards at the entrance held pump-action shotguns, and wore red berets and pressed navy blue pants with yellow piping down the seams. They nodded at Derek and Rex as they passed inside. Cameron waited behind with the others, guarding the gear.

A mother pushed a baby in a carriage up the street toward the hotel, pausing beneath a torn green store awning. The window, shattered but protected with bars, was filled with knockoff Nikes and Levis. Leaving the carriage, the woman inched up the street to examine a pair of jeans stretched out at the side of the display. Cameron caught herself staring at the baby carriage. Cheap, black-painted metal, wobbly back wheels, blankets arranged lovingly around the inside as cushions.

A horrible squalling suddenly issued from the carriage. Cameron ran over and gazed down at the baby. A band of sunlight had worked its way through the torn awning above, falling across the baby's plump thigh. It had already reddened.

Adjusting her gun on her back so it dangled from the sling, Cameron leaned over and picked up the baby, holding it awkwardly out away from her body. She tried to shush it, bouncing it up and down in a way she thought might be soothing. The others stared over at her, puzzlement across their faces. A cigarette dangled from Savage's lips, a tendril of smoke curling up between his eyes.

The mother came scurrying over, holding up her sweeping red dress as she ran. Cameron handed off the baby roughly. "El sol," Cameron said, pointing at the ripped awning, then at the baby's leg. The mother thanked her profusely before heading off, comforting the baby softly.