Gregg Hurwitz - Minutes to Burn

Savage lit another cigarette, snapped his lighter closed, and made it disappear into one of his many pockets. "Well," he said, raising his head. "What the fuck're we waiting for?"

24 Dec 07

The forest-green Blazer flew up the freeway through the suburbs of Sacramento, country music blasting from the speakers. Justin was driving over ninety, singing along with the radio. He pulled off his T-shirt and grabbed his camouflage top from the back seat, the Blazer swerving as his attention lapsed. Calmly, Cameron reached over and steadied the wheel.

"So we'll make an appointment right when we get back?" she asked. "I want to get it over with."

"Absolutely." Justin reached over with one hand and rubbed her neck. She put her hand over his and squeezed it once, impatiently, then pulled it off. Staring out the window, she watched the trees fly by along the side of the road.

Brooks amp; Dunn came on the radio and Justin sang along, grabbing an unloaded pistol from the glove box and using it as a mike. At the high part of "My Maria," he took his voice up into a yodel. Cameron knew he could see her smile in her reflection in the window. "A gun is not a toy," she said.

"See? You're your old self already."

Justin exited the I-5 at Q Street and headed east. Cameron noticed the small cluster of soldiers as the Blazer rounded the corner at Ninth. The soldiers were hard to miss in their ripstop woodland cammies. Didn't exactly blend into the stucco that fronted the New Center building.

Justin slowed as the car neared the group, a smile creeping across his face. "Szabla, Tank-Holy shit, is that Tucker?"

"Who's that other guy?" Cameron asked, gesturing to Savage, who leaned against the building, apart from the others.

"Don't know. The guy must be fifty. Looks like Uncle Dicky with a hangover."

Savage leaned forward and shot a loogy at the P Street sign. It hit dead center and oozed down, dripping from the bottom like a yellow stalactite. Szabla was facing the building, shadowboxing and talking to herself under her breath, and Tank stood perfectly still, arms crossed over his massive chest.

Justin parked, and he and Cameron got out of the car, heading for the others.

Tucker noticed them first and waved self-consciously. With a strong, all-American jaw, clear blue eyes, and straight blond hair, Tucker looked like either a sunglasses model or an SS officer, depending on the severity of his expression. He had grown up in boys' homes from age twelve after his parents deserted him at a truckers' stop. A small dimple in the lobe of his left ear remained where he'd pierced it years ago with a ten-penny nail. He'd dropped from active duty a little over a year back and fallen off the radar. Cameron had always found something slightly vulnerable in his shy smile, a flash of a grin that seemed oddly unassuming given his good looks. She'd often wondered how he was doing.

"Hey, guys," Tucker said. The same easy Alabama drawl.

As she neared, Cameron noticed that Tucker looked different some-how, not quite sickly but weary, as if he'd just come out the far side of a harrowing dream. He smiled. "Hey Tucker," Cameron said, as Tank gathered her up in an immense hug.

A building of a man, Tank kept his blond hair cut in a flattop, giving his head a rectangular appearance. Cameron and Justin both suspected that he harbored an enormous crush on Cameron; in noncombat situations, she was the only person he allowed to touch him. Supposedly, he'd been at the top of his class through BUD/s in Coronado, and he'd gone on to be a sixty gunner with Justin on Team EIGHT, his bulk allowing him to tote the larger M-60. No one knew much about Tank's past, but it was rumored he once played center for Notre Dame.

Tank didn't talk much.

"Szzzaaabbbllaaa!" Justin growled through a smile. The "S" in "Szabla" was silent, giving her name a rhyming beat that the other soldiers drew out like a swear word used affectionately-Za-bla. The name, along with a 110-pound rottweiler named Draeger, was left over from a short-lived early marriage.

Szabla turned to Justin, still in a fighter's stance, and feigned two jabs at his face. A black woman with well-defined, even features, Szabla was striking, though hard in appearance. Her arm muscles were better defined than those of most of the male soldiers; Justin maintained that he could rest a beer on the shelf of her triceps. As always, she wore a sleeveless top to show off her build; today it was an army-green tank. Since she wore her brawn over her intelligence, it was easy to forget that Szabla was ROTC, MIT, Phi Beta Kappa. She'd been a structural engineer as an undergraduate, and after she graduated, she had been one of the first women through BUD/s. Though she remained in the Special Forces reserves, she was an architect full-time at a downtown Sacramento firm.

"Droppin' off the little lady?" she asked.

"Nope," Justin said. "I'm your corpsman."

Szabla drew her head back, her forehead lining with wrinkles. "Hubby and wife? This ain't no Amway convention."

Cameron shrugged. "I don't know what's going on. Mako told us both to report." She walked over to Savage and extended her hand. "Cameron Kates."

Savage glanced down at her hand, then looked away. She lowered her arm, electing not to comment since she couldn't determine his rank from his ripped cammies. As she stepped back, she noticed that he wore only one boot.

Savage followed her eyes down to his sock. "Tough night," he said.

Cameron turned to Szabla, who raised her eyebrows. "Far as I can see," Szabla said, "he ain't gonna join in any reindeer games."

Cameron smacked Tucker in the chest. "We got something of a reunion going on here, huh?"

Tucker shifted on his feet and smiled his nervous smile, his eyes darting to the pavement. "Yeah. Guess so. I been…I sorta fell off for a while there, you know." He laughed a short stuttering laugh, and Cameron noticed his eyes were ringed with faint black circles, like fading bruises. "You know how it goes."

"Who's our OIC?" Szabla asked.

Justin turned to her, eyebrows raised. "You haven't heard? Derek."

"Mitchell?" Szabla whistled, one dying note.

"He'll be fine," Cameron said defensively. Justin rested a hand on her back, but she stepped away ever so slightly, not wanting to have any personal displays before the other soldiers.

Szabla snorted. "Listen, girl. After going through something like he went-"

Derek rounded the corner, pulling off his jacket. "Sorry I'm late." At six foot four, Derek was surprisingly unintimidating, especially for someone built like a linebacker and trained extensively to kill other people. Barrel-chested, arms stretching his shirtsleeves at his biceps, he tapered in, almost impossibly, to a slim waist before expanding again through his powerful quads. His full cheeks would have made him look young were they not generally covered with stubble.

He nodded at Justin and hooked Cameron's neck with a hand, yanking her forward on her toes. "It's good to see you, Cam." His eyes drifted, then focused. "Really good to see you." He turned to Justin with a smile. "So how do you feel about me stealing my old swim buddy here back for the mission?"

Justin shrugged. "Take my wife, please."

Derek turned to Cameron and winked. "You should get yourself a real man."

Justin laughed. "That's what I keep telling her."

Derek nodded at Tucker, then smacked Tank on the shoulder. Tank didn't move.

"Hey, LT." Szabla leaned over, offering her hand to Derek. He slapped it, and they locked hands for a moment.

Derek strode over to Savage and glanced him up and down. Savage didn't bother to meet his eyes. "Why don't you introduce yourself to the platoon?"

Savage ignored him. Derek leaned in close until his face was inches from Savage's. Savage met his eyes evenly. Leaning back against the wall, he made no effort to rise to a more protective posture. Finally, his eyes flickered to the others. "We got seven men." He looked at Cameron, then at Szabla. "Make that five. That ain't a platoon. That's three shy of a half."