Minutes to Burn

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.

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."