Cameron looked down and realized she was clutching her belly. She stared at her hand, laid protectively over the greens and grays of her camouflage shirt, tense and spread-fingered. Suddenly feeling lightheaded, she leaned against the elevator doors, holding her stomach. Her eyes caught on a small sign posted among the ozone bulletins that cheerily announced, "We're living in the warmest climate to exist in millions of years!"
A door opened down the hall, and Cameron straightened up quickly when she saw Rex heading her way. She wiped the sweat from her fore-head with the back of a sleeve.
"I love a woman in uniform," Rex said, snapping her a mock salute. A flicker of concern crossed his eyes when he took note of her expression, and she was surprised by it. "Everything all right?"
"Yeah," she said, turning to the stairs. "Swell."
Chapter 8
Cameron had always found the ritual of preparing for a mission comforting. Cleaning and lubing the guns, rolling the socks back into themselves, putting fresh batteries in the weapons lights. One rule was never broken on the teams: Always pack your own gear. That included everything from filling the canteens to jamming the mags.
She shoved down on the kit bag so she could get the zipper closed. When she finished, she was straddling the large olive-drab duffel, her bare feet cold against the floorboards. Pausing, she took in the small living room. One yellow couch sitting at a slight tilt due to the missing leg, an empty gun mag resting atop a TV on the floor, a ripped Kings schedule on the wall-they lived as if they were still in college. Until recently, they had been home so infrequently it never seemed worthwhile to spend the time and effort to get the house more comfortable. That would change when they got back. She'd start looking in some of those catalogs, the ones with lots of beiges and candles, and order a few things to get the place looking like it was inhabited by adults. Once they found regular jobs, maybe they could even have some friends over for dinner. If they made any friends.
Wearing a towel around his waist, his hair still wet from the shower, Justin walked into the room, his handsome, even smile texturing his face with wrinkles. "You ready?"
Cameron shrugged, then patted her stomach. "Not so pleased about bringing a hitchhiker."
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.
Chapter 9
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 soldier
s 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.
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 th
e 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.
Feeling self-conscious before the others, Cameron found Justin's eyes, and he smiled at her reassuringly.
"Hey there, Mother Goose," Szabla smirked, holding one boot up before her. "I think I stubbed my toe. Would you mind kissing it to make it better?"
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