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 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.

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.

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?"

Cameron knocked Szabla's boot away. Szabla stumbled backward into Tank, who caught her under the arms and hauled her to her feet.

Derek and Rex emerged, and Derek signaled the squad to grab the gear. Szabla climbed up on the roof of the chiva and began lowering the cruise boxes and duffels to the others. Across the street, two men leaned up against a building, watching them unload. One of them, a tall, hand-some guayaquileno, wore an unbuttoned shirt to show off a dazzling array of gold chains. He watched Szabla bend over and blew her a kiss. His friend, a shorter man with his hair pulled back in a ponytail, laughed. Szabla squared herself on the roof of the chiva, facing them, and grabbed her crotch. The shorter man cheered and she curtsied before sliding off the roof.

Rex tried to lift one of the cruise boxes and couldn't get it off the ground. With a smirk, Szabla hoisted it up and motioned Rex ahead of her. "Why don't you be a gentleman and get the door?" she said.

Inside, the wallpaper was bubbled and peeled, the maroon carpet worn thin around the front desk. Savage stopped beneath a particularly gruesome sculpture of Christ on the cross, nailed to the wall beside reception. He ran a finger across the crown of thorns and rubbed his fingertips, as if expecting the blood to come off on them.

The squad followed Derek up the stairs, hauling the gear. They circled up in the first bedroom of the third floor, stacking the gear in the corner.

Derek opened the lid of the weapons box, revealing the foam interior. Removing the magazine from his M-4, he placed the gun inside, tossing the mag in a nearby cruise box, where it landed on one of the two spare ammo crates. He gestured for the others to do the same. "Make sure you clear and safe your weapons," he said. "Sigs too."

Rex looked up in disgust at the vents. "An ozone hole the size of Mars and the air conditioner's running full blast." He started for the dial on the wall, but Szabla blocked him.

"Not in this heat, you don't," she said. "CFCs be damned."

"It's precisely that kind of-"

Derek cleared his throat. "We'll take the rooms in buddy pairs. Me and Cam'll stay here. Szabla and Justin, you guys are straight across the hall. I want Savage and Tucker next door to you, and Rex and Tank in the next room down."

"I think I can manage alone," Rex said. "Tempting as it sounds, I don't think I'm really in need of a 'buddy.'"

Derek ignored him. Tank sat down on one of the beds with a grunt, pulling off a boot. He snapped his fingers, and Justin pulled a can of Tinactin from his kit bag and tossed it to him.

When the others had finished putting away their M-4s and 9mm Sig Sauer p226s, Derek counted the mags in the cruise box, making sure they were all accounted for. Since he was standing watch, he kept a loaded pistol in his belt.

The sound of a crying baby issued through the thin wall. Derek stiffened, his face blanching. Cameron coughed loudly to draw attention away from him. The crying continued. Probably the baby that got sunburnt.

Rex punched a number into his sat phone. He hung up and dialed again. "A recording says the north part of the city's still out. I tried before from the airport."

Some of the color was returning to Derek's face, but he still looked unsteady.

"So the north part of the city's out," Szabla said. "Who gives a shit?"

"That's where Dr. Ramirez's lab is."

Szabla looked at Rex with irritation. "Need I repeat my question?"

"I haven't had an opportunity to inform him of our departure time tomorrow. If he's going to meet us at the airport for the flight, he needs to know when it is."

"So go tell him."

"It's through the UN cordon."

"Now we're an escort service," Szabla said.

"Doubt you'd get many bookings in that line of work," Rex said. "Look, someone needs to accompany me. Why don't you take a vote or something?"

"This is the navy," Szabla said. "We don't vote."

"I'll go," Cameron said. "Me and Tank. That okay, LT? LT?"

Derek snapped from his trance. The baby's cries had stopped. "What?"

"Me and Tank'll accompany Rex to find Dr. Ramirez. That all right?"

Derek nodded. "With all the attitude we're running into, I want you to keep it low-key around the UN troops. Change into civies and keep your Sigs out of view." Opening the weapons box, he pulled out two pistols and tossed them to Cameron and Tank. He slammed the lid, locked both padlocks, and looped the keychain around his neck.

"Anyone finds out you're carrying and it's my ass. If you run into trouble with UN or domestic, flash ID; with the element, retaliate reasonably. I'm assuming you'll be fine. It's broad daylight, and I'm pleasantly surprised by the stability of the city, even beyond the checkpoints. We'll wait for you here, and see about dinner later." He flipped Cameron a rubber-banded wad of sucres, bluish-green on one side, red and orange on the other.

Cameron wedged the money into her front pants pocket, safe from pickpockets. The baby next door let loose with a scream, and she saw Derek's face tighten, as if he were bracing for a punch. He regained his composure quickly. No one else seemed to notice.

"The lab is out by Julian Coronel," Rex said. "It's not the nicest part of town."

Tank laid an enormous hand on Rex's shoulder, guiding him toward the door.

"Don't worry," Cameron said. She stole another glance at Derek before turning to follow. "You're in good hands."

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