Minutes to Burn

Chapter 7

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."

"For all practical purposes, it's a squad, and I'll run it as such." Derek paused, straightened up. "I gave you an order."

Savage ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, his blue eyes hard like bits of sea-washed glass. "Savage," he said. "William Savage."

"Are you shitting me?" Justin said. "Savage? Yeah, okay buddy." He turned to Derek. "If he's Savage, then I get to be Harddick."

"And I wanna be Dickwrench," Szabla added. "Or something."

"You already are," Justin smirked. Szabla flipped him off.

"If you're having trouble with the name," Savage said, running a hand over the stubble beneath his beard, "I can carve it on your forehead for you."

"Yeah, try not to knock over your walker as you head over here," Justin said. He laughed, shaking his head. "Savage. That's great. That's fucking brilliant."

A mother walking with her two kids saw the group of soldiers up ahead and ushered her kids across the street to avoid them. They turned into Roosevelt Park and the children sprinted ahead onto the soccer fields, laughing.

Savage reached out, sliding his fingers down behind Justin's ear before Justin knocked his hand away. Savage rubbed his fingertips together, then smelled them. "Still a little wet."

"Oh?" Justin said, slightly flushed. "Not up to par with your Civil War comrades?"

"Vietnam. Team ONE, Bravo Platoon, sixty-gunner."

"I thought we'd forgotten about all the Vietnam vets," Szabla said. "Wasn't that national policy?"

"You fuckin' candy-ass whore-"

"Candy-ass whore." Szabla whistled. "Nice, this is nice. Where'd you find this one, LT? Recruiting in prisons?"

"Actually, yes," Derek said. A thick silence settled over the soldiers. Savage grinned vengefully.

"Fuck," Tank said.

Cameron tapped Derek on the arm. "Can I have a minute here, please?" Derek followed her across the street to the park. Cameron slowed down near the playground, setting her foot in the bucket of a swing. "What's going on, Derek?" she asked.

He didn't respond, so she just looked at him, hard and steady. Finally, he sighed. "It's a low-priority mission."

"That seems to be something of an understatement. We're a shooter short, Tucker looks like death warmed over, and Mako sprang a jailbird."

"Look, Mako doesn't have the men, but he was getting leaned on from up top. I guess one of these New Center guys predicted an earth-quake in Santa Cruz, gave the residents twelve hours' notice to evacuate. Saved some lives, including-"

"That of our very own Secretary of the Navy, Andrew Benneton," Cameron said with a grimace.

"Favors, like shit, flow downhill. You know the drill: Secretary of the Navy calls the Commander, who calls the Team THREE CO, who calls our favorite Operations Officer, John Mako, who, with little notice and a big headache, needs to field a SEALs squad."

"So he scraped together reserves and pulled you back from leave."

Derek nodded. "His ass is covered as long as he provides BUD/s-trained soldiers. We're just here to dog-and-pony. The best I could do was request old platoon-mates. No one wanted this. It's a jerk-off of a mission-keep the slipper in one piece and get him home as quickly as possible. If it's feeling a touch half-assed, that's because it is."

Cameron let her breath out in a whistle. She glanced at the kids running over the lawn. The girl attempted a cartwheel and landed flat on her back. "How's Jacqueline?"

Derek bit his lip, turning his face to the breeze. "You never know just how tough you are until something like that happens. Just how much you can stand." His face looked narrow and displeased, as though he'd bitten into something sour. He murmured, "You have no idea what it's like to lose a baby."

Cameron averted her eyes, uncomfortable. "No. No I don't."

Derek shook off his thoughts like a chill and turned back, all business again. "I'm gonna run the squad like they used to run half platoons before they kicked the fulls up to sixteen. Szabla's next in rank as an 0–2, so she'll be the AOIC. Believe me Cam, I'd rather it was you."

Cameron wasn't really sure what to make of his rapid mood swings- she figured they were bumps in the road of his mourning process.

"At least we don't have any screaming seamen on board," Derek continued. "You five are all E-4 and up, though Savage and Tucker haven't kept up proficiency training in some time. Like I said, low-priority mission."

Cameron grimaced. "What a squad."

"Hey!" Szabla yelled from across the street. "You about done with your little tea party?"

Derek waved for her to shut up and nodded at Cameron. "Ecuador's in a martial law state-first time since '78, I think. Heavy UN influence. There was some talk upstairs about having NATO move in so we could have more control, but the French weren't having it. We'll have to cut through a decent amount of red tape at Guayaquil, but it should be clear sailing once we hit the islands."

"Is Guayaquil that dangerous?" Cameron asked.

"Hell no," Derek said. "The city center's cordoned off-it's basically a UN camp. Outside of that, there's still a lot of random crime, as always, but things are up and running. I suppose it's no place for a civilian, but it's hardly Borneo. These scientists are just freaked out because that last guy went missing."

"Or they're using us to cut through the red tape."

"Probably a little of both." Derek formed a fist and held it out. "Gonna need your level head and your bad Spanish."

Cameron tightened her hand and Derek brought his down on top of hers. He smiled, and a few faint wrinkles fanned through his cheeks. Cameron noticed a patch of stubble on his chin that he'd missed while shaving and felt a sadness move through her. Derek had aged a decade since she'd seen him last month. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" she asked. "It's hardly been six weeks."

"I know. But this is a cakewalk of a mission. It'll get my legs back under me." He smiled almost bashfully. "Mako leaned on me pretty good. I didn't want to do it at first. Didn't think I was ready."

"What changed your mind?" Cameron asked.

"When he told me you were signed on." Derek looked down and studied his thumbnail for a moment. When he raised his head, his eyes were steeled with resolve. "Let's get this goatfuck on the road."

Donald faced Rex across the oblong disk of granite that served as the New Center conference table. Charts and diagrams hung about the room, and information seemed to jump out from the walls-the darkened hues of bathymetric maps, the curving arrows of oceanographic currents, the jointed lines of surface temperatures climbing hesitantly upward. No fewer than five computers were currently running, though Rex and Donald were the only ones sharing the office on the top floor. The other scientists worked in cubicles below, or in the basement lab.

"I'm impressed you were able to get here on time," Donald said. A slightly rounded short gentleman with kindly eyes and a shock of white hair that sprayed up from his head at all angles, Dr. Donald Denton stubbornly refused to yield to comb or brush. He wore only linen- linen shirts of all shades and patterns, linen dinner jackets at formal events, linen slacks so wrinkled they resembled corduroys. His skin had an enthusiastic reddish sheen to it, as if he had just finished some weighty task that involved a great degree of physical exertion. The truth of the matter was that he loathed physical exertion. Fortunately for him, as the President of the New Center, and the more academic Co-Chief of Research, the closest he got to exercise was a few swings of a rock hammer.

Still breathless, Rex pulled off his bicycle helmet and tossed it in the corner. "Well, it's not every day one gets his very own team of trained SEALs."

Donald leaned over, exhaling audibly, and pulled two jars filled with red-tinted, brackish liquid from a padded box. He set them on the table before Rex.

"Alien urine specimens?" Rex asked.

"Water samples. From Frank. Dated the twenty-seventh of October. The mail from Ecuador, as you can imagine, has all but ground to a halt. They came in on a cargo plane late last night, and were waiting for me here when I arrived this morning."

Rex took one of the jars and held it up to the light. Particles swirled in the cloudy liquid.

"One from Santa Cruz, the other he took first thing after landing on Sangre de Dios. I guess he sent them back with the boat that dropped him off. I'll run them down to the lab after the meeting, see what I come up with. Oh, and I almost forgot." Donald leaned forward, pulling a folded sheet from his back pocket. He handed it to Rex. "Take a look at this."

Rex took the sheet and glanced at it. "Sixty-four hundred bucks!" He whistled. "What the hell's that for?"

"Evidently, Frank ordered one of those solar-powered specimen freezers delivered to him on the island. Some shady shipper threw it on an oil tanker out of Manta, got it to him in two days." He snatched the bill back from Rex and read from it. "'Expedited delivery-four hundred dollars.'" He shook his head. "I just don't understand what he would've needed a freezer that large for."

Rex shrugged. "Maybe he didn't. Maybe he didn't know what he was ordering. Maybe they sent him the wrong size to rip him off. Us. To rip us off. Did he clear the expense with you?"

Donald waved him off. "Please. You know Frank. He was never in touch on a survey. Hated to be distracted from his work. He couldn't be bothered with lugging communications equipment."

"Ah yes. His Thoreau routine."

Donald rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. "That's why it took me so damn long to realize he was missing." He drummed his fingers on the granite. "I have to confess, I'm glad you'll have a military squad looking after you. I was assured they were the best."

A loud single knock hit the door, and Donald rose to his feet. He opened the door to reveal Savage, standing slightly crooked in one boot and one torn sock. Beside him, Tucker jiggled his hand back and forth, watching it closely.

"Hello," Donald began. "I'm-"

Savage knocked Donald's shoulder as he passed him. Tank followed Tucker into the room, banging his head on the door frame. Derek emerged from the rear, holding out his hand to Donald. "Derek Mitchell. I'm the OIC of this platoon."

Donald took his hand with some hesitation. "OIC?"

"Officer in Charge."

Szabla curled her arm across her chest, rotating her fist so the ball of her biceps slid back and forth. Donald turned slowly to face Rex, who remained blank-faced, leaning back so the chair cocked under his weight.

"Well," Rex said, staring at the ceiling. "Let the games begin."

After the introductions were made, the squad gathered around the conference table. Derek sat at the far end beside Rex and Donald, facing the soldiers. Cameron was relieved to see that he looked more steady than before, more professional.

Rex studied Derek, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Sure we don't need more men?"

"Two of us are women," Szabla said. "And, in keeping with the finest naval tradition, prefer to be referred to as either broads or dames."

Rex laughed, but Derek shot her a stern look. Donald rose, folding his hands across his generous belly. "Now, I've already gone over the itinerary with Lieutenant Mako."

"I'm up to speed," Derek said. "There'll be plenty of time for me to brief the others before we lift out tonight."

"Good," Rex said. "Because it's bad enough there's going to be seven of you. But I certainly can't get through an expedition of this importance-"

"Of this importance," Szabla repeated.

Rex stared at her. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that with the current state of affairs, I don't think a scientific outing is of the utmost-"

"I'm handling this, Szabla," Derek said.

"— importance that we need to dispatch top-notch soldiers-"

"Szabla," Derek said, his voice raised in warning, "Which part of 'I'm handling this' did you not understand?"

"I think 'handling,' LT. She has trouble with gerunds," Justin said, turning a sweet smile to Szabla before she backhanded him. He caught her hand at the wrist inches from his nose.

Cameron almost told Justin and Szabla to shut up but restrained herself, not wanting to undermine Derek. She placed her hands between her knees, pressing them together.

"Top-notch?" Rex asked rhetorically. Savage dug his fingernail beneath a small scab on the back of his neck and scraped it off, examining it before flicking it onto the floor. He ran his hand across the sore, then wiped the blood on his pants.

"Rex," Donald said softly, his voice tense. "I don't think-"

Derek stood up and leaned over the table, facing his charges. "Let's get one thing straight. We are escorting Dr. Williams because that's our mission." He turned to Rex, who gazed up at him from his chair, seemingly awed by his considerable size. "But you don't have to make things more difficult than they need be."

"I'm merely taking issue with the choice of 'top-notch' as an adjective." Rex pointed at Savage. "That guy looks like he crawled out of a sewer."

Savage waved. He went back to relacing his boot, which was resting on the table.

"The only thing that matters," Cameron said, "is the mission objective."

"Who brought the girl scout?"

"Szabla," Derek said. "I'm not fucking around here."

Donald removed his small spectacles and polished them nervously. "I'd like to…if it's okay, I'd like to discuss-"

Rex bounced forward in his chair. "We're flying into Guayaquil, need to stop there for the night. How? I don't know. That's your department. Obviously we're not taking United. We get to spend Christmas night in Guayaquil, lovely polluted industry town and cultural hub of the universe. We're picking up Dr. Juan Ramirez, a professor of ecology at Universidad de Guayaquil, who will be assisting me in my objectives. Then we're flying to Baltra, which houses the only operating airport in Galapagos. It's a former U.S. Army base, so that should float your respective boats."

Savage belched. Rex elected to ignore him.

"Then we'll need to establish our telemetry gear at the Darwin Station on Santa Cruz, scold whoever's left in the seismology department for letting their operation go to shit, and we're on our way to Sangre de Dios where I'll be undertaking the extraordinarily ambitious and impressive task of outfitting the island with geodetic trinkets and toys-six Global Positioning Satellite units, to be precise."

"What's the terrain?" Cameron asked.

"Quite varied. From scorched lava to dense forests."

"We bringing NVGs?" Szabla asked.

Rex shot Derek a puzzled look. "Night Vision Goggles," Derek explained. He turned to Szabla. "No. It's not triple canopy, and we're setting the GPS units during the day. We don't need to be tricked out for combat-it's not exactly a hot area."

Szabla leaned back in her chair, placing her arms behind her neck and flexing. "How do the units work?"

Rex said, "They measure the rates of the land's deformation. We need six to form a network. They'll relay information to the Darwin Station, and the scientists there will, in turn, forward the information to us via computer."

"Why don't you just have the information relayed directly here?"

"Unfortunately, the telemetry equipment isn't that sophisticated. It only relays information along line of sight. The distance from Ecuador to Sacramento is great enough that the curvature would throw off the transmissions."

"Curvature?" Tucker asked.

"The earth is round," Rex said, with a sardonic grin.

Tucker pressed his lips together. "Oh, yeah."

Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I understand transportation around the islands is a problem?"

"Yes, but I've arranged it all after we hit Baltra-it's just the airports that are tangled in military red tape. Boating between islands is a logistical pain in the ass, but not a political one." Rex turned to face the others. "In all, it's an eight-day trip-two days transport out, four days on Sangre, one day back. If all goes well, we'll be back for New Year's. Your job is to make sure I don't get shot, stabbed, or drawn and quartered in Guayaquil, to get me through the airports without any cavity searches, and to help me blanket Sangre de Dios and get the gear in place."

"Aren't there scientists out there already who can do this?" Cameron asked. "And save us the trip?"

"That's a very good question, Miss…" Rex looked at her expectantly.

"Chief," Cameron said. "Kates. But Cameron will do just fine. And a straightforward answer without the condescension."

Rex whistled. "Lo siento mucho."

"No problema."

Rex suppressed a smile as he leaned forward. "All right, Cameron. The reason the scientists there can't take care of it is because their funding, as you can imagine, has gone to even further shit as a result of the economic turmoil, and they can barely afford upkeep, let alone cutting-edge technology. Shipping's gone to hell, so we can't send the equipment down to them. We can hardly get through via phone, fax, or E-mail just to find out what the hell's going on. On top of all that, they're fleeing the islands in droves."

"Why?" Cameron asked.

"Because they're not as courageous as we are." Rex smiled. "Or as stupid. 'The few, the proud…'"

"That's the Marines," Szabla said.

Rex waved her off. "Same difference."

Tucker was listening intently. "Why's Sangre de Dios so important?" he asked.

"Because it sits over a network of fissures running south from the Galapagos Fracture Zone and, more significant, fissures running inland from the East Pacific Rise-it's near the source of both major forces that affect movement of the entire Nazca plate."

Tank watched Rex blankly. When Rex finished speaking, Tank turned to the others. "English?" he said.

"It's near where shit is the most fucked up," Szabla replied.

"Because of that," Rex continued, "it's our canary in the coal mine." He noticed that Tucker was jotting notes in a small pad. "That's C-A-N-A-R-Y."

Tucker looked at him self-consciously, then slid the pad back into his pocket. "Just thought it would help keep me up on things," he said.

Rex flashed a grin. "Indeed."

"I'm sure you're all aware of the severe ozone deficiency in that region." Donald stood and crossed to a large cabinet, pulling it open. "You'll need to take every precaution down there. Protective contacts, SPF one hundred lotion." He pulled out several tubes of sunblock and waved them at the soldiers. "Get it everywhere-webs of your fingers, insides of your ears; if you part your hair, rub it along the exposed line of scalp." He held the tubes out to Derek, but Derek waved him off.

"We're covered," Cameron said. "Customary operating supplies for missions in ozone-poor regions."

Derek clapped his hands once and rose. "We'll be lifting out at 2300 from the base. Any other questions?"

"Yeah," Savage said, thunking his bootless foot on the table. His voice was gravelly with phlegm, so he cleared his throat and spit in the corner. "You think we could see about getting me another boot sometime soon?"

Cameron walked out of the women's room on the third floor of the New Center and headed down the hall toward the stairs, her boots loud on the tiled floor. Sealed with yellow police tape, the elevator doors were now used as a bulletin board. Cameron stopped for a moment and glanced at the flyers advertising lecture series and research trips.

One section of the doors was dedicated to the tropical ozone problem. Her eyes flickered over the papers, trying to condense the information.

Evidently, tropical regions had always suffered the highest penetration of UV radiation. Since the Initial Event, ocean surface heating from tectonic activity had only compounded the problem. It had spawned hurricanes that, in combination with aberrant weather patterns, had evolved into hypercanes, massive hurricanes that were so tall they reached into the stratosphere. Because of their elongation, hypercanes pumped water from the ocean surface directly into the stratosphere, introducing massive amounts of HO and HO2. This accelerated the hox catalytic cycle, a natural process that broke down ozone and removed it from the stratosphere. It took a full year for the ozone balance to normalize after a hypercane, and one had been occurring every three to four months. For the past five years, the flyer warned, people, plants, and animals near the equator had been absorbing unprecedented amounts of UV radiation.

A tear sheet listed the effects of ultraviolet B on organisms-reduced shoot length and average leaf area in plants; decreases in rates of photo-synthesis; structural damages to light-sensitive plankton; corruption of bird, reptile, and insect eggs; reduced proportion of healthy hatchlings. But the reported effects on humans were the most disturbing. The ten percent reduction in equatorial stratospheric ozone had led to a forty percent increase in the incidence of basal cell carcinoma, and a sixty percent increase in squamous cell carcinoma in Ecuador, Colombia, and northern Peru. The study also reported a rise in the number of cataracts, and a condition described cryptically as a general weakening of the immune system.

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."