Free Minutes to Burn (2001) by Gregg Hurwitz

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

Minutes to Burn (2001)

25 DEC 07 MISSION DAY 1
    T he 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 condi tion er, 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