Minutes To Burn Part 3

Walters pushed Savage aside and peered out the open door. He took aim, the rifle bobbing as the helicopter swooped and turned. He fired once and cursed, then struggled to unbolt the rifle.

Savage calmly leaned back against the side of the helicopter, spotting a distinctive gray patch on the bear's flank. Walters wobbled in his shooter's stance and fired another shot, reeling from the kick.

Savage sighed. "You planning on doing this thing anytime soon?"

"I can't get a clear shot through the f.u.c.king canopy!" Walters yelled.

"There's nowhere to set down," the pilot said.

Savage picked up a SPIE rig harness and went to work on it, pulling his large knife from the ambidextrous pouch sheath he kept laced over his right calf.

Chambering another round, Walters turned back to face Savage, who was slipping the harness over his shoulders. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" he shouted. Catching another glimpse of the sow, he hastily raised the rifle and fired.

Savage tied the harness to a thick, braided rope that was coiled on the floor beside him. The other end of the rope was secured to a carabiner, which he clipped to the helo rigging. Pausing to light another cigarette, he looked at Walters. "To kill a grizzly, you gotta hit it the right way. Face, lungs, or heart. Even the top of the head won't cut it. Got a skull like plate armor. You need a clear shot, and it ain't gonna happen with meat-stick up there swooping like a kite and the bear in full sprint beneath the tree cover."

"You heard the pilot-we can't set down anywhere. This is the best angle I'm gonna get. "

The Blackhawk pulled to a midair halt, quivering beneath the whirring rotors. "I lost her," the pilot said. "f.u.c.k. I lost her." A blast of wind hit the helo, wobbling it.

"Do I have to do everything here?" Walters yelled. "You people only give me a twelve-hour window on the Blackhawk and now I'm supposed to navigate the thing too?" He threw the rifle down on the floor. Savage picked it up and angled it, eyeing the scope.

"Keep going south," Savage said softly.

The pilot looked over at Walters, unsure if he should obey the order. "What the f.u.c.k are you talking about, Savage?" Walters said. "We need to circle in and find her."

Savage dragged deep and dragoned twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. "We have about three minutes to head south to where that gorge ends in a cliff. That's the direction she was heading, and she's gonna follow the ridge. Now you can sit here like the pencil-pushing c.o.c.ksucker that you are, or you can act like the man you wish you were. Just try to make up your mind sometime in the next ten seconds so I have at least a small chance of getting in position."

Walters bit the inside of his lip, staring at Savage. Savage returned the glare. "All right," Walters finally said. He waved a hand at the pilot and settled back in his seat. "Give the felon a go at it."

Savage set the rifle down and pulled himself up to a crouch. "I want you to trace the line of this gorge until it falls away at the cliff face. Pull about twenty yards off the lip when we hit it and hold steady."

"All right," the pilot said. "I'm not dipping lower than the top of the tree line, though. We're gonna have problems with the wind against the cliff, and there's nowhere to land down there if we need to back down."

"Just let me worry about that," Savage said.

The helicopter tilted forward and thundered down the gorge. Walters searched the woods for the bear but saw nothing except the waving firs. "I hope you know what you're doing, Savage," he said.

Savage tightened the modified harness around his shoulders and slid one arm loophole down over his waist as the helicopter shot along the ridge.

They pa.s.sed the cliff and were suddenly out several hundred yards above a stone basin cut by a rushing river. The pilot swung the helicopter to face the line of trees at the edge of the cliff. Nothing was visible but foliage.

"How the f.u.c.k are you gonna get a shot here?" Walters said, his anger intensifying. "It's all foliage from this angle and we can't drop the helo any lower!"

Savage smiled around his cigarette and leaned backward out of the helicopter, grabbing the Win Mag with one hand. His tattered sock was the last thing to disappear over the side of the Blackhawk. Until the cara-biner pulled tight on the rigging, it seemed from the helicopter that he'd gone over in a suicide dive.

Falling the twenty-foot length of the rope, Savage snapped to a halt. Flat on his stomach, he floated in a sniper's stance. Below him, the drop stretched for an eternity to the snow-dusted boulders. The rifle was positioned on his shoulder before he even completed the fall, his left eye on the scope.

The lower vantage opened up his line of vision tremendously; he could see a good distance into the forest between the trunks of the trees. The light was magnificent, filtering through the needles in thin, twin-kling shafts.

He didn't doubt the Blackhawk; he knew from the Gulf that it could pull eight thousand pounds' suspension. He and the .300 were child's play.

The crosshairs waited patiently, lined just above the peak of a small hill on which the sow should appear. It was a little over a quarter mile away from him.

Savage counted under his breath."Five...four...three..."The head of the grizzly appeared, and she looked ahead, rearing up to her full seven feet when she saw the helicopter. Savage spit the cigarette out the side of his mouth. "You're early," he growled, pulling the trigger.

The bullet caught her right through the roaring mouth, but Savage couldn't see the impact because the kick from the rifle sent him swinging back beneath the Blackhawk. He kept his eye on the scope though, checking for the slumped body on his backswing.

He dropped the rifle, bearing its weight on the sling around his neck, and started climbing hand over hand up the rope. He got a leg on the skid, then pulled himself into the helicopter. Walters and the pilot stared at him, speechless.

Savage lit another cigarette, snapped his lighter closed, and made it disappear into one of his many pockets. "Well," he said, raising his head. "What the f.u.c.k're we waiting for?"

CHAPTER 7.

--------------------- 24 DEC 07.

he 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 & 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 s.h.i.t, 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 d.i.c.ky 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 stalac-t.i.te. Szabla was facing the building, shadowboxing and talking to herself under her breath, and Tank stood perfectly still, arms crossed over his ma.s.sive 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 sungla.s.ses 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 vul-nerable in his shy smile, a flash of a grin that seemed oddly una.s.suming 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 situa-tions, she was the only person he allowed to touch him. Supposedly, he'd been at the top of his cla.s.s 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 sol-diers 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 engi-neer 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 Sacra-mento 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 dart-ing 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."

"Mitch.e.l.l?" 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 per-sonal 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 peo-ple. 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, yank-ing 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 gla.s.s. "Savage," he said. "William Savage."

"Are you s.h.i.tting me?" Justin said. "Savage? Yeah, okay buddy." He turned to Derek. "If he's Savage, then I get to be Hardd.i.c.k."

"And I wanna be d.i.c.kwrench," 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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.kin' candy-a.s.s wh.o.r.e-"

"Candy-a.s.s wh.o.r.e." 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.

"f.u.c.k," 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 s.h.i.t, 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 sc.r.a.ped together reserves and pulled you back from leave."