Flash of Fire (9 page)

The line of smoke and orange on Steve's screens, fed from a drone flying ten thousand feet above them, was now a massive reality less than a mile away.

The real-life wall of flame towered far higher than the fuel it was burning. Individual flames shot three or more times the trees' heights. There was no way to tell how much higher because the orange disappeared into the dirty black of thick smoke, which climbed to gray and was almost white at the tops, once it had shed all of the heavier, cooler ash—which fell as sparking embers, igniting the unburned forest in front of the conflagration. The sun made the very tops of the smoke cloud blinding to look at.

“Where are the smokies?” She couldn't spot them. They were making a firebreak somewhere, weren't they?

She must have spoken aloud for Carly tapped a few keys and then pointed to the center screen on the console that swept side to side across the front of the Firehawk's cockpit. It was the graphic from Steve's drone overlaid on a terrain map. The two red lines of smokies were almost directly below them.

Robin looked over the console, but they were now too close to the flames, so she looked below the console, out the glass-laminate view windows down by her feet, in the very nose of the helo. She could just make out the line, a narrow break of only a hundred feet, that was supposed to stop the approaching inferno.

No! It was supposed to narrow it. Cut off the sides.

Pieces of what Carly and Mark had said began fitting in. Encroaching edges, shifting winds, spot fires in the Black reigniting new areas. Edges of the fire still growing sideways, expanding the width of the leading edge. And that expansion was going to put the smokejumpers at risk.

“Robin? You still with us?” She could hear that Mark was on the verge of pulling her off her first command.

She still didn't know what to say. Below her there were twenty people spread out across miles of Yukon wilderness armed only with chain saws, axes, and small water pumps. Aloft were four helicopters that could disappear in a single errant lick of the oncoming conflagration.

“Hey, Ninja Girl.”

Mickey, thank God. Emily had said to ask him, but she was going to have to keep her cool, or Mark would shove her aside in a second.

“Talk to me, Gold Wing. How would Emily attack this?” She'd almost said “the Queen Bitch,” but Robin would wager they wouldn't take it as the compliment it was rapidly becoming in Robin's mind. Though not too complimentary—the amount Emily hadn't prepared her for was staggering. Robin didn't even know how specific her directions had to be worded for this crew: every little step, general tasks, or broad sweeps and let them do it? She decided it was the latter now that she'd thought it through.

“Let me tackle the Black,” Mickey replied. “I'll go in and beat down the spot fires; keep the three heavy-hitting Firehawks on the main fire. Send Jeannie down the south edge of the Black, and you take the north. Let Vern start soaking the line in front of the smokies.”

Robin almost agreed out of sheer relief at having a plan. She hesitated just a moment to picture it in her brain as if it was Emily's strategy.

Mickey making sure old fire didn't re-erupt. Check.

She and Jeannie stopping the fire from expanding sideways. Uh-huh.

Vern facing the beast head-on. There was a pinch there.

But if Robin sent the two more experienced pilots down the fire's flanks, they'd get the job done just that much sooner. Then they'd all be up at the fire's head together.

“Do it, Mickey. But Vern and Jeannie, you take the sides, call Mickey if you need extra help. I'll start the main line. Get your jobs done and join me at the head of the fire.”
And be damn quick about it.

That was how Emily would do it. And she'd face the head of the fire personally.

Without a word, the helos split to their differing tasks.

Steve began calling down the locations of the closest rewatering spots to the individual pilots. Ponds, a few small lakes, and the closest to her was a wide bend in a big creek that wandered out of the burning hills and headed for the Yukon River.

Carly marked it on the display on the central console for her. Or maybe Steve did. More information flow, but somehow it was starting to make sense.

“Which side of the smokies am I dumping on, Carly?” Upwind, she'd be soaking the wood before the fire reached the smokejumper's firebreak, hopefully easing the heat. Downwind of the firebreak, it would help kill off any embers that tried to jump their line.

There was a long pause as Carly flipped through several screens on her laptop.

“Downwind.” She didn't sound totally convinced. Then she kicked on the radio. “Mark, find out if Akbar is planning a backburn.”

Moments later Mark called back with an affirmative on the north, but the south wasn't ready yet.

“That's it.” Carly sounded more certain this time. “Downwind of the smokies' firebreak on the north leg. Hit the outer end first to make sure they can maintain a clear escape route.”

Robin rolled right and slid her Firehawk down to tree level. No, she was a hundred feet too high, no bucket on a long line dangling far below her, ever so eager to snag a tree.

She slipped lower until she was flitting only a dozen yards above the tallest trees. No fire here yet. She could get right down on them with her load of water.

There was an instinct that said to turn on the landing lights, even though she knew the sun was still well above the horizon. The shroud of smoke billowing above her made the world darker than any thunderstorm that had swept over the Tucson desert to shed a hail of fire-starting lightning.

Safety first. “Lights on, everyone,” she called out before starting her final run.

By her own drifting flight path, Robin was able to judge the wind speed and shifted her path to compensate. She sighted and chose a tree to initiate her drop. A quick check to make sure that her airspace was clear and also that she wasn't going to drop right on any smokies.

Traveling at a hundred miles per hour. So, one second before she reached the tree she'd chosen, she hit the release switch and a thousand gallons of water sprayed down on the dry trees. Three seconds and five hundred feet later, her aircraft was a thousand gallons and four tons lighter.

She wanted to turn back and admire her handiwork. But the fire wouldn't wait. Still, she felt terribly pleased as she turned toward her designated snorkeling point along the nameless creek. She could do this job. She could.

The smokejumpers might or might not be cheering as she made her first drop on the trees, but she liked to think that they were.

Three hours later, Mickey's fuel levels were down as far as his blood sugar level.

Right on cue, Robin called for return to base and refuel. Bless her.

He killed one last hot spot with his current load, a circle of fire fifty feet across and equally high right in the heart of the Black. Four hundred and fifty gallons released in a slow circle of spray was enough to convince it to retire from the fight.

He climbed and then looked down at what he'd achieved. When he'd arrived, the wide expanse of burned-over hills had looked like those Earth-at-night photos showing all of the glowing cities, flaring and spitting fire in a hundred locations.

Now it was just the char of burned-over forest. The little patches of green left behind by the fire would do their best to regerminate the Black. At the temperatures Steve had been reporting to him, this was a hot fire but not a soil killer. Some of the standing timber could recover. Fireweed and alder saplings would begin filling in soon.

Here, behind the fire, the sun now shone bright and clear, with only the occasional wisps of smoke to momentarily cast a dim shadow.

He swung wide around the head of the fire and saw that Jeannie and Vern had indeed stomped hard on the edges of the Black that had been trying to creep north and south.

Then he circled back around the front, keeping low beneath the smoke.

Working in the Black through the early evening, it was easy to forget that the main fire was undiminished.

Hundred-foot flames were hammering toward the smokejumpers' firebreaks. Escape routes had been cut to the sides, but the battle was definitely about to be engaged.

Now it was back to the airport for fuel, food, and back to the fire as fast as possible.

Mickey laid down the hammer on the 212 and, tight on the tail of the three Firehawks, raced for the Dawson City Airport.

When they hit the airport, he saw that things had definitely changed.

Their tents were up in a neat little line between the cook tent and Denise's service container. Betsy had done her usual magic of turning a pile of gear and coolers into a kitchen tent that always managed the best food even under the worst conditions.

Stacks of more supplies had been flown in and delivered. They had left their cook and mechanic alone at a deserted field and they'd taken care of business. Normally a couple of locals would have shown up to get camp fully squared away. Didn't look like it this time. And looking across the field, Mickey could see why.

On the
other
side of the runway, mayhem reigned.

A big crowd had gathered there. Most of them were on motorcycles. Over a hundred, with more pouring in through the gates.

And all on the other side of the field.

Tents had been set up, smoke rose from grills. Souvenir stands probably packed with local crafts lined the runway. Every motorcycle rolled up to check-in stands…

It made no sense.

What also made no sense was that everyone except Denise and Betsy ignored the helicopters as they settled down to park in the grass alongside the gravel strip.

The team gathered back at Firehawk One. Denise had rolled over one of her service carts as a table and Betsy delivered a tray of burgers, hot dogs, and big bags of chips as they walked up to it.

“What the hell?” He waved a hand toward the far side of the field.

“It's one of the biggest annual fundraisers for the town: Dust to Dawson Motorcycle Ride.” Betsy took a burger for herself and bit down. “The locals put everything they have into it to support the town.”

Her last words were partly muffled by food and partly by a half-dozen motorcycles using the runway as a drag strip racetrack, despite the unevenness of the gravel surface.

Then they scattered as Mark Henderson slipped down in his King Air. He didn't make a pass first to clear the way. He just came in at a hundred knots with his big, spinning propellers clearly saying, “You're moving, not me.”

Several of the motorcycles tried to match his speed. Then he slowed enough to turn onto the taxiway and return to MHA's midfield camp. That sent the riders skittering off into the grass to get out of his way. As soon as they recovered, they returned to racing on the runway.

Henderson climbed down and walked over to join them. Clearly pissed, he grabbed a burger. He turned to Robin and pointed a finger so close to her nose that Mickey wondered if she was going to bite it.

“You ever do anything that dumb with your Ninja and I'll boot your ass no matter what Emily says about your potential.”

* * *

QB Emily said she had potential? Right, another piece of her last-minute, confusing deluge of instructions. Still, Robin found the phrase surprising.

“No need to worry, Mark. I won't.”

“Glad to hear you aren't that stupid. Damn it!” He lifted the edge of the bun. “Is there any ketchup?”

Betsy handed him a bottle that had been sitting in plain view, which he used to drown the poor burger before taking his next bite.

“No, I'm plenty stupid.” Robin glanced over to wait for Mickey's reaction to her next line. She waited until he'd stuffed a handful of potato chips into his mouth and had crunched down. “I just don't own a motorcycle. Mom made me buy a used Toyota Camry instead.”

Mickey eyes bugged, and then he tried to inhale and breathed in a mouthful of potato chip crumbs. In moments, he was hacking and coughing out potato chip bits until his eyes watered.

Robin reached over and pounded him on the back. Hard. Hard enough that she was surprised when he didn't drop to the ground. That would teach him to kiss her without asking.

The fact that she'd decided during the firefight that she'd enjoyed it and was looking forward to doing it again didn't mean he didn't deserve the pounding. Next time it would be on her terms though, not his.

“Camry?” Mark sounded almost as disgusted by that as by the motorcycle.

“We have got to upgrade your ride, girl,” Vern insisted over a hot dog buried under enough relish to make it rate as a salad rather than a meat product.

“He'll try to talk you into a Corvette,” Denise said as she zipped by to check something on the next helicopter.

“That's only because it's a real car,” he called after her. “Which,” he admitted in a much softer tone, “she drives way better than I do even if she is more of a classic sports car kind of gal. Drives a 1973 Fiat 124 Spider that she restored herself, of course. Has her eye on a 1960-something AC Ace.”

“The six cylinder, not the eight,” Denise said, going by in the other direction with an ash-clogged intake filter in her hand. “Preferably the two-point-six liter, but there were only thirty-seven of those ever built, so it's probably out of my price range.” And she was gone again.

“If I could find one, I'd buy it for her,” Vern whispered. “But it's probably out of my price range too.”

Robin's first assessment had been right; Vern was a sweet man. Her second assessment was that Denise was a lucky girl.

“F-250 Ranch,” Mark said like he was laying down the law.

“Firebird Trans Am,” Steve said when she glanced his way.

“Idiot drives a stick shift despite his leg.” Carly was clearly resigned to it though. “I drive my dad's Jeep.”

“Which is about to rust out from old age.”

“And I'll drive it until it's scrap metal bits held together by duct tape.” Her defiance said just how deep that choice went.

Robin let the talk swirl around her. She wasn't even sure if they remembered that this had all been started by her old Toyota, which was still parked out back of her mom's truck stop. She'd flown to Oregon and been picked up at the airport by Beale behind the wheel of Mark's big Ford pickup truck.

Interview had slammed straight into hired, and now she stood in the Yukon wilderness on her first day on the job. She did need to call Mom and let her know she was okay. Mom wouldn't be worried. It's not like she'd been redeployed to Afghanistan, but so much had happened since they'd spoken just last night.

The roar of the racing motorcycles forced their talk into cut-up sections, but she was used to that. They did the same thing on a flight line in the Guard or the truck line when fully loaded big rigs were trying to get moving again after they'd consumed a couple hundred gallons of fuel and their drivers had loaded themselves with a three-egg western omelet and one of Phoebe's renowned deep-dish apple pies with homemade vanilla ice cream.

Everyone else was doing the same: half a sentence, pause for deafening roar, curse if it was a particularly bad one, then continue the same sentence in the same place.

One cyclist, clearly a particularly dumb one—which was rare based on the groups that hit the truck stop—rolled right up to them.

“Hey, do you guys do scenic flights?”

“Sure,” Mickey told him.

“Five hundred.” Vern picked up the line.

Robin was about to protest, but Jeannie strolled up to him until she was only inches away. Her jacket open to her waist. Her T-shirt clinging tightly to curves more generous than Robin's own.

“We'll take you up,” she said with every hint of the working girls who also often hung out at the truck stop. “And we'll dump your ass in the middle of a wildfire from a thousand feet. Dropping you from two thousand so you have time to admire the flames you're about to die in costs an extra hundred.”

He got out fast.

Jeannie's laughter followed him across the field, then she turned back and mentioned how she was wanting a Mini Cooper someday and, no, Cal didn't get to have an opinion as he didn't actually own a car.

“I do. I left it at Redding jumper base before a photo shoot a couple years back. Or maybe it was Redmond.”

“Maybe it was Rio Bravo,” Vern suggested.

“Or Roosevelt out in Colorado,” Denise quipped as she joined the group and grabbed a hot dog—which meant all of the helos were ready or she wouldn't have stopped.

Denise glanced her way and nodded a confirmation to that.

There was a comfortableness to all this that Robin was starting to get a feel for. She took another bite of her burger and appreciated being out of the helicopter. The sun wasn't that much closer to the horizon, but it was hazed reddish by the fire to the west.

She checked her watch.

Eight p.m. Four hours to sunset. Only four more after that to sunrise.

It had been an amazingly long day. Five a.m. had rung in the day fifteen hundred miles to the south of here with a blaring alarm. Despite the cabin air filters, everyone's eyes were red with smoke and exhaustion.

“Who here is nighttime-drop certified?”

Her question silenced the chatter.

Jeannie raised a hand.

One.

Emily must have been the second one. The National Guard didn't fly nighttime fires, at least hers never had.

You couldn't send one pilot in alone—helicopters flew in pairs for safety. Not everyone did that, but the military did, and Emily had told her that MHA did the same. If the answer had been otherwise, it would have made her hesitate before signing. Robin liked flying, had always enjoyed the rare wildfire call. But if her helo went down at a fire line, she wanted someone really close by to fish her ass out if she survived the landing.

Mark was eyeing her closely, but it was Mickey she was watching. Mark would be testing her. Mickey would let her know if she got off track far sooner.

“We need fresh crews at sunrise. And we each need eight hours of downtime for safety. Jeannie and Vern, you're down for the next eight unless there's an emergency.” The two of them practically sagged with relief.

“Jeannie, when you're back aloft tomorrow, I want you to start working with Vern to get him night-drop certified. Emily can sign off on him next time we're in Oregon.”

“I can do that too.” Mark's deep voice was absolutely neutral. Carefully neutral, as if it hurt him to speak.

“You fly rotorcraft?”

His nod was steady. The others were now equally careful not to look at her.

“How can
you
certify him?” Robin couldn't read what was going on around her.

“I can.” Mark's flat statement sliced through the air like a Firehawk drop.

Robin wondered if she should push because it was up to her to understand or to back the hell off and trust the boss. Robin made a habit of trusting herself first, her copilot second, and no one the fuck else.

There were a hundred little signals swirling around her in calculated looks and shifts of body language. Whatever lay behind this was not going to be pretty or fast. And that was the deciding factor; she didn't have time for whatever shit was going down among these people.

“Fine! Mark, you're down for the night as well. Tomorrow you oversee Vern's cross-training. With such a small team and Steve's drone, I want you in the seat beside Vern until he's got it.”

She didn't wait for his response but turned to Steve.

“Steve, you make sure that Mark has whatever feeds he needs from you or Carly in Vern's helicopter to also do his ICA tasks.”

Another nod.

“That leaves you and me, Gold Wing Boy. You ready to go another round with the fire? Back here by midnight, then we're down for eight hours. That leaves the smokies on their own for just the four hours of nighttime.”

“Bring it on, Camry Girl.”

“That's Ninja Girl to you, Hamilton.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted, looked abashedly at Mark for a moment, then grabbed another burger and headed for his helo.

She faced Mark Henderson. His mirrored aviator shades revealed nothing of his thoughts, but it felt as if he carried his own personal shadow hanging over him.

“You got some explaining to do, mister,” she announced right in front of the others. “But I don't have time to be your therapist right now.” She turned for her helo.

She finished the quick circle of a fast Preflight Check and found Mark standing close by her pilot's side door as if teleported into place; he moved very quietly for such a big man. The others had already headed for their tents.