Pure Heat (7 page)

The black came as a shock on the console's screens. The view had been of the undulating green of the Mount Hood National Forest. The burnout zone looked as if someone had taken scissors and clipped away all of the color from a whole section of mountainside, leaving behind only smoky grays and blacks.

Steve flipped to infrared. A dozen dots appeared along the edges of the black. He sure could have used this yesterday when they were trying to find TJ. The dots were the heat signatures of a red-card crew working to douse any smolders. All of the Type I crews had been pulled already, the smokies last night and the hotshots this morning. Now it was up to the Type II crews to spend another day or so mopping up and making sure the fire was truly dead.

He zoomed in on them and flipped back to standard light. They were digging over the soil along the edges with McLeod fire rakes to unearth any hidden embers.

Back to infrared, he circled the fire's perimeter.

He keyed his radio. “Tower, this is N357SH. Over.”

“Go ahead, 357.”

“Tell the ground crew they've got a hot spot at…” He read off the GPS coordinates that the system reported. The spot, still pouring out heat easily visible in the infrared, showed far brighter on his screen than the surrounding mountainside. A lot of heat there. He flipped to the normal-light camera. The area appeared to just be another section of the black. Far enough in from the edge that it probably wouldn't reignite anything, but always better safe than sorry.

He circled until he saw a couple of the ground crew wander over. On the third whack with the McLeod rake, they had a pretty intense flare-up. Buried embers that had their heat insulated by the overlying layers. Protected that way, the banked fire might have just built and generated more heat until it reached flashover.

The crew had arrived prepared, dragging an inch-and-a-half line in with them from the small pump feeding off a handy stream. They had the whole area doused and raked over fairly quickly, then moved back to the flanking patrol. He flew over the rest of the site, carefully quartering back and forth, but found nothing else threatening.

***

Steve jumped when Carly rested her hand on his shoulder.

He'd grown intense and quiet while he worked at flying the drone, like her father had always done. When Hamilton “The Ham” Thomas focused on something, he was worlds away. He often didn't hear a question, sometimes the first several times.

“Nicely done.”

“Uh, thanks.” Steve went back to watching the drone's flight, but Carly didn't remove her hand.

She liked the feel of his shoulder, liked the sense of connection. Liked the warmth and strength she could feel beneath the skin, as well. Even the minute moves he made as he shifted a hand across the trackball and clicked in a new command transmitted up his shoulder. Strong muscles, workout muscles, rippled beneath her fingertips. He didn't have the bulk of some of the smokies, but he wasn't a lanky and lean geek either. His shoulders fit him.

She glanced aside at a shadow across the truck's deck.

TJ was looking up at her. No joking smile. No tease. A soft smile simply acknowledged where her hand rested. That it rested at all. He knew what a big step it was for her, even if she hadn't until this instant.

She pulled her hand back and saw some of the light go out of TJ's eyes.

Carly climbed down and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder. She felt him shift one of the crutches to his other hand behind her and then wrap a strong arm around her. Smokie strong, as he'd always been since her first memories of him. He held her tight.

She closed her eyes as he kissed her on top of the head.

“Baby steps, darling. Baby steps.”

She nodded against his shoulder, knowing he'd feel the gesture.

Linc had only been dead for a year. One short year since her fiancé had died in the fire, like her father ten years before, but not like him.

She'd just have to give herself more time.

And more distance from Steve Mercer.

Steve's audience had drifted off in the couple hours he'd spent searching the black. At first there'd been a slow but constant stream of observers, watching the black rolling across the screen as the drone crisscrossed the area. They had a ton of questions, but few jokes. That was a good sign; it meant they were interested and a little surprised. Heckling would come later, once they were more comfortable with him and the technology. They were impressed enough to have to think about it.

He remembered the first time he'd watched the feed on a console as a drone flew a Colorado fire. It had simply been an overwhelming amount of information.

As a lead smokie—as a former lead smokejumper, he corrected himself and tried to ignore the bitter taste of it—he could work as command on smaller fires, up to Type III, like the fire they'd flown yesterday. He could also lead strike teams in the truly big Type II or I fires. He'd done so countless times, with far less information than the drone provided.

By the time he was bringing the drone back over the rolling green hills, almost everyone had wandered away. These were firefighters and what excited them was a new view of fire, not of a bunch of green trees that were doing just fine. His stomach informed him it was lunchtime as well. Food and no fire, no reason for them to stay.

By the time he was landing, he had an audience of just three. TJ perched once again on his stepladder, Carly sitting on the truck's rear bumper holding TJ's hand, and Henderson. The ICA slouched against the back corner of the truck. He was wholly inscrutable, watching the sky through those mirrored shades as if he had nothing on his mind. Steve would bet that the ICA was observing Steve's every action and reaction. He had to agree with Carly's initial assessment—who the hell was this guy?

Steve considered warning them he'd be landing the bird shortly. With its speed, small size, and quiet engine, you wouldn't see it coming. One moment it wouldn't be there, and the next moment the drone would be snagged in the landing rig.

He double-checked, but no one was near the spindly tower rising up from the trailer, so he kept his mouth shut. The first time he'd seen one land, he couldn't believe that a half-inch rope dangling from a tower light enough to waver in the breeze could possibly be strong enough to land the bird, but SkyHi had assured him that they'd never had one fail.

He lined the drone up clean, double-checked the alignment of its glide path, and cut the engine by remote. He was used to hearing its arrival by the time he shut the engine off, but with the hush engine mod, the casual conversation of this three-person audience was sufficient to mask even that noise.

Totally silent now, the drone glided neatly toward the dangling rope.

It always happened too fast. With a trained flick of the wrist, so deeply ingrained by repetition that it was totally automatic, he made sure he dead-centered the bird into the vertical rope. One moment in gliding flight, the next…

He glanced out at the trailer in time to see the drone snag two-thirds of the way up the line, maybe six inches left of the main body. The rope slid along the leading edge of the tapered wing and caught in the hook at the end of the wingtip. The drone whirled a couple of times around the rope, but the shock cords took all of the energy out of the drone's flight. It dangled twenty feet in the air.

A small round of applause broke out as he climbed down, careful of his knee. Carly helped him as he lowered the rope. She grabbed the drone by one wing as he took the other.

“Watch the engine exhaust. It'll be pretty hot.”

She nodded and held the drone right to keep from adding any strain on the airframe. Not that you could do much. They were tough little birds. Still, her care and awareness of the mechanical stresses only added to the attraction. Hell of a woman.

He could feel the surge through his body as he took the bird and set it on the maintenance stand. He felt good from the flight. It had been an easy one, but the adrenaline was riding pretty high after a perfect first flight in front of an audience. It was a beautiful morning and the crisp air of the high Cascades filled his lungs. His blood was flowing hot. Absolute home run first time out on his own.

And there she was, leaning over the drone. So close he could smell the sweet scent of soap and skin. Feel the lightest brush of blown hair across his cheek. When she looked up, their mouths were only a few inches apart.

It was just them. No one else. He couldn't see, hear, or smell anyone except Carly “Angel” Thomas, the Flame Witch of the high mountains.

He closed the distance and kissed her. For a second, perhaps two, all he could do was marvel at the taste of her, as if she were a perfect flower blooming fresh with the summer heat.

Steve leaned in to take more, but a hand locked around his throat.

For a shockingly long second, he could feel his windpipe being choked by strong fingers and see the heat flare up in her eyes. Even as he struggled for air, Carly's hand heaved him back.

His knee buckled as he fell backward.

He landed hard on the grass, unable to twist and catch himself.

The wind slammed out of him. He winced his eyes closed. By the time he managed to reopen them, all he saw of Carly was her back as she headed away. Fast. Her ponytail bouncing with the fury of her stride.

All the buzz of the flight was gone, burned off by the searing anger on Carly's features and choked off by her strong grip. He swallowed. It would hurt to talk for a while.

His head spun as he raked in air.

Steve shook his head to clear it.

TJ stood there on his crutches looking down at him. Might have been pity, might have been disgust. “Dumb as a thumb, kid.” Then turned and swung away. Disgust. His one friend in the camp pissed as well.

Before his breath was back enough to stand, Steve was alone. Except for Henderson. He still leaned, unmoving, against the back corner of the truck as if he were a tree that had been planted there. Then the ICA uprooted and stepped over to reach down a hand.

With the assistance, Steve stumbled to his feet, then stepped over and sat down hard on the bumper of the truck.

Henderson dropped down beside him. He dug a couple of water bottles out of the box under the workbench and handed one over.

“She got you by the throat.”

“You got that right.” Steve croaked out as he rubbed at his windpipe and winced. It was going to hurt for days. He opened the water and tried a careful swallow. Serious ouch.

“That too.” Henderson sat there as if just enjoying the summer breeze.

It took Steve a moment to see that Henderson had meant it both ways.

“When?” The ICA was once again observing the distant sky.

When what? Oh. When had Carly gotten Steve by the figurative throat? When not?

“First damn moment I saw her.” It had been, too. When the angel walked up beside her uncle right after Steve had rescued him.

Henderson nodded slowly. Savored his water as if it were a fine wine.

“Want some advice?”

Steve offered a shrug. “Hard to know that beforehand, isn't it?”

Henderson merely inspected him through his mirrored Ray-Bans.

“If she really got you that deep, don't let go.”

“What the hell?” Steve turned to face the man. “Not as if it matters. I only met her yesterday. But that's advice? She's never going to frickin' speak to me again.”

Henderson got a dreamy expression that softened his hard features. He smiled. Steve had the feeling that the man didn't smile all that often. A slight quirk of amusement, sure. But not an outright grin that softened the man's whole demeanor. Though Steve had seen it yesterday. What had been happening?

Carly had been asking Henderson about his wife.

“Nope.” Henderson knocked back another large swallow that Steve wouldn't risk with the condition of his throat. “She won't speak to you by choice. That's why you can't back off. If you let her, she'll slip through your fingers and be gone.”

“Voice of experience?”

Henderson finished off his water and chucked the empty bottle back in the box.

“You've met my wife?”

“Not really.” Steve had never spoken directly to the pretty blond who flew the helicopter yesterday. The one who had the baby cooing happily away on her hip and had scared the hell out of him.

“First time I kissed her, Emma planted my face into a mess-hall table on an aircraft carrier. I had to follow the woman halfway around the planet to get a second one.”

Steve tried to imagine a woman half Henderson's size slamming him down and couldn't do it. Then he pictured the woman who had flown a Firehawk and threatened to end Steve's career if he ever broke safety rules again, and maybe he could picture it.

“Trust me, Merks.” Henderson turned those shades directly at Steve, offering twinned reflections of his doubt. “Don't let go. Not for one damn second. Risk of mission failure is way too high.”

Mission failure? Right, the guy was some kind of ex-military. Maybe he just thought that way, woman as a tactical problem. Henderson's expression, momentarily domineering and more than a little bit scary, lightened abruptly.

“So, shall we see what's in the black cases?”

***

Steve tried to hide his shock. No one should know the difference. Carly hadn't thought the black cases were of any significance. What did Henderson know?

“Who are you again?”

Henderson pushed to his feet and again dragged Steve to his with the ease of great strength.

“Your ICA, Incident Commander—Air. The man who wants to see the special birds he ordered for you.”

Steve clamped down on his next comment. Still he didn't step into the truck. If Steve was right, there was some serious shit in those boxes. Not the sort of thing you opened around just anyone. Not even the ICA.

Henderson smiled at him. “Good. I like a cautious man. Check your delivery sheet.”

“I did.”

“And?” Henderson looked downright amused.

“They're not on there.”

“Look again.”

Steve climbed into the truck and pulled out the delivery manifest he'd tossed into a drawer.

One truck.

Launch and capture trailer.

Antenna.

Two birds, with hush engine mod. He saw the H.E. modification code on the manifest now that he was looking for it.

Two control stations, ground and helicopter mount. He'd missed that the first time, too. He'd seen the console code on the box and invoice had matched and just thought it was backup for the rig in the truck. He hadn't given it another thought or read it carefully enough. The second console case must hold the setup to install in the back of a helicopter, so he and the drones could travel to the fires. That was so sweet. He'd have to get that rigged before the next fire.

Two “special delivery items” to ICA Henderson care of MHA. With no part numbers or other codes. They must be the black-case birds.

He looked up at the Incident Commander—Air.

“Can I see some ID?”

Henderson didn't even flinch. He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open, and handed it over. The first ID was an NIC, a military national identity card. The photo matched the man in front of him. Height and description matched as well. U.S. Army Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne) 160th. Rank: Major (retired). Last name definitely Henderson.

It looked real enough. Matched his driver license exposed on the other flap.

Steve recognized the edge of an MHA picture ID and slid that out as well. Steve checked it carefully, including the magnetic strip down the back. What did MHA do that needed card-swipe technology? Steve's own ID certainly didn't have that.

Back on the NIC, Steve spotted a security clearance level so high that he wasn't even sure what it meant, just that it was way above his own meager clearance that let him fly the drones.

“The 160th?” He handed the wallet back.

“The 160th SOAR(A) flies Special Forces helicopters.” Henderson tucked the wallet away, then hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets but made no move to step into the truck. He was clearly stating this was Steve's territory and he wouldn't enter without permission. Damned decent of him.

“And what is that to me?”

“Apparently nothing.” Henderson shrugged. “That's how we generally prefer it. You've heard of DEVGRU, SEAL Team Six?”

“Sure, the antiterrorism guys who took out bin Laden.”

“SEAL Team Six doesn't own any helicopters.” He left it as a simple statement.

It only took a moment for Steve to put it together. The SEALs had ridden helicopters into the terrorists' inner compound. That meant someone else… Had the guy in front of him been flying one of those helicopters? If so, what the hell was he doing here in the Cascade wilderness?

“Uh…” Steve hoped he hadn't said anything too stupid. “I'm not sure if I should be shaking your hand in thanks. And I'll bet you can't tell me if I should be or not.”

One easy way to handle it. He held out his hand.

“Thanks for your service.”

Henderson took his hand and shook it back.

“You're welcome.”

There was no need to ask on either side. It simply meant that this ICA was one of the best helicopter pilots on the planet. The Army would only send the very best on such a mission. And his wife flew as well, also with SOAR, Carly had said. That meant… what?

That meant that Steve was in way over his head.

He decided his summer had just gotten a whole lot more interesting and that maybe he should take Henderson's advice about Carly. It had definitely sounded like the voice of experience.