Summer of Fire

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Contents

Dedication

Copyright

Foreword

Title

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Afterword

Authors Note

Dedication:
This book is dedicated to the men and women of emergency services everywhere.
And always, to Richard.

Published 2005 by Medallion Press, Inc.

225 Seabreeze Ave.

Palm Beach, FL 33480

The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

Copyright © 2005 by Linda Jacobs

Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jacobs, Linda.

Summer of fire / Linda Jacobs.

     p. cm.

ISBN 1-932815-29-5

1.  Yellowstone National Park--Fiction. 2.  Forest fire fighters—Fiction. 3.  Women fire fighters—Fiction. 4.  Fire fighters—Fiction. 5.  Forest fires-Fiction. 6.  Montana—Fiction. I.  Title.

PS3610.A35645S86 2005

813’.6—dc22

2005008883

Foreword:

My love affair with Yellowstone Park began in 1973, when I spent the first of three summers studying the field geology of Wyoming for my master’s thesis. I have since returned to the park in every season, accessing the archives for the rich history of both the land, and man’s brief tenure there.

While researching a historical novel set in Yellowstone, I was continually distracted by references to the fires of ‘88. Like much of the nation, I had tuned in, spellbound, to the nightly reports of America’s first National Park in flames. Like many of Yellowstone’s three million annual visitors, I held my breath, dreading the destruction being depicted, yet seduced by the beauty of wildfire.

Over lunch in the Houston Public Library, I examined Ross Simpson’s The Fires of ‘88, published by American Geographic and Montana Magazine. After an hour’s perusal of choppers ferrying water, tankers spraying retardant, and the faces of the men and women on the lines, I came to a conclusion.

There was a story here . . . one that over thirty-two thousand firefighters had shared. There was a vivid setting of beauty and peace, where a forest must go through the crucible of fire to achieve rebirth. To this place came my fictional characters.

A female firefighter troubled by the loss of a comrade-in-arms, a park biologist scarred by grief over his wife and baby daughter, and a Vietnam veteran helicopter pilot who seeks the adrenaline high . . . each find that in a world turned upside down, they cannot escape their greatest fears. Only through their private trials can they emerge reborn from their summer of fire.

With the help of a number of people and references, I have attempted to create as authentic a reconstruction as possible of Yellowstone’s 1988 fires. Clare, Steve, and Deering do not exist, but the backdrop against which their story is told most definitely did. Some public figures such as the Secretary of the Interior, Park Superintendent, and the fire’s Incident Commanders have been fictionalized; their characters are intended to bear no resemblance in word or deed to real persons. Any errors or omissions are my own.

My husband, Richard Jacobs, a founder of a Fort Bend County, Texas, volunteer fire department in 1975, served as consultant on structural firefighting, and assisted in preparing the fire maps. These are the authentic reports released daily by the Greater Yellowstone Unified Area Command of the Forest Service and National Park Service to the three thousand journalists who covered the fires’ story.

My visit to the Texas A & M Brayton Firefighter Training Field was an eye-opener. Beneath the blazing July sun, fighting fire in full turnouts, I found the men and women to whom society owes a debt.

Dr. Catharine Raven, who is both biologist and wildfire fighter, gave valuable insights into many themes of the book. She fought the fires of ‘88, a life-altering experience that set her on the path to becoming a scientist. Eleven years later, she was still fighting the summer battles of the west. In addition to helping me get in touch with major characters, she also has ties to the Native American community, as the character of Clare does. The magic is that the book was largely complete when we met.

I thank Dr. Lee Whittlesley, of the Yellowstone archives, for showing me around on my several visits there. In 1996, Ken Davis, who was manager of the town of West Yellowstone, revealed the fascinating story of a community under siege, and opened my eyes to the lives of the summer migrant workers of the West. Gayle Mansfield of the West Yellowstone News and Ronald Diener of the Jackson Hole Historical Society helped me through their stores of information. Workers at the Jackson Hole News were also courteous and helpful in letting me review back issues of the paper. The jumpers at West Yellowstone Smokejumper’s Base gave me an extensive tour and told tales of leaping out of their Beech at one hundred ten miles per hour.

Several nonfiction books were of great use in my research, including Michael Thoele’s Fire Line: Summer Battles of the West, and former Chief Ranger Dan Sholly’s Guardians of the Land. In addition, I was fascinated by the photojournalist’s eye view of the fires in Yellowstone’s Red Summer by Alan and Sandy Carey, Yellowstone on Fire by the staff of the Billings Gazette, and Ross Simpson’s previously mentioned work.

My primary consultant on helicopter warfare in Vietnam was Michael Harvey, an oil industry entrepreneur, who served two tours as a front line Huey pilot. In addition, Robert (Dick) Vaughan, noted author and another chopper veteran, provided insight as to aircraft terminology. Any errors are mine.

For commentary and editorial assistance on various drafts, I thank Charlotte Sheedy, Greg Tobin, Robert Vaughan, Elizabeth Engstrom, Sarah Lazin, Ann Close, John Byrne Cook, Caroline Lampman, and Deborah Bedford. Rita Gallagher helped me to understand the structure of a novel and Sam Havens how to present the story.

Lastly, there is the late Venkatesh Srinivas Kulkarni, consummate writer and teacher, beloved friend, and citizen of the world. I also acknowledge the steadfast support of my Rice University critique group, Marjorie Arsht, Kathryn Brown, Judith Finkel, Bob Hargrove, Elizabeth Hueben, Karen Meinardus, Joan Romans, Angela Shepherd, Jeff Theall, and Diana Wade.

PROLOGUE

Houston, Texas

July 1, 1988

Black smoke billowed from the roof vents. At any second, the flames would burst through, adding their heat to the already shimmering summer sky. Wood shingle, Clare Chance thought in disgust, a four-story Houston firetrap. She drew a breath of thick humidity and prepared for that walk on the edge . . . where fire enticed with unearthly beauty, even as it destroyed.

Fellow firefighter Frank Wallace, over forty, but fighting trim, gripped her shoulder. “Back me up on the hose.” Although he squinted against the midday glare, his mustachioed grin showed his irrepressible enthusiasm.

“Right behind you,” Clare agreed. In full turnouts and an air pack, she ignored the sultry heat and the wail of sirens as more alarms were called. Helping Frank drag the hose between gawking by-standers and shocked apartment residents, she reflected that the toughest part of the job was watching lives inexorably changed.

A commotion broke out as a young Asian woman, reed thin in torn jeans, made a break from the two civilians holding her. She dashed toward the nearest building entry crying, “My baby!”

Frank dropped the hose, surged forward and grabbed the woman. “Javier,” he grunted. “Take over.”

Javier Fuentes, lanky, mid-twenties, took the handoff and restrained the woman from rushing into the burning building. Her dark eyes went wide as she screamed and struggled. Her short legs kicked at Javier’s shins.

Adrenaline surging, Clare demanded. “What floor?”

“4-G . . .” the woman managed. “He’s only two. “

“Let’s go,” Clare told Frank without bothering to ask why the child had been left alone. As she bent for the hose, her sense of purpose seemed to lighten the weight of her equipment.

They headed in.

The building’s peeling doorframe had been defaced by purple graffiti and the interior stairwell smelled faintly of mold and urine. New and sparkling in the seventies when oil jobs had enticed northern immigrants to Houston, the housing had fallen into disrepair.

At the second floor landing, Clare and Frank met smoke. She tipped up her helmet, covered her face with the mask, and cranked the tank valve. Beside her, Frank wordlessly did the same.

As they moved up, Clare made sure the hose didn’t snag around corners while Javier and others fed slack. Business as usual, so far, and they would find that young mother’s child.

At the third floor and starting blindly toward four, Clare felt the smoke grow hotter. She crouched below the deadly heat and told herself that she could breathe. Positive pressure prevented fumes from leaking into her mask, and the dehydrated air cooled as it decompressed.

In, out, slow . . .

Isolation pressed in with the superheated atmosphere. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Frank had left her, belied by his tugging on the hose. At times like these, she had to keep her head on straight. No giving in to claustrophobia and no thought of turning back.

If you misguessed the dragon in the darkness, you would pay with your life.

Fourth floor hall, and Clare went onto hands and knees. Darkness and disorientation complete, she concentrated on keeping the hose in line and her breathing steady. The worst humiliation was if she sucked her tank dry and had to make an ignominious exit.

Ahead, Frank cracked the nozzle for a bare second. Heat slammed down as the spray upset the thermocline. He hit the valve again. A glimpse of not quite midnight winked from the shadows, now there and then gone. Clare ground her teeth and her chest tightened as they approached 4-G.

The door stood ajar. A good omen, she hoped, as she and Frank accepted its invitation and crawled inside.