He keyed his radio. “Gunns, you copy?”
Gunnar’s voice came back at him. “Better haul ass. She’s running!”
Ryan clicked his radio. “Air attack, what’s your position? Hit this runaway head.”
“One minute out,” responded Max, the retardant ship pilot.
“Gunns, incoming mud drop.”
Radio silence.
“Gunns?” Still no response. “Damn it.” Ryan headed down the steep slope, where ‘Treeminator’ shrieked through a towering, white spruce—Gunnar’s nickname for his beloved 3-foot Stihl chainsaw.
Gunnar angled Treeminator deep in the base. Rawwwwrrrr…the spruce fell with a whump. He puffed out his chest with a pleased expression. “Slowing this mother down.”
Ryan grinned. “You’re crazy. You know that?”
Gunnar killed the saw motor and they dragged themselves uphill in the thick smoke, airborne debris bouncing off their hardhats. Some landed on Ryan’s shoulder and he swept them off as they humped uphill.
A plane droned overhead, swooped low, and banked left.
“Spotter plane. Here comes the drop. Up to the ridge, go.” Ryan sprinted upward.
The thunderous sound of the DC-10 roared up the draw.
“Where’s our helo scoopers, boys? Dip the river and drop some water behind us. Air attack, ground ops, you copy?” Ryan broke into a run, Gunnar alongside.
“Two drinks incoming,” snapped his radio.
Max cut loose the red-orange glop, pelting the ground like golf-ball sized hail.
“Get down!” yelled Gunnar.
They hit the ground on their bellies next to a stand of tall spruce. The glops of red gel struck hard, slapping their backs with heavy force. Max flew low and Ryan knew the danger to the air tanker with tall flame heights and heavy smoke. Did it slow the fire?
A crackling whoosh above them answered his question.
Gunnar snapped his head up and pushed off the ground. “Ryno, look out!”
Ryan turned to see the top snap from a tall, burning snag, dripping salmon-colored gel. He dove out of the way as it crashed to where he’d been standing. Another close snag whumped to the ground, scattering ash in slow motion. Ryan’s heart leapt out of his chest and his breaths came short. “Fuck! Let’s get out of here.” He sprang to his feet and ran. Nothing like a near miss to motivate a guy up a mountain.
“You lucky shit.” Gunnar panted behind him. “That widow-maker would have speared your ass.”
They made it to the ridgetop. Breathing hard, they watched the fire slow its advance toward Bettles. Score one for air attack.
“She’s finally lying down.” Ryan squinted through binoculars.
Gunnar blew out air. “About time. Now we can get in there and cut a line before she kicks up in the morning.”
“Dispatch, need a weather update.” Ryan spoke into his radio for the latest report.
Good news. Dispatch reported weather would improve. The jumper crew sawed and dug line all night, thanks to the twilight. Around 4 a.m. Ryan and Gunnar staggered to their gear and shook out their sleeping bags on the other side of the ridgetop.
“Screw setting up the tent.” Ryan pulled off his boots, grunting, and fell back on his sleeping bag. “I’m coyoting. Let the bears chew on me.”
Gunnar zonked out, coyoting on top of his.
As he drifted off, Ryan wondered how Tara and Aurora Crew were doing. He fantasized pulling his fingers through Tara’s silky mane and fell asleep, dreaming she rode naked on a horse, hair cascading around her like Lady Godiva.
The last thing he remembered was pulling her off the horse and they fell to the ground together, her hair swaddling him like a blanket.
He slept better than he had in days.
Radio static startled Ryan awake. He sat up and sipped water from his canteen. He opened an MRE and tore open a package of crackers with his teeth, spitting out the foil.
Gunnar woke and moved off to relieve himself. “Love the smell of fire in the morning. Means more money in my wallet.”
Ryan keyed his radio. “Boone, do you copy? O’Connor here. You boys ready to end this party?”
“Affirmative. Time for a real party.” Boone’s voice crackled back.
“Tanana base, do you copy? Place an order with AFS dispatch for two mop-up crews. We need a taxi ride back to base. Pick up Boone and the boys on the east flank first. We’re on the west.”
“Copy,” responded a woman at the base. “We’ll have a 212 to you in twenty.”
They gathered their gear and humped it to the saddle, where a Bell 212 helicopter would pick them up. Ryan took in what was once stunning Tanana Zone scenery of rolling hills and majestic slopes, now a dark, smoldering landscape.
“Can’t wait for a thick juicy steak and a dump truck of mashed taters.” Gunnar put on his chainsaw bar cover, readying it for transport.
Ryan packed his own equipment. “A hot shower and an amber.”
“You left her in California, Bro,” grinned Gunnar, taking off his fire shirt and airing his armpits.
“Thanks for the reminder.” Ryan pictured shapely dark-eyed Amber. He still had a hard time with her decision that the porn industry needed her more than he did. She made more money than Ryan without breaking a sweat…or maybe she did under all those lights. I’d rather jump from airplanes.
A high-pitched noise pierced the morning air. Ryan scanned the scorched area around them. Nothing but ash and smoke.
“What the hell?” asked Gunnar.
“Shh, listen.” Ryan tilted his head toward the sound.
Another high-pitched sound, like whimpering. He crept along the blackened ridge, following the sound to a huge, charred stump. Something grayish-white and dark squirmed in the ash. He leaned in, disbelieving. “Gunns, come here.”
Gunnar hoofed over and squatted. Ryan held a dark, gray wolf pup. Gunnar picked up a light gray one. Several more scooted out of the hole under the stump.
“Where’s your mama, little guys?” Ryan scoped the area for mama wolf, then lifted the pup, inspecting it. “They can’t be more than a couple weeks old.”
“Little gray wolf pups.” Gunnar checked out his little guy.
“This one’s in tough shape.”
“Any more in there?”
Ryan raked ash and dirt with his fingers, uncovering another, but it remained still. His
