“Max, do you copy? Need a drop, in front of the head and the right flank to slow her, so we can kill hot spots. Back burning won’t work, wind’s too strong and blowing toward the base.”
“Copy. Right flank first, then I’ll hit the head,” replied Max. He must be the tanker pilot.
The hair on her neck stood on end.
A group of firefighters stood out front of their camp latrine, talking and laughing, drowning out the radio chatter. She itched to raise the volume but didn’t dare mess with someone else’s radio. Finally, the people wandered off and she listened.
“…O’Connor, control your boy down there, he’s turning me on.”
A roaring noise ensued, then Ryan’s voice. “Hard to control a reprobate, Max. Jump crew, clear the right flank and move in. Know your escape routes.”
Silva interrupted. “Aurora Crew, time to head out.”
Tara hurried to her tent to grab her gear. She swore she’d left a handful of granola bars inside to take with her to work. Puzzled, she fell in at the end of the crew line.
Behind Hudson.
As they hiked out of camp, Hudson turned around and walked backward. He snapped a granola bar in half and took a bite. “These are delicious. You should try one.” He pulled a handful of green packages from his pocket. “Oh wait, I have to save these for later.” He flashed a smile that shot a chill through her.
Her heart thudded at the realization Hudson had taken her granola bars. That meant he’d been in her tent while she’d listened to Ryan on the radio. Her stomach squeezed. She would confront Hudson later. Now wasn’t the time as they headed out to the fireline.
Ryan’s voice on the radio had mollified her, despite his being on the front lines. She wasn’t worried. He knew what he was doing after jumping and incident commanding so many fires. Besides, he was Mister Safety. An image flashed in her mind, of Ryan tearing open a condom in the name of safety. She nearly laughed outright.
Nothing bad would happen to Ryan O’Connor. She was sure of it.
Chapter 25
“On final! O’Connor, Alexanderson, first stick,” yelled Stu, standing near the open door of the CASA. “Slow the head. Figure strategy for mud drops. Keep the IC informed if he should evacuate the air force base.”
Ryan and Gunnar moved into position and waited for Stu’s orders.
“Get in the door.”
Ryan nodded affirmation and crouched as Stu tossed out streamers. Ryan studied their erratic movement to gauge how he would fly.
“Three hundred yards of drift. Watch your ass.” Stu slapped Ryan’s shoulder.
Ryan threw himself into the immensity of sky roaring at him. When his chute deployed, he steered his toggles in the erratic winds. The plane noise faded, and the only sounds were the crackle and snap of dry spruce. He smelled resin and observed black smoke. The wind pushed him toward the trees. He checked his blue-and-white nylon canopy and guessed the winds at thirty knots.
The fire ran solid and robust, its right flank charging up a mountainside so fast, it was like a reverse tsunami. One-hundred-foot-tall flames marched across the bottom land toward Shackelford Air Force Base, spitting fireballs a half mile ahead of the burning front.
He worked hard to toggle away from the trees. Damn squirrelly winds. Gunnar whooped and hollered above him.
“Come on, wind. Knock it the hell off,” he muttered, steering right with all his strength as he skirted the tops of towering, white spruce. The leader tips were damnable spears and he wasn’t in the mood to impale himself.
He sailed above a wall of trees, barely clearing them, when a sudden gust propelled him to the left. He’ll kiss a spruce or worse unless he takes evasive action.
“Shitdamn!” His feet skated down the outsides of branches, sheering off needles and limbs as if he had razor blades on his boots. He skimmed the prickly boughs and toggled hard right, hit the ground and rolled. Something sharp nailed his shoulder blade.
“Damn it.” Not his best landing, but at least he didn’t skewer himself. Rubbing his shoulder, he cussed the offending rock and pried it from the ground, heaving it away from the jump spot.
Gunnar touched down and rolled. He gathered his chute and daisy-chained the lines.
Ryan squinted up at a tall spruce. “Shit, cargo box is hung up.” He lowered his goggles over his eyes and hauled himself up the trunk with a folding saw. His boot snapped a branch and sharp-needled boughs slapped his face as he plunged down. Finally he found a strong enough limb to break his rapid descent. He resumed climbing and reached the two limbs cradling the cargo box. He sawed them and the box plummeted to the ground.
By the time Ryan hit the ground, Gunnar had the box open, pulling out equipment.
“Hand me a piss-pump,” ordered Ryan.
Gunnar hung it on Ryan’s back and tightened the straps. As Ryan adjusted the bladder weight, his radio sprang to life.
“O’Connor, Boone here. What’s our strategy?”
“Starting recon. Stand by.” He took off at a brisk clip uphill with forty-five pounds of water undulating on his back. He hiked a quarter of a mile up to a flat area to assess the situation. Multiple smokes from spotting ahead of the fire’s headwall scattered a half-mile ahead of the flame front.
“Wait for the mud drop. She’s running like a speed demon. Keep escape routes a priority. Don’t get turned around in this shit,” Ryan machine-gunned into his radio, eyeing the DC-10 retardant ship approaching from Fort Wainwright.
“Max, do you copy? Need a drop at the head and the right flank. Back burning won’t work. Wind is too strong and blowing her toward the base.”
“Copy,” responded the DC-10 pilot. “I’ll hit the right flank first.”
“Right flank, incoming. Get clear!” panted Ryan into his radio, running and jumping over deadfall and tussock clumps. Pain-in-the-butt things were ankle-turners. He hated them.
Boone
