“Stay clear while Max drops his mud. Wait for my go-ahead.” Ryan worked his way to the front, swinging his Pulaski, chopping vegetation, and squirting hot spots with his bladder pump.
Gunnar caught up and they scrambled up a slope for a better view. The retardant ship dropped mud on the right flank, then circled to aim for the head of the runaway fire.
While they waited for the drop, Gunnar lowered two chainsaws to the ground, readying them for use. “Here comes Max.”
The thunderous DC-10 air tanker aimed for a center drop on the head with dead-on-balls accuracy. Ryan popped in ear plugs as the plane’s three McDonnell-Douglas engines delivered forty-five thousand pounds of thrust, the sound vibrating his chest. He loved the raw, roaring power, and the ability required to master it. Air tanker pilots were his heroes.
The doors boomed open, and the graceful red gel cascaded through the air, covering the landscape like a cerise quilt. Ryan thought of retardant drops as works of art the plane painted in the air—crimson clouds suspended for a brief moment like a jet entrail, before wafting down to smite the orange monster.
“Yeah, baby!”
Ryan turned to catch Gunnar with Treeminator extended from one arm and Ryan’s chainsaw, Slasher, in the other, resembling a road warrior stance from a Mad Max movie. Gunnar lifted the saw blades in the air and aimed them at the low-flying air tanker. As the DC-10 dumped its load, he threw his head back. “Ohhh, yeaaahhh, sweet release—” His jump partner simulated another kind of release.
“Was that good for you?” Ryan smirked, impressed with his jump partner managing such a feat of strength…or insanity, depending on one’s viewpoint. At least Gunnar had the good sense not to have the saws running.
“O’Connor, control your boy down there. He’s turning me on,” radioed Max against the fading sound of the DC-10.
Ryan grinned. “Hard to control a reprobate, Max.”
He admired Gunnar’s proficiency at turning certain aspects of firefighting into a sexual connotation. Thankfully, Gunnar exercised the good sense not to do it around other firefighters.
“Jump crew, Max laid her down. Contain right flank. Remember your LCES, boys.” Ryan appreciated short cuts to fire lingo. It would take him forever to say, remember your Lookouts, Communications, and Escape. LCES got right to it.
Boone’s voice crackled back. “We’re on it.”
“Gunns, time to kick ass.” Ryan took off running with Gunnar alongside. The drops bought them a tight window to get a saw line in.
As they neared the nasty blow-up, Ryan noted the fire had jumped Eagle Ridge River and was charging full speed toward the air force base. Not good. He spoke into his radio as he ran. “Air attack. Max, hit the head with more mud.”
“Copy,” Max responded. “Two minutes out.”
Ryan and Gunnar stopped short on a hill overlooking the river. The men stood riveted by the torrid, beautiful scene as orange towers danced and crimson orbs taunted, roiling high above the tree line. Three moose stood motionless in the river, witnesses to the ruin. The tranquil river reflected the spectacle—a silent onlooker to the destruction.
“Wish winds would change so we could back burn.” Sweat streamed down Gunnar’s face.
“If only. Go on ahead. I need to take a leak.” The heat was intense. Ryan swiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Okay, see you in a few.” Gunnar disappeared and soon Ryan heard the rawrrrr of a chainsaw firing up.
Ryan didn’t see the wolf sneak up behind him. As he finished relieving himself and zipped, a female with low-hanging teats materialized in front of him, about six feet away. Mud caked her light, gray fur. She might have cooled off in the river, then rolled on the riverbank. Her head lowered and she panted, studying him with gray-flecked eyes.
Don’t look her in the eye. He did a quick mental inventory of what he had for a weapon: Pulaski and a pocketknife. He thought of the fusees in his pack, used for lighting backburns. No. It was inconceivable to torch a wolf. Plus it would take too long, and he’d be half-eaten before he could light one. He pictured the headlines: ‘Smokejumper lights wolf on fire!’
Ryan remained still as the wolf shook the wet from her fur, flinging droplets of water and mud. She circled, sniffing. The eerie, orange glow of the wildfire reflected in her eyes.
Stay calm. No sudden moves. “Hey there, girl. Did the fire chase you from your pups?”
The wolf cocked her head and perked her ears forward.
He continued his soothing tone. “Good girl. That’s right…you’ll be okay.”
Ryan stood his ground while his mind raced. The sound of Gunnar’s chainsaw, the moose, the river—even the wildfire’s intensity all faded, as he concentrated on the wolf. Slowly, he lifted his arm to reach behind for the Pulaski attached to his pack, fumbling with the Velcro straps.
Sniffing, the wolf padded within two feet. She circled and came closer, nosing the bottom of his pack, as if searching for something. The wolf pup scent was still on his pack! Could this be the mother? If so, she must have traveled at least two hundred miles from her litter. Nah, she wouldn’t do that. Would she?
Ryan lowered his Pulaski with one hand and clutched the long handle with the other to maneuver it into position. Holding the tool steady in front of him provided a false sense of security. But it was better than nothing. He let out a shaky breath.
The wolf backed up and growled, baring her teeth.
His chest clenched. Heart pounding, he tightened his grip. Can I talk my way out of a wolf attack?
What the hell. “Your pups are safe, Mom. You don’t want a piece of me. I wouldn’t taste good.” Ryan’s voice wobbled, anticipating any unpredictable move.
She lifted her snout and flicked her ears forward, studying him. Suddenly, her head pivoted; something spooked her. She darted away as abruptly as
