A decisive crack shattered the air above him. The top third of the towering snag broke, sending the chute, let-down rope, and Ryan pitching to the ground.
“Ryno, roll fast!” yelled Gunnar, as the treetop aimed its spear at Ryan.
Shit, which way? He rolled left and the tip lanced the ground where he’d landed a few seconds before. His heart skipped a thousand beats as his chest clamped down.
“You lucky shit. You’re like a cat. Is this your fourth or fifth life? I’ve lost count.”
“Tenth, I think. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Look at the bright side. You didn’t get impaled.” Gunnar helped Ryan to his feet and untangled him from the rope and chute lines.
A thunderous rumble snapped Ryan’s head up toward the direction of the sound. Two colossal fire whirls swirled around an enormous smoke column as fire exploded in all directions, like an incendiary bomb. His heart pounded. “Screw the chutes. We gotta book.”
“Shit, a freaking fire tornado!” Gunnar grabbed his gear and he and Ryan hauled ass, running as fast as they could.
Ryan’s hang-up in the tree had cost them valuable time. He yanked his radio from his holster as he ran. His lips tightened and a current accelerated through him.
“Dornier—Stu, do you copy?” he panted, legs still pumping. “Our jump spot has burned over. Drop the others near the pipeline.”
Stu’s voice crackled. “Copy. Winds are worse. Head east toward the Trans Alaska Pipeline and meet the jump crew there. Keep it together down there, Ryno.”
Ryan was too out of breath to speak. He keyed two response clicks on the B.K. instead. The jumpers on board must be getting a show, cruising above them while they raced the flames on the ground. They were undoubtedly betting bucks whether Ryan and Gunnar could outrun it. They must look like scurrying ants from three thousand feet.
“She’s moving faster than us. What’s the plan?” Gunnar panted.
“Run like hell,” yelled Ryan against the freight-train sound of the fire. He pointed left. “There! Safety zone.” At this point, he’d welcome anything devoid of fire. Even the sixty-four-foot-wide TAPS gravel strip.
The men veered left out of the direct path of the massive flame front. They put some distance between themselves and the fire, but they still couldn’t let down their guard. Ryan eyed the pipeline zig-zagging uphill, then peered up at the plane traversing the smoke.
He slowed to a jog as they reached the gravel pad supporting TAPS. “How far—” he took several hard breaths. “—have we run?” He bent, hands on thighs, panting.
“Ten miles,” puffed Gunnar. “Felt like ten.”
“Two or three, easy.” Ryan drank greedily from his canteen, water dribbling down his chin. Sweat covered his neck and he swiped at it, wiping it on his pants. He was thankful their cross-country sprint coursed level ground. He doubted he could have covered the same distance on a slope.
The rest of the jumper load floated to the ground, shed their jumpsuits, and gathered their gear. The flame front marched across the bottomlands toward the pipeline, consuming all in its path.
As jumper-in-charge, Ryan formed a swift plan to protect TAPS. He wasn’t interested in finding out what would happen when a humungous pipe full of crude overheated. He was in no mood to be James Bond in The World Is Not Enough.
“Listen up, boys. This TAPS gravel pad is our anchor point. We’ll back burn from here to the flame front,” instructed Ryan. “First, we go get our cargo boxes.” He keyed his radio. “Boone, do you copy? What’s the fire doing where you are?”
Boone responded. “The CASA deposited the last two jumper loads in Delta and Fort Greely. We’re on the right flank with the hotshot crews. Can’t get in front of it. Winds are too strong. We’re protecting homes in Delta and Fort Greely. Two retardant ships are on their way from Canada.”
“Copy that.” Ryan eyed the airborne cargo boxes drifting to the other side of the mammoth forty-eight-inch diameter oil pipeline, carrying crude from Alaska’s North Slope eight hundred miles to the Port of Valdez.
The eight jumpers hiked on the gravel pad alongside the above-ground pipeline and scattered to reach their dropped cargo. The smokejumpers grabbed their fire equipment and hustled to space themselves at intervals along the massive pipeline to back burn between it and the flame front.
Ryan sliced through silver duct tape with a boxcutter and pulled two drip torches from a cargo box. He passed one to Gunnar. “Here you go.”
Gunnar accepted the torch. “What I told you up there. Sorry, but thought you should know.”
Ryan raised his brows. “Appreciate the thought, but your timing sucked.”
“You don’t think any of that’s true about Tara, do you?”
Ryan ignited his torch. “Of course not. Why would you say that? Hudson’s a sick, twisted jerk.” His anger had bubbled on medium-high ever since leaving the hospital.
“You sure she isn’t a slut like Amber?”
Comparing Tara to Amber was inconceivable. Ryan didn’t think, just did it—dropped his drip torch and swung at Gunnar, catching him square in the jaw.
Gunnar staggered back, his unlit drip torch in his hand. He shot forward and charged Ryan, pushing him to the ground. “Knock it off, mother-fucker. We have a fire to fight.”
“Then keep your damn mouth shut,” said Ryan through gritted teeth, eyeing ominous columns of black smoke rolling toward them.
“Get a grip and stop being a candy-ass,” grumbled Gunnar, rubbing his jaw. “Hudson threatened her.”
Ryan went numb and his fingertips tingled. “Huh?”
“A friend of mine in HR said Tara filed a harassment complaint against Hudson for threatening to hurt her after he accused her of trying to kill him. Apparently, he did it the night before he medevacked out.” Gunnar pushed to his feet.
“Well hell, this gets better and better.” Ryan revved up his drip torch. Hudson had threatened Tara. What a load of shit. He wanted to set the world on fire.
“Thought you should know. Don’t slug me again.”
