Gunnar whistled back.
Ryan lit a fusee and tossed it high as he could to let his partner know his location. No need to worry about torching anything. There was nothing left to burn.
Gunnar appeared next to him. “Found this.” He held out a black, melted object that looked to be a GPS tracking device at one time. It turned Ryan’s blood to ice.
Ryan took it from him, staring at the mutilated screen. Shoved it in his pocket.
“Look. There.” Gunnar pointed through seared trees at an orange, charcoaled lump on the ground.
Ryan blinked. “Not sure I can do this.” He spoke so low Gunnar leaned in.
Gunnar nudged Ryan’s arm with the back of his hand. “I’ll do it. Wait here.”
You must do this. “We’ll both go.” Ryan set his jaw and broke into a run.
“Tara! Are you there? Answer me,” hollered Ryan in his incident commander voice, tripping on rocks with Gunnar on his heels. A snap sounded behind them as another snag thudded to the ground.
Ryan slid on pink, charred rocks, and stopped. Bright coral-colored globules covered rocks, dirt, trees—and the shelter. Max’s mud drop. The shelter was barely intact, a mottled pink and black, the color of barbecued, red salmon. Phos-Check retardant had transformed the landscape into a distorted red and black checkerboard.
Smokejumpers knew not to remove firefighters in burned over shelters, but to let the fire investigators do it. This was different—a unique situation. Tara may be in there. I don’t want strangers doing this. I need to do it.
Every human being has a breaking point. Ryan never thought his would be something like this. He paused, while Gunnar moved to the burned-over shelter. Tendrils of smoke rose from ash as Gunnar knelt next to it. “Angela? Are you there? It’s Gunnar.”
Ryan’s heart machine-gunned. To his amazement, a faint response came from inside.
“Gunnar! Oh God, you found us,” responded a raspy, muffled voice.
Gunnar yanked up the side of the charred foil. It crumbled in his fingers.
Ryan sank to his knees in disbelief. There was Tara, draped over Angela. She looked asleep, her head resting on Angela’s shoulder. Her Nomex had partially burned away. The back of her yellow shirt had burn holes, exposing a green tank top. The backs of her green Nomex trousers had burn holes as well. He pushed closer and removed his gloves. “Tara, it’s Ryan.” He gently shook her shoulder.
“Oh Ryan,” cried out Angela, from underneath Tara. “Is she alive? She won’t talk to me.”
“It’s okay. We’ll take care of her.” Ryan tore at his green, one-piece flight suit, ripping each leg over his boots as he yanked it off. He spread his torn suit on the ground and something chirped. A squirrel with an obviously broken leg huddled next to Angela on the floor of the seared shelter.
“Gunns, help me.” Ryan lifted Tara’s shoulders, while Gunnar grabbed her long legs. Her fingers curled into both palms. Ryan undid the chin strap of her yellow hardhat and eased it off. “Turn her over.”
Tara was unconscious and her skin had turned blue. Ryan eased her onto his makeshift ground cover. He popped the buttons of her yellow shirt, adrenaline powering him. He pressed an ear to her chest. No heartbeat. He placed two fingers on her carotid. No pulse. Checked her breathing. Nothing.
“No, dammit!” Ryan checked his watch to note the time, then started CPR compressions. “Gunnar, radio Mel to get over here, ASAP,” he ordered his friend.
“Seven four Juliet, medevac emergency, retrieval of two firefighters,” Gunnar rapid-fired into his radio. He helped Angela to a sitting position. She cried and coughed but otherwise seemed okay.
“Copy, on my way,” replied Mel.
“Gunns, you do compression. I’ll blow air,” ordered Ryan.
Gunnar knelt next to him and interlocked his fingers, pumping Tara’s chest with the heels of his hands. Ryan bent, tipped her head back, and covered her mouth with his, blowing air into her lungs.
“Tara came back for me after I fell. She saved my life. Don’t let her die. Please, Ryan, don’t let her die…” Angela was inconsolable.
“Switch,” ordered Ryan, straining not to let worry of losing Tara overwhelm him. He and Gunnar exchanged places. Ryan interlocked his fingers and pressed the heels of his hands sharply on Tara’s heart. She can’t die. I refuse to lose her. “How long has she been like this?”
“I don’t know, a couple minutes before you got here,” rasped Angela.
Ryan checked his watch. Ten minutes. He bent to blow air into Tara’s lungs. His brain zoomed at warp speed with the sole focus of reviving her.
“Tara made me promise…” sniffled Angela, clutching her injured knee. “If she died and I lived, she made me promise…to tell you she loved you. Or you’d never know. She loves you so much, Ryan.” She choked off with heavy sobs.
He’d been so intent to restart Tara’s lungs, Angela’s words slid off him.
Fifteen minutes. Chrissakes, breathe, breathe!
Gunnar blew air into her lungs while Angela prayed.
Ryan kept the compressions steady, watching Tara for signs of life. He was vaguely aware of Juliet landing. He would give anything for a defibrillator. Time check. Twenty. Fuck!
“Switch.” Ryan blew air into Tara’s lungs and Gunnar pumped her heart.
Rotor wash swirled ash and soot, but Ryan wouldn’t stop. Even the time it took to load Tara on board the helo could cost her life if he didn’t keep working to revive her.
Mel slowed the rotors as Stu and Silva appeared from Juliet, wearing goggles. Silva wore an N-95 mask. Gunnar squatted next to Ryan. “We need to load her now.”
“Not yet,” Ryan snapped between breaths. Time check. Twenty-five fucking minutes. Any longer without oxygen and her brain cells would begin to die.
Ryan blew air into Tara’s mouth. Her mouth twitched. He leaned back to assess when her eyelids fluttered.
“She’s breathing.” Ryan placed fingers on the side of her neck. Hopeful as hell, he found a pulse. Faint, but a pulse.
Tara coughed.
“She’s alive! Oh God, she’s alive.” Angela’s hand covered her mouth.
Ryan sighed relief. Every muscle in his
