Smoke and Fire

by Julie Cannon

  “Heathen.”

  “Smarty-pants.”

  “Do you eat with that mouth too?”

  “Every chance I get.”

  “All right, you two stop bickering like my kids.” Flick interrupted them in a gruff voice but a smile on his face. “We’ve got work to do. This baby ain’t gonna die without a little help. Anybody interested?”

  *

  The fire was angry. The changing direction of the wind whipped the flames in every direction as it danced in the midday sky. Brady stood in the monitor shed surveying the scene in front of her. The shed, a three-sided box made of heat-resistant, flame-retardant material, shielded the firefighters from the two-thousand-degree heat. While she was at HQ the bulldozers had cleared away anything around the wellhead that could ignite and set up the first shed.

  They had a twelve-person crew on this fire. Two were support staff while ten were certified firefighters. Five, including Brady, specialized in operating heavy equipment, and they worked twelve-hour shifts in whatever capacity was needed. For safety reasons they rotated positions every hour. Other crews took two- or three-hour shifts at their positions, but Flick insisted on only one. He believed that his crew was more alert when not exposed to the extreme heat and concentration each position required. That was a no-brainer in Brady’s book and one of the reasons Flick’s crew had the highest safety record in the company.

  The direction of the wind was the key to the assault. Staying upwind of the heat and flames was a matter of life or death. The best approach was to fight the fire as the wind pushed away the heat. Retardant saturated the ground over oil that had spilled before the plume had ignited. Clouds of dense black smoke from thousands of barrels of burning oil spewed noxious gasses and poison into the air. The extraordinary heat melted anything that wasn’t protected. The constant stream of water on the fire kept Brady and the other crewmembers from collapsing from the heat and the machines from melting.

  Her safety gear depended on her job assignment and today consisted of flame-resistant long johns under her aluminized Kevlar Nomex assault coat. The corresponding pants, held up by the requisite red cotton web suspenders, had full-bellow cargo pockets, reinforced knees, and fabric take-up straps with a thermoplastic buckle. Steel-toed vulcanized rubber boots, also insulated to deflect heat and fire, were on her feet.

  A Nomex hood like she’d seen professional race-car drivers wear shielded her head and neck from burns, while the bright-yellow full-brim hardhat protected her head from cracking. At least it used to be bright yellow. After only an hour on a site it quickly became smudged with caked-on oil, dirt, and smoke. Gloves and goggles dangling from an elastic band around her neck completed her turnout gear.

  Pulling her goggles up to protect her eyes, Brady stepped away from the shed and immediately felt the intensity of the fire. She started to sweat and breathing became difficult. Even with hundreds of thousands of gallons of water pouring on the fire, she was constantly aware of her own personal hydration. In full gear she could sweat up to a quart an hour during a twelve-hour shift. She had to be careful that she didn’t overheat or pass out without warning.

  To her right a large excavator surrounded on three sides of the cab with its own protective heat shield slowly crept toward the fire, its 190,000 pounds leaving deep track impressions in the mud. The big rig was one of the most useful pieces of equipment on the site, consisting of a cab and bucket situated on a rotating pivot, as well as an articulated arm that did most of the work and carried another shed suspended from three large chains. Today Dig was driving the rig. His real name was Mark, but he was quickly given the nickname that was synonymous with the piece of equipment he had the ability to finesse like it was an extension of his own hand.

  Two men followed him, using the big machine as their own heat suppressor. They carried a fire hose that, once the shed was on the ground, would hook up to their main water supply. Brady used hand signals to communicate to Dig where to place the next shed in the right place. Communication was difficult at best near a fire, and everyone on the crew knew the signals necessary to get the job done but, more importantly, could save their lives.

  After Dig set the shed, the two men stepped out from behind the rig and quickly moved inside. Brady looked around to ensure nothing was in the way and signaled Dig he could leave. The hose was quickly hooked up and the water shot out of the cannon to cool the superheated flames. For the rest of the day and into the night, preparations were underway for the damaged well to be capped.

  The new wellhead arrived the next day, and Flick, Brady, Mast, and Crank reviewed the plan to install the head. It was late afternoon, and between the setting sun and the black smoke filling the sky overhead they decided to wait until tomorrow to set the head. Flick sent them off with orders to eat and get some much-needed rest.

  Exhausted from the physical work, Brady settled onto her cot. She didn’t even try to sleep, knowing her mind wouldn’t shut down but continue to review the critical steps necessary to complete this job.

  Extinguishing the fire was only the start of the job, and installing the new head in place was when the most dangerous work began. Once the fire was out and the plume pipe removed, a steady stream of oil from the uncapped well was nothing but a huge ignition switch that could reignite. It wasn’t too bad if it happened before anyone moved too close to begin the work but life threatening when they were. An explosion, the concussion effects, the flash fire, or both could kill crewmembers. That was what had happened to Nicole.

  Brady involuntarily shuddered. She had seen several reignitions or flares, as some called them, and from what she’d read and heard about Nicole’s accident she was very, very lucky to be alive. Brady rubbed the scar on her right forearm. The redness was fading, and ultimately it would be visible only to those who knew what to look for. Even though she didn’t know the details she realized that Nicole wasn’t as lucky with her burns.

  Nicole had a beautiful face, and judging from what Brady had seen of third-degree burns, Nicole must thank God every day that her face hadn’t been affected. In every picture Brady had seen of Nicole, every public appearance she was able to Google, Nicole was always covered from wrist to ankle. Her shirts were open at the collar but only the top button. Even at a charity black-tie event where Nicole had been photographed several times, she was wearing tailored tuxedo pants and a billowy long-sleeve top.

  “Hey, Bond,” Dig said from the cot next to hers. A sheet hanging from a white rope the length of her cot plus a few feet separated their sleeping area. It was her only form of privacy in the crew quarters, and Flick insisted on it. Even though it was only a thin piece of material she enjoyed having it.

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about the boss. What was she like?”

  “I don’t know, like any boss, I guess. Strong handshake, big office, nice furniture, running water. You know, typical HQ stuff.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Tell me about her.” Dig emphasized exactly what he wanted to know.

  “I told you. Like any other boss.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Dig!” Brady exclaimed. “What in the hell are you asking for? You’re marrying the prettiest girl in the state of Texas in two weeks, and you’re asking if another woman is pretty. Are you sure you’re ready to be married?”

  “What?” Brady heard the confusion in his voice. “Oh, God, no, that’s not what I meant. I love Sara,” he said, as if that explained everything. “It’s just that she was burned so bad. We take that risk every day. I guess I was just curious as to what she looked like.”

  “I didn’t see any evidence she was burned. And yes, she’s pretty, very pretty, as a matter of fact.” Brady would have used more descriptive words like beautiful, stunning, or striking. What else could she say about Nicole? Her hand buzzed when she remembered what Nicole’s hand felt like in hers. There had been some type of connection between them. Brady hesitated to call it chemistry, but maybe it was as simple as that.
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  Brady often acted on the attraction that sparked with another woman. And more often than not it led to a mutually enjoyable experience. But because of her work and the fact that it wasn’t in her master plan to get tied down, she was where she was today—single, with no plans of being anything other than that. Yet she couldn’t deny the attraction she’d felt toward Nicole.

  Brady had to admit this was a first. The first time she was attracted to a boss, the first time her thoughts kept backtracking to a woman, and the first time she wanted to know more about a woman. Much more.

  Brady pushed the distracting thoughts out of her head. She wasn’t ready to deal with this. As a matter of fact she was never going to deal with this, because it stood in the way of her ultimate goal.

  “I heard she had a tough time, but I guess anyone would.”

  “Of course they would. I can’t even imagine how much pain she must have been in.”

  “I heard her girlfriend couldn’t take it and walked.”

  “Bitch.”

  “You got that right. I mean, you may be all burned and scarred up and everything, but you’re still the same person inside.” Dig’s compassion was one of the things Brady loved about him. The oil industry was comprised mostly of tough, hard, redneck men who wouldn’t show an emotion, let alone talk about one. But Dig was different. He had a solid sense of right and wrong and was more honest than anyone Brady had ever met. In the three years she’d known him she’d never heard a derogatory statement come out of his mouth. His teeth might be crooked and his cheek full of chew, but in Brady’s mind he was as good as they came.

  “I guess she didn’t think so.” Brady wondered how anyone could be so cold and heartless. But what did she know? She didn’t have a front-row seat to their life.

  “Nothing or nobody would ever make me stop loving Sara.”

  Brady smiled at his statement. If it were only that simple, she thought.

  “When are you going to find the right girl and settle down, Bond?”

  An image of Nicole flashed in her head and she grew warm all over. What the hell? “Now why would I want to settle down with just one, Dig, when there are hundreds and thousands I could meet?” She hadn’t confided in Dig about her plans. He wouldn’t understand, and it wasn’t anyone’s business anyway. She just let everyone go along with the image she allowed them to see. She didn’t let anyone, not even Dig, get close enough to see what was inside.

  “Yeah, but don’t that get old? I mean having someone new all the time is exciting and everything, but nothing beats having a wonderful woman to come home to. I mean, Sara knows what I like to eat and how I like my clothes folded, and she never fusses at me ’cuz I left the seat up.”

  “Jesus, Dig, she sounds like your maid, not the love of your life.” And there was no way she was going to be anyone’s maid.

  “You don’t get it, Bond. I mean it’s like she knows what I want or what I’m going to say before I even say it. It’s like she’s inside me, and I’m telling you it feels really good.”

  “I’m really happy for you, buddy. Maybe someday I’ll find that person and feel like you do. Who knows, maybe she’ll even catch Sara’s bouquet at your wedding.”

  Dig laughed. “I doubt it. Other than you we don’t know anyone who’s a lesbian.”

  “Well, then I guess I’ll just have to keep looking. Turn out the light. We’ve got a fire to kill tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Come on, Dig. How much further? I’m roasting in here.” No one could hear Brady, the roar of the fire at this distance almost deafening. She was operating the crane carrying the explosives, and Dig was signaling her to keep inching forward. The boom of the crane jutting out almost parallel to the ground swayed as she moved the drum of C4 explosive over the flame.

  Dig signaled her to stop, and she quickly set the brake and turned off the engine. Swinging the door of the cab open, she was almost knocked off the platform by the force of the heat. The thermodynamics of heat radiating off the fire were always unpredictable.

  Snuffing the fire was one of the most dangerous jobs. Not only was she the closest to the fire, the C4 could explode anytime, and the inside of the cab wasn’t the safest place to be. Brady grabbed hold of the handrail, jumped to the ground, and hustled to the rear of the rig. Dropping to her knees she turned away from the fire and ducked her head. She counted silently. The longest it had taken any C4 she’d dropped on a fire was ten seconds, the shortest, two.

  A loud explosion cracked and the air sucked out of her lungs. The first time it’d happened on her first fire she’d fought down panic, unable to do anything other than pray she didn’t die from suffocation. When the C4 detonated, the oxygen was sucked from the air for a split second. If luck was on their side, the fire was extinguished and all that was left was the oil.

  A chorus of whoops, hollers, and whistles replaced the screaming voice of the fire. It could mean only one thing. The fire was out.

  The replacement wellhead dangled from the end of the boom on another rig, and Brady, Couch, and Anchor donned their protective gear, grabbed their tool bags, and headed to the well. Once the fire was out, the first job was to remove the damaged wellhead, and as Brady approached she could see this wouldn’t be an easy task.

  Shards of metal bent at odd angles looked like petals of a flower opening in the morning sunshine. They’d have to be extremely careful not only that their tools didn’t reignite the oil but that they didn’t get cut or lose a finger on the sharp metal.

  Unlike conventional tools that were found in just about every garage in America, theirs were specially designed and coated with a spark-resistant coating. Even though the wellhead was covered in oil that had hardened into an almost impenetrable hard sludge, any type of metal-on-metal contact could cause a spark unseen to the human eye but sought after by the highly flammable liquid.

  Brady made a complete three-hundred-sixty-degree tour around the wellhead, planning their attack. The noise from the pressure of the oil escaping wasn’t nearly as deafening as the flames, but communication was still difficult. She had worked with these guys for years, and with a few signals, pointing, and nods of understanding, they began the deconstruction of the damaged head.

  It wasn’t long before Brady was covered in thick crude oil and an hour later had made substantial headway in removing the hard sludge from the area where they needed to work. She stepped back and into a stream of water to remove as much of the oil as possible and to cool down. A few minutes later, mission accomplished, they pulled out their wrenches and began unscrewing the bolts that held the head to the well piping.

  The bolts had initially been tightened with a torque wrench, but due to the dangerously flammable conditions they couldn’t be removed in the same way. It took all three of them and a specially designed tool to release the hundreds of pounds of pressure on each bolt. For the next hour they released each bolt, and by noon the damaged head was ready to be removed.

  When the fire was extinguished the flume pipe remained to enable them to remove the damaged head. Without it, as soon as they untightened the first bolts on the head, the oil coming out of the head would start leaking between the head and the shaft, exerting massive amounts of pressure and making it impossible to unscrew the rest of the bolts.

  Brady and her crew completed another walk around the head, double- and triple-checking that everything was ready for the head to be removed.

  They retreated, and she signaled Dig that the site was ready. He had replaced the bucket on the arm of the digger with what Brady often referred to as a gigantic pair of tweezers, when in fact it was a demolition tool used for crushing.

  Dig moved forward slowly, the pinchers open, ready to grab the pipe and damaged head from the well. Brady watched as Dig skillfully maneuvered the pinchers around the piping. As soon as he grabbed the pipe and started to reverse, oil shot out of the flange that connected the damaged head to the well almost parallel to the ground. It often reminded Brady what i
t would be like if you removed a sprinkler head off the end of a hose without turning off the water.

  Dig backed away from the site carrying his cargo and deposited it on the ground about fifty yards away. Another worker came forward, driving the crane Brady had driven this morning to extinguish the flame, but this time it didn’t carry explosives. It carried the new wellhead. Brady, and her crew, moved forward and was quickly covered with oil, grateful for the goggles that protected her eyes.

  She and the men directed the new wellhead in place. This time the reverse was true in trying to put on a sprinkler head without turning off the water. Brady lowered her full-face shield to protect her exposed skin.

  The new head secured, it took all three of them to turn the control valve to shut down the flow of oil. When the last drop stopped, Brady leaned against the well completely exhausted. This was one of the most physical aspects of the job that most women couldn’t do. Hell, even some men couldn’t do it. But she’d worked in the field so long she’d built up her strength and learned a few tricks to make her successful.

  Her legs felt like lead, and she dragged herself into the stream of one of the remaining fire hoses. Standing with her back to the water for a minute or so before turning slowly, she let the water wash off at least the top layer of oil and grime from her suit. Slipping off her helmet she dipped her head, soaking it in the cool, clean water.

  Fairly certain she was as clean as she was going to be at this point, she waved her thanks to the nozzleman and headed toward the crew quarters. The mop-up crew had been on standby all day and quickly moved in as the McMillan crew left the area around the repaired wellhead.

  Hanging her protective gear on a knob screwed into the side of the crew trailer, Brady ran her hand over her head and through her short hair to get as much water out as possible. Then she unzipped her jumpsuit to her waist, pulled her arms out of the sleeves, and stepped inside. She wanted a cold drink, a hot shower, and a soft bed, but not necessarily in that order.