Flash of Fire

by M. L. Buchman

  “Next you heli-pilots will be trimming trees and inspecting power lines,” a smokejumper called out, and others laughed.

  “We’ll start using smokies for express delivery of online shopping parcels,” Mickey shouted back, and the laughter grew. “About all they’re good for anyway. Real battle is from the sky.”

  There were a lot of tasks best done by helicopters, but not a one of them was as important or as hazardous as fighting wildfire.

  Only the best of them flew to fire. And only the truly exceptional flew for MHA.

  Which had Mickey looking toward the new blond again, as Vern riposted the next smokejumper tease.

  Ballerina or workout instructor didn’t get you in the cockpit of an MHA Firehawk. And especially not the lead ship. To do that, she had to be fantastic. So what did she bring?

  At that moment, she turned to look at him.

  * * *

  Robin concentrated on not shifting foot to foot while she waited. Would the new commander hold her first-day tardiness against her? For getting lost in the goddamn rabbit warren of a barracks? And then gawking like a schoolgirl at the trees and the drone launcher and the line of Firehawks and…

  The men.

  Enough time had passed that everyone should have stopped staring at her by now and she could turn to scan the crowd. Time to assess just who she’d signed up with.

  And the first place she looked, there was a guy staring at her from the far side of the crowd. No one else, just him.

  And then another, whom she vaguely remembered meeting yesterday, looked over the man’s shoulder. No comparison.

  Blue eyes, short—almost crew-cut short—brown hair, and one of those friendly faces that looked like it smiled too easily and too often.

  At the truck stop, they were the one kind of guy you could never figure out. The ham-handed ones were easy to spot and all of the women knew to look for the extra pair of straws that were always dropped along the outside edge of such tables, a clear sign that “This table sucks.”

  Most of the truckers were fine, decent guys, and there were a lot of couples rolling down the roads, way more than in Mom’s youth. She’d been able to pick out any of those types easily by the time she was ten and wiping down tables after school.

  But then there were the ones like this guy on the far side of the crowd. Flying solo, looking nice…very nice, and wholly unreadable. Mr. Nice Guy or Mr. Jerk? It was hard to tell, because at the moment, he had a rather bug-zapped expression.

  * * *

  Mickey tried to look away, but that so wasn’t working. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, the color of the morning sky now shining above them. High cheekbones and a chin that made him wonder what it would feel like to run his fingers along its lines.

  “Told ya,” Gordon whispered behind him.

  Mickey offered her a friendly nod. She returned it. Not cautious or calculating like you’d expect from a newcomer, but a short, assessing greeting. Then she turned her attention back to Mark as if Mickey had suddenly ceased to exist.

  A soft “Damn” was all he could manage. Hot didn’t begin to cover this lady.

  “Told ya,” Gordon repeated himself beneath the last of the back-and-forth banter. The crew was feeling good, ready for the start of the season.

  “Mount Hood Aviation sightseeing tours will be next. I’ve been telling Mark that’s all you air jockeys are good for anyway,” Akbar teased them.

  Mickey had been feeling good too. A final glance to the blond and he felt even better now.

  “We have”—Mark raised his voice to quash the last of it—“a little lightning-strike fire east of nowhere in Alaska. It’s in an area classified for limited to no intervention. Normally they’d just let it burn, as there are no nearby towns. However, it has grown up in the last twenty-four hours and thinks that it has a passport and entry stamp to cross into Canada.”

  “That’s our kind of export problem,” Mickey shot back at Akbar. First fire call of the year always felt great. It wouldn’t be until they’d had a month or two of impossible hours and crappy camps that the feeling would wear off. Even then, it beat the dickens out of any day job he could imagine.

  “I thought Canada wouldn’t mind,” Jeannie asked. “They’re into sustainable forest burn now.” Jeannie was getting good. Of course she’d have track of all of that, what with her fire management degree and working along with Carly the Fire Witch—as the fire behavior analyst was known all up and down the coast because she was just that accurate.

  Let her be the next Carly; he didn’t care.

  Mickey was a flyer first, last, and all the way in between. Which left him to wonder again what the blond was.

  “Not when it’s threatening Dawson City,” Mark answered Jeannie’s question. Mickey really had to focus. The new woman was already distracting him. Women didn’t distract him; he enjoyed them and fully appreciated how easy it was to gather them up at bars or his sister’s wedding with “I fly a helicopter to fight wildfires.” But this one was making him—

  “Isn’t that like twenty miles into Canada?” Gordon called out.

  “More like forty,” Mickey answered, but Gordon’s question made good sense. That was a lot of territory for a fire to cover.

  “The fire burned forty thousand acres last night and is rated at zero percent contained. They want us to stop it before the strong westerlies help the fire chew up another hundred thousand acres and the only city for three hundred miles around.”

  Mickey had flown enough fires in the Alaskan and Canadian wilderness to be familiar with Dawson City. It had thirteen hundred people, making it the second largest municipality in the Yukon Territory—an area bigger than California. It had fallen below “city” size with the collapse of the gold rush at the turn of the prior century, so it was technically the Town of the City of Dawson. And if the fire analysts were worried about a U.S. fire reaching all the way there from Alaska, it was an early-season monster in the making.

  “Canadian firefighters are heavily engaged in the Banff fire at the moment and our crews are chasing a mess outside of Anchorage. The Alaska Fire Service put out a call for our full team. So, smokies: get outta here! Helicopters will be hot on your tails.”

  * * *

  The lead smokejumper let out a Whoop! that was picked up by the other smokies.

  Robin froze, because the slightest movement seemed likely to get her trampled as they raced for the parachute shed and their full jump gear.

  That thinned the crowd at the base of the radio tower by two-thirds and she could see the guy who’d kept watching her more clearly. He looked solid in the way of someone who’d always been fit, even as a kid. On a soldier, you could see the guys who’d been bulked up by weights and war versus the ones to whom it was just second nature. This guy had always looked this good.

  He grabbed a second energy bar, which was a good idea, so she did the same. Once they were aloft, they’d need both hands for flying.

  Adding to the general mayhem, Chutes—the head of MHA’s paracargo operation who she’d met yesterday—fired up his forklift to run pallets of supplies across the runway to the waiting DC-3 and Shorts Sherpa C-23 jumper planes. The first load was a whole pallet of pumps, chain saws, and gas cans followed by another one of food and Pulaski fire axes. Each had a big parachute strapped on top of the tightly bound gear.

  For two or three minutes, the field was alive with smokejumpers rushing to their ready racks, grabbing jump gear, and racing across the field to their two planes.

  Robin estimated that for the planes, flying from Hood River, Oregon, to Nowhere-and-Gone, Alaska, would be six hours plus a fuel stop. They’d be jumping the fire by lunchtime.

  It was the one thing Robin hated about helos, the long hauls. At a good solid cruise, they were over ten hours from the fire, not counting two refueling stops which would stretch it closer to twelv
e. And by then, they’d be too wiped out to do much more than sleep. They wouldn’t be on the fire until tomorrow morning. It seemed like a crazy system to be sending them so far, but these guys seemed to know what they were doing.

  * * *

  “Helos,” Mark called from where he still stood with Emily and the others.

  Mickey forced his attention away from the newcomer. She was taller than he’d first thought—close to his own five ten—and he’d always been partial to tall women. Her expression was intent. Despite being last to reach the line this morning, he’d guess there wasn’t a lazy bone in that fine body. She looked as ready to spring into action as Akbar had.

  “This is too far away for the MD500s,” Mark continued. “But fear not. Gordon and Vanessa, they have a mess up in Washington at Leavenworth that needs your services. The fire chief is in desperate need of someone able to tackle spot fires in severe terrain and the MDs are perfect for that. Gordon has lead.”

  “Vanessa and me,” Gordon whispered to Mickey in a tone of bewilderment, completely missing that he was in charge.

  Oddly, Mickey could almost see that working, the dusky Italian beauty and the tall, Wyoming rancher boy. He gave Gordon an encouraging slap on the arm.

  “I’m also sending one of the Twin 212s because the fire map looks ugly. Carly thinks they’re underestimating the trouble they’re in.” Which meant they were wrong, because the Fire Witch never was.

  Mickey held his breath, wondering which he’d prefer: Washington or Alaska, a chance to rub shoulders with Vanessa or the new pilot? He was on the verge deciding the latter on the basis of no more than that shock of shining hair and her brilliant blue eyes, when Mark called for the other pilot.

  “Bruce, you’re for Leavenworth. I need Mickey’s deep experience in Alaska.”

  “No argument from me,” Bruce called out. Bruce was just a two-year man. Good enough but needed close watching on the big fires. A small but messy fire would be good for him.

  “Mickey, you’re with the Firehawks.” Mark raised his voice. “Your refuel stops are in Vancouver, BC; Juneau, Alaska; and final destination, Dawson City, Yukon Territory. There’s an airstrip eight miles due east of town along the highway that will be our base of operations. You’re aloft in ten. Firehawk One?”

  “Yo,” the new pilot called back. Nice voice. He’d expected rough and salty, or deep and throaty, but it wasn’t either. It was surprisingly normal. A nice contrast to her tough demeanor—because she radiated the tough attitude that the guys had been warning him about.

  “You’ll have a standard config for that bird, which is Carly as your copilot and Steve with his drones in back. Denise?”

  “Here.” The mechanic raised her hand though there was no need. Despite her short stature, her long mane of blond hair would stand out anywhere.

  “Kick your assistant Brenna and some supplies over to Bruce’s bird. You and your main shop are with Vern up to Alaska. That does it. Get a move on, people; the forest is burning.”

  Denise and Brenna bolted off toward the service trailer.

  Mickey almost left Gordon to his own devices, but he’d be bound to screw it up. Just as he was duty bound to try to cut his friend off from any attractive woman, he also had to help him if he could.

  “Gordon?”

  “What?” His friend still looked a little overwhelmed.

  “With Vanessa, just be yourself. Don’t gum it up with trying to be charming; it doesn’t work for you.”

  “Sure it does,” he protested. “I’m a charming kind of guy.” He shot Mickey a grin.

  Then he looked more carefully at Mickey’s expression and sighed. Mickey didn’t have to say a word.

  “Okay, maybe not so much with the charm. Thanks, Mick.” And he turned for his helo.

  Mickey caught his sleeve before he could move off. “Her name?” He nodded back over his shoulder toward the newbie.

  “Robin something.”

  “Like the bird?”

  “Like,” that smooth female voice sounded from close behind him, “Robin Hood, who will put an arrow in your ass if you say Robin Red Breast.”

  Mickey turned to face her. He decided that all of his first judgments at a distance were accurate, and at this close range, they were ten times more powerful—both the fine looks and the serious dose of attitude.

  “Hi! Mickey Hamilton.” He held out a hand. “As long as it’s not a Firehawk you’re trying to ram up my ass, I’m fine.”

  That earned a half smile; nice on the lips, not touching those crystalline, pure blue eyes. Her hand was fine fingered yet strong, like she did a lot of lifting with it. A lot. She glanced over his shoulder.

  “He’s Gordon Finchley,” Mickey filled in before Gordon could speak and get a foot in the door. Helping him with Vanessa was one thing; easing his access to this pretty unknown was not going to happen. “Yeah, Finch just like a little Tweety Bird. Don’t pay him any mind.”

  “Hi, Gordon. Good luck in Leavenworth.” She leaned around Mickey and reached out a hand, which Gordon shook as he mumbled something unintelligible. Or perhaps it was intelligible and Mickey just couldn’t hear it.

  He was struck by several things at once. It was the first time he’d actually seen Robin move, and both of his first guesses of ballerina and workout diva were equally justified. Her simple move was both lithe and powerful. Martial arts student perhaps. If so, it was a different form than his Taekwondo, something with more grace and flexibility.

  Also, her lean toward Gordon had placed her so close that he could smell her. Her Nomex flight suit was brand-new and the woman wearing it smelled of clean soap and…cool ice—that impossible clarity of air when snow skiing. As if—newborn was the wrong image—newly wrought.

  * * *

  Gordon actually wasn’t fluttery like Tweety Bird, but he was also clearly a sweet man—a major mark against him in Robin’s book.

  She knew from past experience that she tended to scare the shit out of men like him. They wanted her, but she would run over them roughshod, even on the rare occasions when she was trying not to.

  This Mickey, on the other hand, she had been able to feel him watching her from the moment she’d hit the line. He hadn’t shifted away as she reached past him to greet Gordon, letting her lean right into his personal space.

  Guys named Mickey were supposed to look like hoodlums or something. Instead, Mickey Hamilton looked like a cop…or a firefighter. The trustworthy kind, not the sneaky shit she’d always pictured slipping from her mother’s bed in the dark of the night and never coming back.

  Up close, she could appreciate how nicely broad his shoulders were. And he had the kind of blue eyes that could see through any fog or other BS—far away the best feature on a very handsome face. He was an inch taller than she was but looked bigger and more solid than his taller finch friend.

  Robin knew that—because her heritage was half firefighter and half truck-stop mama—she was a pushover for Mickey’s type. Now she had to ask if she wanted to be a pushover this time or not.

  She rocked back onto her heels and Gordon slipped out of her attention. Mickey didn’t fade in the slightest. He had a slow smile, a real one that showed beneath the quick grin he’d been using to tease his buddy.

  He didn’t blink, squint, look away…or look down toward her chest. Mickey faced her eye to eye and offered that slow smile.

  Summer is definitely looking up, she thought to herself. Most definitely. Didn’t mean she was going to make it easy for him.

  “Mickey? Like the mouse?”

  Gordon snorted out a laugh, slapped Mickey on the back, and headed away.

  “Not Mickey Rooney either,” he offered in an unperturbed tone, showing no desire to hurry off to his aircraft.

  “Not short and round?”

  “Nor likely to break into a song-and-dance routine. And Mi
ckey Mantle died about the time we both entered grade school, so I’m not him either.”

  “How about Mickey Blue Eyes?”

  “Well, my name is Mickey. Eyes are blue.”

  “You don’t strike me as the Hugh Grant romantic comedy type.”

  He shrugged noncommittally. “You the type to watch them?”

  “Not so much,” Robin admitted. Astute question. “So, Mick Blue Eyes it is.”

  At that, he smiled and those blue eyes lit and sparkled with laughter that was only suggested by the sudden curve of his lips.

  Then those deep blue eyes shifted over Robin’s shoulder for a moment and she could feel someone coming up close behind. Give her one guess and it was an easy one.

  But rather than scooting away from the incoming Queen Bitch Beale, Mick—no, she did like Mickey better—turned back and took Robin’s hand again for a moment. Instead of shaking it, he just held it for an instant and she rather liked the warm, steady feeling.

  “See you in the air.” Then he nodded to the woman behind Robin. “And we’re really going to miss you, Emily.” He addressed her much more easily than Robin would have dared.

  “I can see that.” The Queen’s tone was dry enough to make the Tucson desert look well irrigated.

  Mickey, looking not the least abashed, squeezed Robin’s hand a final time and headed over toward his smaller Bell Twin 212—a respectable enough machine, though it couldn’t carry half of what the pretty Firehawk hauled.

  Robin braced herself before turning to face Queen Beale. Even pregnant, she was fit and beautiful. Her straight hair was a perfectly trimmed fall of gold to her shoulders. It caught the morning sun like a maiden Viking’s helmet.

  “You’re a fine pilot,” the Queen launched in without preamble.

  Robin opened her mouth and then shut it again when the unexpected compliment registered.

  “You also think you’re the best pilot, which you aren’t. But you have the potential to be or we wouldn’t have hired you out of the forty applicants that we accepted for interviews and tests or the two hundred that we didn’t accept at all.”