Pure Heat

by M. L. Buchman

  “Were you in by 2004?”

  No need to ask “in” where, in the wildland firefight. “Summer jobs. Didn’t start hotshotting until ’06.”

  “College boy. She’ll like that.”

  Steve glanced over at Chutes.

  “Not blind, Merks. She likes you.”

  Steve rubbed his throat. It still hurt a little. “She likes me fine as long as I’m far away.”

  “Let you kiss her. That’s more than most get without a black eye.” Chutes squinted his eyes and inspected Steve’s face. “You’re not wearing makeup, are you?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud…”

  Chutes laughed, then made a point of clearing his throat overdramatically as if it really hurt. Steve was fairly sure neither Chutes nor anyone else had been there for that. Clearly, like all helibases, Hoodie One was not a place to keep a secret.

  “Anyway, you know about Tanker 130?”

  Every wildland firefighter did. A massive Hercules C-130 tanker, old and tired with decades of service, had started a retardant drop and then its wings had simply folded up and fallen off. Metal fatigue. The crew never stood a chance as the plane augered in. The loss of that and a PB4Y barely a month later had caused the Forestry Service to retire almost all of the large tanker planes in 2004. Officially, the firefighting capacity was to be backfilled by heavy helicopters. But the heavies, like the Firehawk version of the Black Hawk helicopter, were only just now coming into play a decade later.

  “He got caught in the gap?”

  Chutes nodded.

  The gap in air power had pushed the burden of the firefight even more than usual onto the smokejumpers for a couple of very hard years. That gap had just begun to ease off when Steve first signed on in 2006, but it was a long way from closed. New planes and choppers were damned expensive.

  “I don’t know quite how Carly is holding it together. TJ’s, uh, accident… we’ll just call it that. His accident was almost a replay of her father’s death except no choppers were on site that time. Another smokie died trying to get to Ham, and two were injured bad enough to never come back. And they’d have had to cut off his leg rather than the tree limb; he caught the whole trunk. No way to get a shelter on him even if they could have reached him.”

  Steve glanced back at that tiny space of mirror. Carly was looking right at him. Their gazes held for a long moment. He could see the truth across her features. The fear and terror she somehow held at bay. Could see just how strong a woman she really was. He’d probably be curled up in a corner with a bottle if he’d had to sit helpless in the sky and watch it all unfold.

  As the music switched over to Aerosmith wailing out “Sick As a Dog,” he raised his mug shoulder high in a toast to her sitting behind his back.

  She raised hers in return, met his gaze a moment longer, then turned away.

  ***

  Carly didn’t know if she wanted to be close to or far away from Steve Mercer. The whole evening at the Doghouse, she’d been hanging at the table with TJ and Aunt Margaret. Everyone seemed to have dropped by the table at some point, with the other three chairs a constant rotation of smokies, base folks, and pilots. Chutes had wandered over for a while, but he’d been uncharacteristically quiet. By the way he kept looking at her sidelong, he was clearly thinking about her father’s death as much as she was.

  Emily Beale came by with her baby. Carly got to hold Tessa. The sleeping infant, only four months old, made a tiny, comfortable bundle. Carly had held a lot of babies over the years, but Tessa did something to her, made her smile even more than normal. Her tiny face was a mirror of her beautiful mother.

  “He did good.” Emily was leaning back, sipping her iced tea, and watching Carly, her voice just carrying over “Gonna Buy Me a Dog” by The Monkees.

  Carly wished she needed to ask who the pilot was referring to, but she didn’t.

  Steve had been maintaining a low profile all evening. He’d left the bar after a while, doing his best not to limp when he was waved over to Henderson’s table. She could imagine the chopper pilots seated there grilling him about flying the drone. He’d looked good, at ease. Every now and then she caught him looking at her. And a couple of times he’d caught her looking at him.

  “He did.” With barely a hesitation, he’d rappelled right into the heart of an inferno to rescue someone he’d never met. Sure, it’s what firefighters did. But she hadn’t known that about him yet, which only made it all the more dramatic.

  “I’d thought he was some jerk hooking a free helicopter ride. Then, poof, he’s a fire-jumping superman.” Carly glanced at TJ, who sat to her other side, but he, Aunt Margaret, and Chutes were laughing over some old story.

  “So, what’s the holdup?”

  Carly laughed. “You mean other than him only being on base for less than twenty-four hours so far?”

  “Other than that.” Emily’s smile indicated that somehow she knew there was a whole tanker-load of reasons other than short acquaintance. Carly wasn’t going near any relationship. She fooled around with some onion rings she didn’t want. Took a bite of one, even though it had long gone cold.

  She knew what her reasons were for avoiding a relationship with Steve Mercer or anyone else. She wasn’t ready to face that pain. Not by a long shot.

  “So what was SOAR like?”

  Emily nodded politely at the subject change, but Carly knew she hadn’t dodged the bullet for long.

  Carly looked down at the baby in her arms. The blue eyes were open and looking right at her as if to say, “I’ve got my shit together. What’s your problem?”

  Chapter 11

  The alarm came in while Steve lay on his back beneath the Firehawk. He anchored the last clip for the mobile rig’s antenna into place. He’d already done a drone flight from the console he’d set up in the Firehawk’s cargo bay. He’d wanted to verify all systems were functional before he finished anchoring all the wires and consoles in place. It had worked just fine, and now the install was done.

  He walked one last time around the Firehawk to make sure it was a clean install. The new antenna was clamped to the underside of the tail boom. The wire led around the edge of the retardant tank until it reached the tank control lines. He’d ducked it through the same fuselage penetration and up into the twin-screen console.

  The keyboard and trackball controls were embedded on a shelf mounted to the back of the copilot’s seat. If this were a military bird, he’d be in the port-side gunner’s spot, on the left side of the chopper’s cargo bay directly behind Carly’s high-backed seat. From there he could look out the side opening, a hole about three feet tall and half that wide. He could see most of what was below even with his hands still on the controls. He also took up only the smallest corner of the cargo bay, which meant if they ever had to switch over to helitack, he wouldn’t be in the way.

  The console itself was a hardened rig, so it could be exposed to ash and smoke without damage. They could keep the cargo bay doors open as long as they didn’t get directly in the heavy smoke. Hell, the rig was tough enough, he could probably drop a bucket of retardant on it and the thing would still work.

  Steve gave everything a sharp tug to make sure it was well anchored before heading to where the crews were gathering around the foot of the helibase’s two-story radio tower.

  Last night at the Doghouse, Henderson had made it clear this was Steve’s first priority, to get the drone’s mobile control up and running on his wife’s Firehawk. The ICA himself had helped him carry the console and tool cases over from the truck right after breakfast.

  No sign of Carly this morning.

  Last night he’d changed his mind and made sure he’d left before Carly and TJ did. He’d backed his car out carefully to make sure he didn’t scrape up against the Jeep. No question whose paint job would lose if he did so. His gloss-black Trans Am Firebird versus her rusted blue Jeep? No contest. He decided it wasn’t his best idea, teasing her right now.

  Once he was clear, he’d loo
ked up. There she was. A shining beacon in his headlights, softened by the backlight of a solitary streetlight. Just standing there. Hands tucked in pockets. Hair loose about her face, spilling down over her shoulders. The thin leather vest open at the front. At first he’d thought it was a shield, but rather it invited you to admire the body within all the more.

  No, that wasn’t right either. She’d dressed specifically to make him crazy, and it had totally worked. He hadn’t been able to look away from her all evening, no matter how many times she’d caught him staring. He’d known her for one day, and if he didn’t get his hands on her, he just might break down and cry.

  Her expression was quiet. Clearly she’d seen that he’d parked her in tight and had watched him pull clear. But that wasn’t it.

  She was thinking really deep thoughts. He wondered if they were good or bad. He couldn’t tell last night.

  Now, in the late-morning light of the Hoodie One camp, he wondered why he hadn’t asked. Why hadn’t he at least been civil enough to wish her a good evening? Instead, he’d merely raised a hand through the sunroof to wave. A wave that hadn’t been returned, though he’d seen her eyes track the gesture. She’d seen it, but not responded.

  He supposed there was his answer. So, he’d simply driven away. In the rearview mirror, it looked as if she was still standing there under the streetlight when the road turned out of sight.

  As the final few stragglers arrived around the radio tower, he saw her Jeep come screaming into the parking lot. Clearly she’d gotten the page while already on her way here. Carly wiped the wheel like a pro and cranked the Jeep into a space, the gravel protesting as she slammed on the brakes. Even before the engine had fully stopped, she was running across the parking lot and between the buildings.

  She arrived beside him just as Henderson climbed to the stair landing from which Steve had first surveyed the base two days ago.

  “Morning.” Steve tested the waters.

  “Morning.” Her nod bright and sharp. Her smile radiant.

  Awash in the power of it, Steve rather hoped it was meant for him.

  She rubbed her hands together. “We’ve got us a fire. Know anything?”

  Since Henderson was probably seconds from speaking, the question hardly made sense unless you were really that psyched about fighting the next fire. And if that’s what was driving her, then all that slap of power from a happy angel, well, it wasn’t meant for him.

  Steve just waved a hand upward, not really trusting himself to speak.

  “We’ve got a hot one.” Henderson placed both hands on the railing and looked down at them. “Any of you fight the Springs Fire in central Idaho?”

  A couple of hands went up, just some smokies.

  “We’re headed about thirty miles west of the Springs Fire, and you know what the terrain is like. You Goonies here at Hoodie One are the closest outfit that isn’t already involved with some other mess. For smokies in the DC-3, Garden Valley, Idaho, is about an hour-and-a-half flight. Choppers, you’re in the two- and three-hour range. Garden Valley has a grass-strip airport with a helipad—make that a handy patch of dirt—at the east end.

  “There’s no retardant on site, tanks but they’re dry. The restock order was somehow missed. The nearest trucks are five hours out. Limited fuel is on-site, though more fuel is”—Henderson glanced at his watch—“already en route from Boise. So, we’ll be running foam mix and dipping water out of the Payette River. You have fifteen minutes until I want everyone airborne. Updates in the air. Merks, hang back for a sec. Rest of you, get gone.”

  Henderson had rattled the whole thing off in practically a single breath that carried easily over the crowd. No wasted time. Exactly what they needed to know, no more, no less. They didn’t know if they would be on flatlands or pitched terrain, though the groans of the few who’d fought the Springs Fire said it wasn’t good. That they were bringing in more aviation fuel meant they’d be there for a while, which told them both that the fire wasn’t small and that you’d need your personal gear. Perfectly efficient.

  Except for Steve, left standing still while everyone else sprinted away. Chutes had already fired off the forklift and headed for the preloaded pallets of gear to move them into the jump planes. Others sprinted for their quarters to grab their gear. The smokies went straight to the loft for their jumpsuits and parachutes. That was all the personal gear that they’d be needing.

  Carly rested her hand on Steve’s shoulder a second, gave it a squeeze, and then bolted off.

  Right. It was a three-hour chopper flight. Six hours by drone. A drone could only spend twenty hours in the air. That meant he’d spend more time in transit than flying. And he didn’t have the satellite rig, never mind the FAA clearance, for long-distance control anyway. Grounded.

  She’d seen that immediately, offered a moment of sympathy, then run. Smart, beautiful, thoughtful.

  Crap!

  He appreciated the thought even as his anger built. His first big fire, and he was being left out because he was just the drone guy. If he hadn’t gone and busted himself up… He should be gearing up with the smok—

  Henderson grabbed his arm and started leading him across the base.

  “How fast can you prep the trailer?”

  “For what?” Steve blinked.

  “Airlift.” Henderson was no longer the mellow but efficient guy Steve had shared burgers with last night. He’d turned into a no-nonsense ICA, a fastball pitcher, and would clearly mow down anything or anyone in his way.

  Steve did the math as they hustled around the last of the buildings. “Ten minutes.”

  “You have five.”

  “I’ll need help. Good help.”

  “Carly,” Henderson shouted and waved.

  Carly came running over, a small backpack across her shoulders. A leather case of charts and probably her computer in one hand.

  “Help Merks. You’ve already worked with his gear. You have four and a half minutes.” Henderson was gone before Carly came to a full stop.

  Neither of them hesitated. That had been trained out of both of them early on. Whatever had been in last night’s look and this morning’s greeting didn’t matter at the moment.

  Steve keyed open the truck as Carly freed the lower end of the drone landing rope. They collapsed the tower and strapped it to the side of the trailer in perfect synchronicity. He’d reach out a hand only to have the wrench slap into it. When Carly tipped the last section into place, he’d already cleared the straps so they weren’t trapped between sections.

  A rotor downdraft from above almost buffeted him to his knees. He’d been too focused to hear it coming.

  A large hook and lifting harness landed in the grass beside them. He didn’t need to glance up to know Emily Beale hovered the massive Firehawk a hundred feet over his head. He took the right side and Carly the left, clipping the harness onto the trailer’s four lifting rings.

  The chopper battered them as Beale landed close alongside.

  In moments he and Carly had the two gray-case drones loaded into the Firehawk’s cargo bay. He had to strap them to the top of four pallets of white five-gallon buckets. Six hundred or so gallons of foam mix. Chutes had been busy with his forklift. Add the mix at a ratio of one to a hundred with water, and it was the best thing for firefighting short of retardant. It looked like an impossible amount, but Steve knew it would disappear far too fast if the fire was a big one.

  He grabbed the spare tool kit from under the bench and hit the lock button on the truck. Per regulation, he waited while it rolled down, then reinserted the padlock. “Locks keep honest people honest.” Even though it served no real purpose, the padlock would keep ninety percent of people from even trying to open the door. The truck’s real security system was far more robust.

  He reached the chopper just as Carly finished loading her gear. His own gear was all the way over in the barracks. Did he have time to run for it?

  Henderson showed up at his elbow and practically shoved h
im aboard.

  Guess not.

  Then Henderson tossed a duffel at him that he caught easily enough. It was Steve’s.

  The ICA leaned in and shouted to his wife loud enough to be heard over the rotor noise.

  “Betsy has Tessa. The three of us will be in the Beech Baron. We’ll be on-site before you get there. Fly safe.”

  A bit of sign language flickered between them. ASL, American Sign Language. Steve could tell that much. But not a simple “I love you” sign. Which was about his limit. And “shoes.” He’d had a girlfriend who’d taught him that sign so she could tell him when it was time for a present without having to say so. It had been cute at first, then irritating, then… She hadn’t actually lasted all that long. He only added about a half-dozen pair to her collection. Considering her closet, he wondered just how many previous men had been suckered into thinking it was cute and for just how long.

  Steve tossed his duffel behind the rearmost pallet; it would be fine there. He belted into the chair in front of his console, just behind Carly. He left enough give in the harness to let him lean out the window as they took off. He watched the lifting wire attached to his trailer slowly unwinding as they lifted it upward.

  “Twenty feet more slack,” he called over the intercom.

  “Ten feet. Lines all clear.”

  The chopper eased upward more slowly.

  “Taut. Lines look good.” The harness wires hadn’t caught or snagged anything on the trailer. That was about a fifty-fifty proposition that SkyHi still had to address with some factory redesign. Henderson had waited long enough to make sure they had the load clean, and then he’d gone off with a ground-eating stride that didn’t look fast but was.

  “Load off the ground. Ten feet. Still good.”

  Then the chopper tipped its nose down and bolted like a hound to the hunt as it continued climbing. The trailer weighed about five hundred pounds, a twentieth of this bird’s lifting capacity. The foam mix took it to sixty percent of the Firehawk’s maximum load, which still left her plenty of power for raw speed.