Bring On the Dusk

by M. L. Buchman

  Among the pilots it was generally agreed that upsetting the head of MHA’s helicopter maintenance team was not to be considered a life-prolonging experience.

  Nor was disappointing Emily Beale, who had only certified him in the Firehawk yesterday morning. The four years he’d been flying the little MD500 for MHA wouldn’t count for squat if he dinged up their newest twenty-million dollar bird.

  He followed the other two Firehawks back into camp. They were the massive Type I juggernauts of the helitack firefighting world able to deliver a thousand gallons of water and foam or retardant to a wildfire. There were only a few helicopters that could carry more, and those were all far less agile machines. This chopper ruled the wildfire helitack sweet spot.

  The Mount Hood Aviation Firehawks were painted gloss black with the red-and-orange racing flames of the MHA logo running from the nose and down the sides, they looked as cool and powerful as they really were.

  The Firehawks were built from Sikorsky Black Hawk helicopters. Each one was an eight-foot-high, ten-foot-wide, and forty-foot-long nasty-looking machine. Black Hawks, no matter how prettily painted, always appeared to be looking for a fight. They were the tough boys on the block, even if the two in front of him were flown by women: Emily, ex-military and kind of terrifying truth be told, and Jeannie, one of the most competent and pretty fliers he’d ever met.

  How in the hell had some photographer guy snapped her up? Jeannie was awesome. Not that they’d ever done more than fly together—it wasn’t like that between them—but seeing her look so damn happy had really emphasized how totally lame his own relationships had been.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he braced himself. Stepping on the rudder pedal, he twisted the tail of the five-ton helicraft to the side. He shifted the cyclic joystick in his right hand to compensate. Again, it felt completely normal, proving that indeed the backup hydraulic system was operational even if his breathing still sounded harsh over the headset and microphone system he wore. Now he flew mostly sideways but remained in formation with the other choppers in order to look behind him.

  He opened one eye. A cloud of black smoke was streaming from his chopper. No sign of a fire warning on the instrument panel, so it was just burning off some hydraulic fluid that had spilled before the pressure loss was detected and he’d shut down the pump. They were under two minutes from Mount Hood Aviation’s Hoodie One Base Camp.

  Not enough time to burn everything off. Thankfully none of the fumes—nasty, astringent stuff—had leaked into the cabin. Vern realigned the controls to once again face forward and retain his position in the flight. He managed to also convince his breathing that he was back in control.

  The MHA airfield and base camp lay less than a mile ahead now. It was perched low on the northern side of the towering mass of Mount Hood—eleven thousand feet of dormant, mostly, ice-capped volcano. It was easy to miss the airfield in among the towering fir trees and the vibrant yellows and reds of September aspens and maples.

  It was the end of day, the mountain’s shadow already lay long across the camp, and the grass airstrip was not empty like he’d hoped. The four smaller choppers of MHA’s seven-bird fleet had already returned, parked along the north side of the strip up close to the towering Douglas fir trees that defined that side of the base. Pilots and ground crew were milling around them.

  Along the other side of the field were the low buildings of the long-since defunct kid’s summer camp that had been taken over by MHA. Though much of the structures’ dark wood was covered with green moss, like so much else in the Pacific Northwest, they were dry and warm inside.

  But were the other pilots, ground crew, and smokejumpers tucked away safe and warm?

  No such luck.

  They seemed to think that just because it was a beautiful late September afternoon everyone should be out at the cluster of picnic tables that served as the camp’s main hangout. As he neared, he could see the dots of their bright faces turning like damned daisies following the sun—all tracking the path of his smoking flight.

  And sure enough, the nightmare awaited.

  There at the end of the row of four already parked choppers and the two smokejumper delivery planes was the maintenance truck. In front of the truck, stood five feet and four inches of livid woman with dark blond hair down her back—her feet planted as if part of the mountain’s basalt shield. Though not close enough to see, he knew she’d be standing with her arms crossed over one of the nicest chests he’d ever seen.

  He could feel the burn of her glare at a thousand yards out.

  Vern followed the other two Firehawks in for a landing, Denise coming into focus as he approached. Jeans, T-shirt, and a canvas vest that had once been beige before it spent years being worn around broken helicopters. She wore a tool belt like an Old West gunslinger. Damn, she was gorgeous and cute at the same time. And about the most unapproachable woman he’d ever met.

  A single drop of salty sweat dripped into his eye and stung. He sniffed the air again, no smell of fire other than the bit of wood char that you always picked up flying over a wildland fire.

  A glance back as he hovered, spun into place, and set his bird down on the markers. Yep, still smoking black.

  Denise was going to do more than kill him; that would be too kind.

  She was going to outright annihilate him.

  He hoped that she at least waited until after he was done landing before she did so.

  * * *

  “What did you do to my poor bird?” Denise Conroy heaved open the cargo bay door and spoke to Vern Taylor’s back in the pilot seat. She reached up and pulled down on the gust lock in the middle of the rear cabin’s ceiling. It would keep the rotor blades from turning unexpectedly once she climbed atop the helicopter to check the engine.

  “Broke it,” was his sassy reply.

  “I guessed that much. Confirm ignition key in the off position,” she called out even though she could see forward between the seats to the center console that it already was. Outside the front windscreen she could see Mickey and Bruce pressing their faces up against the windscreen and making funny faces at Vern, blowing out their cheeks like puffer fish or three-year-olds.

  “Confirm off and out.” Vern pulled the key free and dropped it on the center console of radios that ran between the pilot and copilot’s seats. Then he gave the finger to his juvenile buddies who laughed and moved on. She made a mental note to wash the outside of the pilot’s side windscreen—while wearing gloves.

  She stepped back outside, slid the big door shut with perhaps a bit more force than she should have, and climbed on top of the Firehawk helicopter using the notches built into the section of the helicopter’s hull that had been covered by the door. Denise began peeling off the cowling of the number two turbine engine, being careful of the still blazing-hot exhaust; she could feel the radiant heat on her cheeks as soon as the sheet metal was shifted aside.

  The stink of scorched, hi-temp phosphate hydraulic fluid made her glad for the slight breeze that was wafting it away. She pulled on goggles and neoprene gloves so that the acidic fluid wouldn’t splash in her eyes or sting her hands.

  The failure was instantly apparent from the spray pattern. The side of a hose had split and shot out a broad fan of pressurized fluid. Some of it puddled, some of it had struck the engine and been vaporized.

  Vern finished filling out his log as if everything was absolutely normal before climbing down from his seat.

  “You do know, Vern, busting a bird when you’ve had it less than two days really puts you on my bad list?” Denise jerked out a wrench to loosen the blown hose, but scattered several other tools as she did so in her nervousness. How had she even spoken that way to a pilot?

  Vern didn’t sound the least put out by her tone. “The few, the proud, the helitack firefighter pilots of MHA. We’re all in the crapper with you, Wrench. How are we supposed to fly to
fire without actually using your helicopters? That’s the puzzle, isn’t it?”

  She shifted her scowl from the engine and aimed it down at him.

  Vern leaned with his back against the pilot’s door of the helicopter, staring off into the distance as if completely unconcerned about the midair breakdown and oblivious to her conflicted emotions.

  It was her fault that the pilot had been placed in danger.

  And Vern was teasing her about it. He was tall enough that the top of his head was almost close enough for her to swing down and rap it sharply with the wrench in her hand, which might cheer her up a bit. But he wasn’t the problem, so she rammed the wrench back into her tool belt and knocked a few other tools loose that she had to retrieve from the helicopter’s innards.

  She really shouldn’t be aiming her anger at him; it was herself she was furious with. She’d sent a bird aloft that had broken in the sky. That was wholly unforgivable. Her pilots counted on her to provide safe, airworthy equipment and she’d failed them.

  Firehawk Oh-Three had been in the Mount Hood Aviation inventory for less than a month and now it had blown a hydraulic line. Thankfully, Vern hadn’t been in any danger from the failure—the backup system had taken the load. But she’d thought it was clean when she’d signed off the airworthiness certificate; something she’d done every day for a month.

  It definitely wasn’t clean at the moment. In addition to the blown hose itself, hydraulic leaks were messy and took time to clean up. Furthermore, the fluid that sprayed into the engine had caused the trail of acrid black smoke that had scared the daylights out of her. She’d had to wrap her arms around herself to hold herself together until Vern set the bird safely on the ground. The burn-off of fluid also added to the mess with sticky exhaust particulate sheathing the rear half of the pretty black-and-flame paint job.

  “I can feel you aiming nasty thoughts down at me.” Vern rubbed a hand on the top of his head as if it was getting hot. Then he turned to look up at her. His lean face was rich with a summer’s tan. His mirrored shades hid the dark eyes that matched his hair she’d occasionally fantasized toying with in her more psychotic moments. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not unless you’re planning to break something else on my helicopter, Slick. Go away. You’re distracting me.” And he was. Denise had some principles and those included not getting sucked in by the charm of a handsome flyboy. The last time she had let that happen was…a long time ago, and it wouldn’t be happening now.

  “Yes, ma’am, Wrench, sir.” Then he saluted, hitting his forehead hard enough to pretend knocking himself silly.

  No matter how handsome and charming, she would not be tempted.

  She raised the exact implement that had earned most mechanics the Wrench nickname, and he stumbled back, raising his hands in mock terror.

  He pulled a black Mount Hood Aviation billed hat out of his back pocket and tugged it on before shooting her one of his cockeyed grins. The blazing red-and-orange MHA logo offered her a tempting target. Maybe if she had a tennis ball handy, she’d bean him one.

  “Make me proud, Wrench.”

  “Fall down a gopher hole, Slick.” Again? Had she really sassed a pilot? That wasn’t anything the Denise she knew would ever do.

  He tipped his hat and headed across the narrow grass airstrip of the Hoodie base camp. On his third step he stumbled badly, pretending to fall into a gopher hole.

  Denise laughed. Of the many jokers among the crews, Vern was the only one who consistently made her want to laugh. Though not usually out loud.

  She watched him walk off. Had she just been flirting with him? She’d never been any good at it, so she couldn’t be sure. He didn’t fly a Huey UH-1 “Slick” helicopter, but she liked how the nickname fit him. Nicknames were another thing she rarely used correctly. Yet another reason not to become involved with flyboys who seemed to live by them. For example, Mickey was usually…she couldn’t even remember. Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

  Pilots also had these unspoken rules and codes that the women they picked up in the bars seemed to already know. It was as if every one of them had gone to the same training course, but no one had told her she needed to enroll to understand men.

  Denise understood none of them.

  Once he was gone, she could relax a little. She sat back on her heels atop the helicopter. It was one of her favorite times of day and she took a moment to enjoy it.

  Malcolm shot her a wave when he noticed her watching. He’d finished servicing one of the Twin Hueys and was moving to the other one. Brenna, her other assistant, was deep in an MD500 and didn’t look up. No need to worry though. Brenna could handle almost anything on the smaller birds; she was good.

  The sun was setting into the Oregon wilderness over the massive shoulder of the glacier-capped Mount Hood. You could practically taste the pine-sharp chlorophyll on the ice-clean air. The birds were coming home to roost, the seven helicopters and three airplanes of her firefighting fleet.

  The flesh-and-blood birds were also dancing in the last of the sunlight as they headed into their own nests among the towering Douglas fir trees on the north side of the runway. And if even one of them pooped on her helicopters, there’d be hell to pay.

  By U.S. Forest Service contract requirements, right on the stroke of a half hour before sunset, all of the aircraft were out of the air and lined up on the grass. For the next dozen hours, the crews still fighting the fire on the ground would be on their own.

  Emily and Jeannie were certified for nighttime firefighting, but that was awfully expensive and wasn’t called for except on the very worst of fires. Also, if they flew at night, they still needed the mandatory eight-hour break out of every twenty-four.

  Better to let them sleep and fly again at a half hour past sunrise than miss part of the morning.

  Jeannie climbed out of Firehawk Oh-Two and waved at Denise. She treated her helicopter with the most respect of all the pilots. Emily in Firehawk Oh-One was so skilled after ten years in the Army that, while she didn’t baby the firefighting Black Hawk, she never stressed the bird.

  They were home safe now.

  The two small MD500s for hitting spot fires were parked at the west end of the runway. A pair of the midsized Twin-212 Huey choppers were lined up next, then her three Firehawks parked neatly down the side of the grass strip field at midfield directly opposite the main camp buildings. The seven choppers looked so pristine and glossy in their black-and-flame paint jobs. All glossy, that is, except Firehawk Oh-Three with a dark smudge down the tail section from the scorched hydraulic fluid.

  She sighed; she really shouldn’t have harassed Vern. It wasn’t his fault the line had cracked and sprayed the compartment with slimy silicone-based goo. At least it hadn’t been the old hydraulic oil. That stuff would have burned rather than merely scorching and caused a major mess, if not an engine fire.

  Denise was through the repair in ten minutes, and about halfway through the cleanup when the dinner bell rang. Her hands would reek of the cleaner for hours despite the gloves. She hoped it was a knife-and-fork dinner tonight.

  Betsy the camp cook had brought the bell back with her from when they’d been fighting fire Down Under in Australia over the winter. The old brass twelve-inch fire truck bell announced the exact moment of sunset, spooking aloft the last of the birds who were just settling into the trees. You think they’d get used to it—Betsy rang her new toy every night at this time. It echoed from one end of the airstrip to the other calling the helitack and smokies to come eat.

  From her high perch atop the Firehawk helicopter, Denise had a clear view of the whole field. Malcolm and Brenna downed tools and checklists from the nightly inspection they performed on each aircraft and began wandering across the grass strip toward the cluster of picnic tables. Mark Henderson’s twin-engine Beech King Air, the Incident Commander Air’s aircraft, had landed without her n
oticing and was parked down by the DC-3s used for transporting the smokejumpers when they were needed.

  Actually, some part of her brain had noticed.

  She could recall that the engines had sounded clean, nothing to trigger her internal alarms to hurry over to inspect them immediately. Mark’s landing had been as immaculate as you’d expect from a long-term Army pilot. Like his wife Emily, he flew smooth and clean every minute of every day. So no other warnings arose in her head and she knew it would be a normal nightly inspection.

  All routine.

  That was good. That’s what it was supposed to be when she wasn’t creating a failure like Oh-Three.

  She set up a pair of worklights so they’d be ready after dinner when it was dark. She laid her flask of cleaner and her gloves across exactly the spot she’d left off so she’d be sure to start in the right place after dinner.

  Today’s fire had been a grassland range fire seventy miles to the southwest. Only the helicopter crews had been out today to help the local ground crews who’d been able to drive trucks to the fire. The MHA smokejumpers had the day off, so a lot of them were in town and the tables were less full than usual.

  Most of the pilots, support crew, and ground personnel were already sitting around, reading or playing cards held in place by small stones against the light evening breeze that wandered lazily through camp. Thankfully, that same breeze washed away the bitter smells of cleaners and the sharp kerosene of Jet A fuel the pumper truck had dispensed down the row.

  As Denise headed for the chow line, Emily and Jeannie came up to her. They were out of flight gear and looked casually pretty. Someday she’d like to find the nerve to ask how they made it look so effortless.

  Of course, MHA’s first two Firehawk pilots wanted to know what had gone wrong with the third craft.