by Alicia Scott
"Spit it out, Tom!"
"I think Al Simmons has been living here all along. I think I've spent the last fifteen years with Agent Simmons right beneath my nose."
"Who?"
"I don't have any proof," Tom said levelly, "but I've been doing some checking in Montana. Coleton Smith exists, all right, and has a stellar record as a forestry service employee. He's also, however, known as a bit of a loner. No family, no relatives. The man I spoke to said he was committed to the forest one hundred percent. That man also described the Coleton Smith he'd known in 1977 as five foot six and blue-eyed. So why is our Coleton Smith five foot ten and brown-eyed?"
"Oh, my God," Victoria whispered. "The hotshot crew!"
* * *
Tom called for transportation. Victoria got her mother to watch Randy. At eleven-fifteen, Victoria, her father and Tom Reynolds boarded a chartered plane for Colorado.
"I'm sure Brandon's all right," Tom kept saying. "Why would Al Simmons jeopardize his whole team? I'm sure Brandon's just fine."
Victoria and Sheriff Meese didn't reply.
* * *
Deployment took longer than anyone expected. The river currents were fast, or the guide was slow, or maybe he just hadn't been planning on the extra weight of their gear. At any rate, he pushed their chain of three rafts into the river and almost immediately lost control. It took Brandon, Larry and former white-water guide Trish to get the crafts together.
They fought the wayward current all the way down. By the time they finally landed at their destination, they were forty-five minutes late and exhausted.
They assumed formation once again, checked in with command central where Coleton and Barbara were monitoring the situation and set out again. Several gulches and canyons sprouted from the river. They headed straight into the middle one, climbing up to four thousand feet as instructed and following the natural curve into the heart of the gulch. Below them, they could see a thicket of dark trees. To their right, across the gulch, they could see smoke. Up ahead and to the right, the real fire burned, having crested from the other side and now working its way down.
The Smokejumpers had landed somewhere way ahead four hours ago. They were taking the advance line to the east. The Beaverville crew was in charge of flanking any movement to the north. The wide river would serve as a natural fire line to the west. The fire had already burned out to the south.
In theory, a second crew would be joining them shortly. Then again, if they got the same river pilot…
They'd hiked about a mile when the first sleeper flared up. Brandon heard Woody shout, "Holy smokes!" Flames were suddenly shooting into the air. Smoke billowed from another four patches of damp, knee-high bunchgrass.
Then, to the left, a second spot of fire suddenly erupted. For a moment they froze. It was an eerie sight, two blooms of fire in the middle of the rocky, craggy surface. The fires seemed to dance with an unknown partner, then suddenly spotted each other and reached out snaking tendrils to hold hands. They wrapped together quickly, gobbling up the grass and seeking fresh fuel.
Woody belatedly shouted orders, and they sprang to life. Pulaskis and shovels walloped the fire cold. They hacked down the grass and covered it with shallow layers of silt. Charlie gave a cry. Another fire had broken out. Other smokers seemed to be sprouting around their feet. Brandon had never seen anything like it. Suddenly they were prancing around like nervous horses, batting at thin tendrils of smoke and chasing ghosts. The whole mountainside was lousy with sparks.
Then Brandon began to realize how much he was sweating for how little he was working. The air was too hot. He looked up and saw a bloodred sun, shimmering with heat.
The timber fire had crowned. It was cooking the mountaintop, sending out a front wave of thick, cloying heat, drying the damp grass and live trees for the eruption about to come.
The fire was building, getting ready, becoming prepared.
Brandon glanced at Woody.
He was holding up a finger, testing for wind.
"Still nothing," he said to their unasked questions.
But at that moment, Brandon could have sworn he felt a breeze tickle his chin.
* * *
Barbara was slumped in the chair, staring out the window of the watchtower glumly. With her wrapped ankle, she still wasn't fit for field duty, so she was stuck with Coleton. Clearly, she was not happy.
Coleton watched her from across the tiny room. He was standing in front of the fax machine, waiting for the latest news to come in. He wore a smile.
It always amazed him, the small twists of fate that could determine who lived and who died, the seemingly insignificant decisions and choices that suddenly meant so much. In Mann Gulch, the fire claimed an out-of-shape forest ranger who'd once been a lean, mean Smokejumper but quit because his mother thought the job was too dangerous. In Storm King Mountain, there was the man who'd promised this would be his last fire, and indeed it had been.
In Colorado, there would be the woman who twisted her ankle on the qualifying run but made the crew thanks to the efforts of her teammates. She would be frustrated that she couldn't join her team at the fire.
She would be the only one left alive by the end of the day.
The fax machine finally chirped to life. Coleton Smith, superintendent of the Beaverville crew, received the national forecaster's update. Cold front moving in. Evacuate now.
And Al Simmons, whose hatred of Maximillian Ferringer had never died, crumpled the paper and threw it away.
"No news," he told Barbara blandly.
She resumed staring out the window, where the sun had gone crimson.
* * *
The twin-engine plane was making its descent when it hit the first wave of incoming air and jerked up. The pilot corrected gamely, but the wind currents were strong, and for several sickening moments, the plane was battered by conflicting winds.
Victoria grabbed the edge of her seat. Her father turned pale. Tom looked a little green around the edges.
The plane went into a dive, then at the last minute bottomed out.
"Sorry," the CIA pilot called back to them. "Bad front, had to get underneath it. Hope you're not planning on staying for long, because once that kicks up, this plane is grounded. That's gonna be one hell of a windstorm."
* * *
They were still hiking to their destination point, where they would start digging the fire line. Their steps were faster now, an unspoken urgency moving through the group. The air was hot, much, much hotter than any of them expected, and even the veterans were antsy. It hurt to breathe too deep, the air searing fragile lung sacs. They learned to use shallow puffs, moving over the ridges and curves of the rocky, churning land.
They crested the small hump, and Woody stopped cold.
The shimmering air seemed to contract on itself, and then in the next moment it exploded. Burning pinecones burst through the air, and two team members ducked. Rocks flew like bullets, driven by an unimaginable force, while ten-foot-thick trees abruptly combusted from the heat of their own resin.
And through the smoke, through the wavy, tearing heat, the wall of fire rose up like a beast, six hundred feet tall and mad as hell. It turned toward them and blasted its first blow.
Woody moved his lips, but the sound was lost in the ensuing roar. Brandon's hair was swept from his face. He felt his clothes suddenly compress against his skin, and he staggered from the gust.
Woody's lips moved again.
This time, Brandon understood him. The veteran wildland firefighter said, "God help us. God help us. God help us."
* * *
Tom pulled out a nine-millimeter. Sheriff Meese had a .357 Magnum. Victoria was ordered behind a van and told not to move.
Al Simmons, aka Coleton Smith, might be old and he might be scarred, but he was still a man who'd once been the best in the field. They wanted to take him out fast and quick, before he had a chance to take any hostages for wheeling and dealing.
Tom gave the nod to
go ahead.
As Victoria watched through the van's windows, her father opened the door at the bottom of the watchtower and pivoted in, gun first. After a moment, Tom followed.
Both men disappeared from sight.
* * *
Barbara had reached down to pick up a paper clip when the door behind her burst open.
"Sheriff!" one man cried.
"Don't move," a second man screamed.
She turned slowly to find two old men pointing guns at her and Coleton Smith. "Sheriff Meese," she said stupidly. "What are you doing here?"
Her words were drowned out by the sound of a man laughing. Coleton Smith doubled over, clutching his side with glee.
"You're too late," he gasped. "Look!"
Barbara followed his pointing finger. Far to the right of the window, a small windmill jutted from the watchtower, designed to help determine velocity and strength of wind. High winds were deadly to a fire crew.
The windmill was churning furiously.
Barbara's face went pale. "My God, what have you done?"
* * *
"Run!" Woody roared. "Drop gear now."
Pulaskis and chain saws clattered to the ground. Water canteens and emergency kits followed. As a unit, they burst forward.
One fries, we all fry.
Stay behind! Stay behind! Brandon's legs wanted to leap. His lungs burned from the heat, and he felt an unbearable pressure in his chest. But he stayed. He stood his ground. He was second in command. It was his job to bring up the rear, his job to make sure everyone was following formation.
He would not lose his head. He would not succumb to panic. He would not fail his team.
I am better than Max. I am Brandon Ferringer.
Woody sprinted by, hard-muscled legs pumping. He still held his radio in his hand. He was screaming, but the words were hard to hear. Brandon's radio crackled to life. Barbara. She was crying about Coleton. Then, suddenly, Victoria's voice cut in, cool and strong and urgent.
"Run," she said. "Get out, get out, get out!"
Larry raced by, Trish, Winston, April and Charlie. Brandon waited and waited. His eyes teared from the smoke. Another pinecone fired by his head. He smelled his mucus membranes beginning to burn.
"Marsha," he screamed, and urged the stumbling hotshot forward. "Go, go, go."
Victoria was still speaking through the radio at his waist. "Get out, get out, get out."
He looked one last time to make sure everyone had gone, and he saw the most ethereal sight. The fire was dancing. The six-hundred-foot wall of flame was ripped and joined, torn and married by the fickle, buffeting wind. Until the fire collapsed on itself, then rose up. Until it died and was reborn, carried by a warring, traitorous wind, half-cold, half-hot, slamming against itself.
And then, as he stood transfixed, the wind resolved its differences. The cool shoved the hot, the hot twisted back, and a wind tunnel was formed. The fire suddenly balled into a tornado and took off like a cyclone, spitting eighty-pound boulders.
Brandon ran.
* * *
"Helicopters!" Victoria screamed. She held Coleton by the lapels. She was so angry, so terrified she was spitting in his face. Barbara stood right behind her, looking ready to tear the man from limb to limb. "Call rescue helicopters!"
"Can't get in," Coleton said gleefully. "Wind's too strong now. It's a full-scale blowout, updrafts, downdrafts, vacuums and funnels. Ain't nothing going in. Ain't no one coming out."
Victoria wanted to kill him. In that instant, she truly did. And the rage rose up in her, and the terror rose up in her, and she knew Brandon was going to die. And Charlie, sweet twenty-two-year-old Charlie. Dear Lord.
"Don't worry," Coleton whispered innocently, "Ferringer's got good legs and much better lungs than the others. He's got altitude training they don't, and much more stamina. All he's got to do is leave them behind and maybe he'll make it. Not your brother, he's too rash. He'll push too hard, breathe too deeply and pass out from the fumes. If it's any consolation, he'll be unconscious when the fire hits."
Victoria's father stepped forward with a growl. Tom barely caught his arm.
Coleton smiled, his gaze on Victoria. "But Ferringer might make it. If he leaves the others. If he focuses on himself, he can do it."
And then Victoria knew that Brandon was lost, that Coleton had outmaneuvered them all. Because Brandon would never leave his team. He would never be like his father.
Coleton had taught him well.
* * *
Woody was running up the slope, angling for the ridge. They stumbled after him, running flat out but disoriented by the smoke and dazed by the heat. The air didn't hold enough oxygen. It had all been burned away and replaced by carbon monoxide. The fire whirls were filled with poisonous gases, twirling around them, flicking fire at their hair and cheeks, showering them with burning tree limbs and fresh embers.
They ran faster, gasping and heaving. They shouldn't be heading up, Brandon thought, but could no longer remember why. In this churning inferno, the lessons of the classroom seemed far away. The lack of oxygen and the noxious fumes made it hard to think. One by one, they fell back on instinct and did what their young bodies and well-conditioned muscles were trained to do—they ran. They sprinted over rocky terrain, angled hard and made a beeline for the craggy promise of the ridge where the fire would finally be thwarted by lack of fuel.
Running uphill is no good. The thought whispered through Brandon's mind again. He wanted to be able to grab it and turn it over clearly, but he was having trouble thinking. His chest and throat burned. Dots spotted his vision.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the cool, rational part of him told him he was losing consciousness. He wasn't getting enough oxygen. His three-layer flame-retardant gear, formulated to withstand seventeen hundred degrees for up to five seconds, was beginning to melt and shrink-wrap his skin.
It felt as if a burning poker was pressed along his spine, and he was running faster and faster to escape the heat without it making a shred of difference.
It sounded as if he was standing in the middle of a jet engine.
Trish stumbled on a rock and went down. Charlie tripped over her and stumbled. Larry went running by, his hair singed and covering his scalp in white. April sprinted behind Larry, looking like a ghostly deer while embers burned through her coat. Their eyes were wide and panicked, their faces lined and grim.
Run, run, run, he could almost hear them cry.
Brandon scooped an arm around Trish's waist. He staggered and almost fell. No damn oxygen. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The others were running up the hill, the fire giving wings to their feet.
Damn, they shouldn't be running uphill. Uphill was bad, but he couldn't remember why. Bloody hell. His stomach rolled.
He was going to vomit.
Poisonous gases, the rational part of his mind supplied. Cover your mouth.
He found a handkerchief, wetted it and tied it around his mouth. Trish was sitting, dazed, disoriented and confused. He covered her mouth. He could hear a roar behind them.
The fire was coming.
Don't let the fire meet you on its terms. Stop reacting, keep control, formulate a strategy. Cool, cool rich Brit. Think, think, think. Fast.
Up ahead, Charlie picked himself up. The glow of the fire made his eyes look red.
His lips were moving. "One fries, we all fry."
He joined Brandon, and they wrapped their arms around Trish's waist. And then, ungainly and slow but developing a rhythm, they took off once more.
Behind them, the fire roared. Coming uphill from the left, a new fire burst to life.
Think, Brandon, think.
The smoke closed in on them and the world became a tiny, desperate place.
* * *
"Brandon," Victoria yelled into the radio. "Brandon, please!"
There was no answer.
In the corner of the watchtower, Barbara began to cry. Coleton, handcuffed to a chair, smiled.<
br />
Victoria determinedly pressed the relay button again. "Keep moving, Brandon," she commanded. "Don't give up, please, I need you, Brandon. Watch out for yourself, watch out for Charlie. You are my hero."
* * *
Victoria was talking to them. Brandon thought it was odd, but he didn't think it was odd. In this crazy, smoky-heated world, anything was possible. A figure appeared ahead. It was Larry, sitting on the hot ground. His hair was gone, his scalp bright red.
He had a dazed look in his eyes, as if he was a child lost in the mall.
Victoria spoke to him, too. "Run, run, please run. Don't give up, you can't give up."
Brandon leapt up and turned wildly, as if expecting to see ghosts. He suddenly wanted to laugh. So did Trish. The world was all helter skelter and filled with pretty colors. His vision was blurring. He almost didn't mind.
Breathe slower. Don't hyperventilate, don't give in to the gases.
"One fries, we all fry," Charlie gasped.
"Come home to me, Brandon, come home to me," Victoria commanded.
All of a sudden, a dozen forms burst in front of them. It was the rest of their crew, disoriented and turned around. Woody was in the lead. His eyes were wild. He clutched his throat. He saw the fire, came to a startled halt and seemed to realize what he'd done—he'd led the team into the flames.
They would never make the ridge. This was it, and they were thinking of the crosses that remained scattered across Mann Gulch, and the rows of bodies in silver fire shields recovered from Storm King Mountain.
The fire wall thundered down upon them. They were young, they were exhausted, and they still couldn't believe they were losing this war.
"Fire shields, fire shields," the crew boss croaked.
He fumbled with the matches at his waist. And then Woody's back suddenly arched, he gave a great, heaving gasp of noxious fumes, and the veteran firefighter pitched forward and passed out cold.
"Run," someone yelled. "Head down. Run through it!"
"No!" Brandon cried. His head was spinning. He saw lights and thought he might pass out, too.
"Fire shields now," he heard someone yell in a raw, hoarse voice. It was his voice. Brandon Ferringer was screaming above the flames.