Hot, Shot, and Bothered

by Nora McFarland

  “It’s a risk,” Trent said. “If they screw up on a night like this, the entire news department will look bad.” He paused. “What do you think, Callum?”

  “I won’t vouch for those idiots.” Callum’s voice held his usual contempt, so I was unprepared for what he said next. “But I will vouch for Lilly. If she’s backing them, it’s good enough for me. Now can I get back to the scanners? I’ve got a fetus watching the assignment desk.”

  We said good-bye and I started the truck. Rod and Callum had told me to get an official on camera commenting about the evacuation, so I drove the short distance to the foothills outside Elizabeth. This was where the Elizabeth Union School district had its primary campus. During the school year it served roughly three thousand K–12 students from all over the lake area. Two weeks ago it had been transformed into Incident Command Headquarters.

  The war against wildland fires is run by special emergency-response teams. Each team has a command structure comprising firefighters and specialists from different agencies. When a wildfire erupts, officially called an incident, a team is mobilized and its members leave their families and jobs until it’s defeated.

  Incident Management Team 18 was running the fight against this wildfire. In addition to the incident commander and his staff, Team 18 had other departments, such as Operations, Communications, Logistics, and even Finance. Add to that the firefighters and equipment pouring in from all over Southern California to do the frontline work, and you had yourself a small army.

  I slowed where a California Conservation Corps member manned a checkpoint. His flashlight hit the station logo on the side of my truck, then he immediately waved me through. Down the road, the campus glowed like an NFL field at night. Every one of the school’s lights was in use. To fill the remaining dark spots, portable work lights had been brought in and ran off generators.

  I drove past the overflowing parking lot in front of the school’s main buildings. A mishmash of official vehicles had taken over the spaces usually reserved for school buses. Fire trucks and SUVs from Kern County Fire, the US Forest Service, and Cal Fire were mixed with random vehicles from agencies all over the state. I had to stop and wait while something labeled VENTURA COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT TACTICAL RESPONSE TEAM’S MOBILE COMMAND CENTER crossed the road in front of me.

  After VCSDTRTMCC had passed, I continued and followed the road as it cut around the school gymnasium. This was the newest building on campus and where the incident commander had set up his war room. Press weren’t allowed inside, which just made me want to go in even more.

  I slowed again to accommodate the increase in pedestrian traffic on the back side of campus. I had to stop completely when two uniformed Forest Service rangers hurried across the road in front of me. They barely glanced up from the papers in their hands. No sooner had I started again than a forklift carrying pallets of Gatorade cut across the road. It climbed onto the track field and headed for the trailers where personnel were dropping off and picking up their laundry.

  I finally reached the information officer’s media trailer. The IO’s job was to liaison with the media and disseminate information to the public. The trailer housing him and his staff had been placed on the school’s baseball field near third base. The field lights were all on as though a night game were under way. Behind the trailer, a giant tent had been set up in the outfield for the daily briefings.

  I turned into my usual parking place behind the first-base grandstands. My breath caught when I saw the news vehicle already there. KBLA’s fancy satellite truck was much larger, newer, and cleaner than my microwave truck. I kissed my scoop good-bye.

  I parked and got out. The L.A. shooter was sitting out the open side doors of his truck eating a fast-food hamburger. Behind him racks of shiny new equipment taunted me.

  “Hey,” he said while chewing. His demeanor was relaxed and disinterested.

  “Hello.” I casually glanced inside the truck. He was sending video back to his station via a live signal, something I couldn’t do in the mountains. On the main monitor, I glimpsed a man gesturing wildly with his hands as he spoke. His gray hair stood up in places and he had a goofy European accent that reminded me of a Bond villain.

  The L.A. shooter saw me looking at the monitor and smiled. “He’s something, huh? Mad-scientist type.” He took a larger bite of the burger, but still managed to speak while chewing. “Nightmare interview. The guy’s ego is bigger than the fire. He flipped out when I asked about his stupid lizard research. Kept shouting about salamanders.”

  I looked back at the L.A. shooter. I had a vague recollection of his name being Jim or Tim or . . . whatever. I didn’t care what his name was. He was a slug. No motivation or gumption. I’d been calling him Slim in my head as an ode to his laziness.

  He raised the burger, but paused. “I guess you’d have to be crazy to still be living on the other side of the mountain.” He put the remainder into his mouth in one bite.

  I straightened. “What do you mean, the other side?”

  Slim had too much food in his mouth to answer, but by then I’d spotted a bright neon-yellow firefighter’s jacket lying on the floor behind him.

  On the monitor, the camera panned from the mad scientist to a two shot of a young man and woman. “I figure, why leave?” the girl said. Her voice sounded ditzy and her tank top had a picture of a cannabis plant. “They keep trying to scare us, but if it gets dangerous, the firefighters will come save us. I mean, they can’t let us die. It’s their job to save us no matter how dangerous it gets.”

  Normally I would have been struck by what a particularly stupid and insensitive thing that was for the bimbo to say—especially considering two firefighters had died just four days ago.

  But I was too full of professional jealousy to notice anything else. “They took you past the roadblock to the other side of Mt. Terrill?”

  He jerked in surprise at my tone. “Yeah, but we just visited a couple of the people still in their houses. I hardly got any flames.”

  “You got flames?” My raised voice attracted the attention of emergency workers passing by, but I didn’t care. “They won’t even let me go to the ridge and shoot down. You got to go into the Terrill Valley and shoot flames?”

  “It wasn’t my idea.” He actually sounded unhappy about it. “The IO called my assignment manager and requested me. Can you believe that?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  Either he didn’t realize I’d just insulted him or he didn’t care. “My reporter and I were supposed to be in Burbank covering a pastry contest today. Can you believe it? My turn to shoot the food package, and I get pulled to come up here.”

  “Who’s your reporter? At least tell me it’s somebody famous.”

  He shook his head. “They said there was only room for me on the ride-along. First time I’ve been solo in years.”

  I entered the field behind home plate and marched straight toward the media trailer. The dead, brown grass was covered in ash and soot, but it still crunched under the weight of my boots. The bright game lights were all on and I probably resembled a coach on his way to scream at an umpire.

  My cell phone rang. I ripped it out of my back pocket without stopping. “What?”

  “Lilly,” Callum yelled through the phone. “Where are you?”

  “I’m about to rip the IO a new one, that’s where I am.”

  “Normally I wouldn’t like the sound of that, but right now I’m so happy you’re in the mountains that almost anything is okay.”

  I stopped near the pitcher’s mound. “They gave a sluggy shooter from L.A. a ride-along. Can you believe that? Do you know how many requests we’ve put in? I’ve been here every day. And they—”

  “Let me guess. His station is the only one that routinely has a truck there in the evening, and the IO specifically requested the slug, but said he couldn’t bring a reporter, right?”

  I glanced around the field. Two men in uniforms walked along the third-base line, but they were
n’t within earshot. “What’s going on?” I said quietly.

  “The IO wanted to make sure a journalist was there to get the story out, but he also worked it so the journalist wouldn’t be aggressive or demanding.”

  “But as soon as the story breaks, every reporter in Southern California will drive up here.”

  “No, they won’t.” Callum paused for effect. “I called in a huge favor and got some interesting information. All lanes on the highways and canyon road are being turned out of the mountains. That way twice as many cars can get out.”

  “But if both lanes are going west, how will people drive up here?”

  “They won’t, not until the bulk of the evacuation is finished. Eastbound lanes might reopen tomorrow, at the earliest.”

  “But then, I’m . . .”

  “Not going anywhere. If you come back to Bakersfield, you won’t be able to drive back up. Sorry, but we’re one of only two news organizations in the world with a camera there, and by the way, the other guy’s a slug. You’re a pit bull. You can’t come home.”

  I smiled. “Like I’d want to.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He quickly shifted gears. “See if you can get the IO on tape commenting.”

  “But how do I send my video back?” I glanced back at the grandstands. Slim’s satellite dish peaked over the top. “I’m lucky to even get cell reception.”

  “Stop a car just before they go into the canyon. Tell them if they deliver your tape to Teddy and Freddy at the bottom, they’ll get on TV.”

  It was simple and would almost certainly work. “Okay. Are you sending a reporter up here before the road closes?”

  “We won’t have anyone until midnight, and by then it’ll be too late.” He hesitated. “I can always ask Rod. Before he switched to producing he was our ace. Probably the best reporter I’ve ever worked with.”

  “I know, but he hates being on camera.”

  “He might enjoy getting back out in the field.”

  “I know him better than you, and he’d hate it” Acknowledging our romance in a work context made me uncomfortable, so I quickly moved on. “And it’s not like I can go live and need a reporter in front of the camera.”

  We said good-bye, then I returned to the truck for my gear. I checked the settings and then carried everything to the media trailer. The large mobile office looked fairly generic from the outside. A paper sign had been attached to the clean white metal body with blue painter’s tape. The words FIRE INFORMATION were printed in red block letters. Nearby a portable generator rumbled.

  The door was propped open by a rubber trash can. I stepped up and through the strand of hanging clear plastic designed to preserve the air-conditioned interior. Despite noise from various radios and scanners, the IO heard me enter and looked up from the desk where he was working. I could almost hear the swear word inside his head.

  The information officer was Caucasian, with dark brown hair, and in excellent physical shape for a man entering late middle age. He wore the uniform of the Santa Theresa Fire Department, where he worked when Team 18 wasn’t activated. Strapped over his chest was a small pack with radios and other necessities.

  He looked at an African-American woman working at a desk on the opposite end of the trailer. “Don’t worry. I got this. You keep working on the press release.” She nodded, then he glanced at me. “You must be on overtime. Why’d you come back?”

  “There was a drowning in the lake.” I set down my gear. “It’s not much of a story, but I guess it’s a good thing I checked it out.”

  “Really?”

  “Cut the BS. I know about the mandatory evacuation and I’m not leaving.” I stepped toward his desk. “But more importantly, I know about the ride-along you gave that slug from L.A.”

  Laughter cracked his professional facade. “That’s what you’re upset about?”

  My hands shot to my hips. “Do you know how hard I’ve tried to get to the actual fire?”

  He stood. “Yes. I do. I’m the one you’ve been harassing for the last two weeks, remember?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but it’s my job to harass you and it’s your job to get harassed. The breakdown seems to have been in the harassment not working.”

  He laughed again and walked around his desk. “How many hours have you worked today? You must be exhausted. Go home and let KJAY send someone else up here.”

  “It’ll be hard for them to do that after all the lanes have turned west.”

  He froze.

  “That’s right,” I continued. “I know all about it and I’m not going anywhere.”

  He looked at the woman. “Tracy, would you mind stepping out for a moment?”

  “No problem, sir.” The woman stood and picked up a walkie-talkie from the desk. She reminded me of a ballerina—tall, graceful, and strong as an ox. I spotted the logo of the L.A. Fire Department on the sleeve of her black uniform. “I should update the board, anyway.” She picked up several papers from her desk and didn’t let a slight limp slow her exit.

  The IO waited until we were alone, then said, “Okay, we need to talk.”

  I raised the camera on my shoulder and looked through the viewfinder. “Fantastic. Let me set a white balance real fast.”

  “No.” He covered the lens with his hand. “Not on camera.”

  “What other kind of talking is there?” “The serious kind.” He turned down several radios on which he’d been monitoring audio traffic, then lowered the fan on the air conditioner.

  “Listen, Lilly.” He sat back down behind his desk. “The evacuation is a serious public-safety issue. We have to get twenty thousand people out of these mountains and we don’t have very long to do it. If we fail, people could die.”

  “Why are you talking like I’m in your way? I’m here to record what happens, not get involved.”

  “But you could get in the way without meaning to. Even a brief slowdown in traffic can snowball into a traffic jam. Then cars start running out of gas in the canyon. There’s no shoulder there.” He shook his head. “You have to see what we’re up against.”

  I thought about how I’d already stopped traffic just shooting B-roll.

  “All I’m asking,” he continued, “is that you try and be aware of how your actions might affect the bigger picture.”

  I wasn’t good at seeing how my actions affected me, let alone the bigger picture, but I meant it when I said, “Of course. The last thing I want is to become a part of the story.”

  This appeared to satisfy him. “Good. As a gesture of goodwill I’ll make calls and get you access to the Lake Road. That way you can get around easily.”

  “Thank you.” I reached for my camera. “Now how about a sound bite?”

  He got up to turn the radios back up. “No one is commenting until the midnight briefing.”

  “I need material before then. We have a newscast at eleven.” I pointed at him. “And you owe me for giving away my ride-along.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “How about you take the briefing live at midnight? I was going to let KBLA carry it, but if you promise to make it available to other news outlets, I’ll give you the bragging rights.”

  “I can’t go live.” I gestured toward the door. “But I’m sure Mr. Ride-Along will do just fine. It’s the perfect excuse to hang out here for the next four hours and do nothing. He’ll probably win an Emmy for sitting on his butt.”

  The IO had a sudden thought. “How about the drowning?”

  “What about it?” “I may be able to get you an interview with the victim’s brother?”

  Normally, I’d jump at something like that—viewers love grieving family members—but this was hardly a normal night. “If it’s not fire-related, nobody is going to care.” I started for the door. “And I need to get something on tape about the evacuation in time for the eleven.”

  “Hold on,” he said. “What if the dead woman’s brother is a firefighter?”

  I stopped. “You mean he’s working this wildfi
re, right now?”

  “He’s on a Hotshot Crew with the Forest Service out of Tulare. We ordered him brought in so we could break the news.”

  A grieving firefighter? An emotionally devastated hero? A man risking his life in a desperate fight against the forces of nature, only to lose a beloved sister?

  “I’m in,” I said.

  “Maybe wipe that grin off your face when you see him.” He headed for the door and gestured for me to follow. “His sister just died.”

  FOUR

  Thursday, 8:40 p.m.

  I followed the IO outside. The woman who’d left the trailer was now speaking with someone at an easel displaying the latest fire information. The white briefing tent sat directly behind her, in the outfield. Although it had so much ash and soot on the roof, it probably couldn’t be called white anymore.

  “Tracy,” the IO called to her.

  She quickly joined us. “Sir?”

  “This is Lilly Hawkins from KJAY in Bakersfield.” He looked at me and gestured to the woman. “This is Firefighter Tracy Bell. She’s just been loaned to us from LAFD.”

  The woman offered me her hand. She had dark brown skin and hair cut close to her head. Like me, she wore no makeup. “Pleased to meet you.”

  The IO waited for us to shake hands and then spoke to Bell. “Take Lilly and find a Hotshot named Brad Egan. He’s the one whose sister drowned in the lake. If he agrees, Lilly is going to interview him. But only if he agrees.” The IO stressed this last part. “Tell Egan he’d be doing us a favor, but be respectful.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  Before we left, I ran back to the truck. I retrieved the tape I’d used to shoot the body and loaded it in the camera.

  I passed Slim reading a graphic novel at his satellite truck. He looked up as I passed. “They giving you a sound bite?”