Under Fire

by Beth Cornelison

  If they hadn’t needed Montego’s connections, his technical skill and computer expertise, she’d have convinced Rick to ditch the hothead long ago.

  Cara flexed her fingers. Someone had to keep things under control here. “Why don’t you go hack into Hemmer’s system?” she asked Montego. “See if they’ve detected any security breeches yet. Rick should be there by now.”

  “And why don’t you go fuck yourself?” Montego snarled.

  “Hey!” Kenny shouted, rising half out of his chair. “Watch your mouth when you talk to her!”

  Cara drew a sharp breath. Kenny defending her? Wonders never ceased.

  “I don’t take orders from no woman,” Montego said. “I don’t care if she is your mother.”

  “Step-mother,” Kenny corrected. His fierce emphasis on the indirect relationship deflated some of her short-lived hope that he cared anything about her.

  She glanced over at Emily. The girl had curled into a ball again, shaking. Poor child. She had to be terrified. Montego’s temper could strike terror in the most stalwart of hearts. As she approached the bed, she heard the telltale wheeze, a muffled cough. Emily’s fear was aggravating her asthma again.

  In order to keep the child’s breathing in check, she had to keep Emily as calm as possible. She needed something to occupy the girl. How could she keep an eight-year-old girl’s mind off her plight?

  She thought about the rainy day activities she’d pulled out for Ricky and Kenny when they were young. Coloring. Play-Doh. Board games. But in this empty cabin, they had no art supplies, no toys. She looked at the memo pad Kenny scribbled notes in as he worked.

  Improvise.

  “Come with me, Emily.” She rubbed the girl’s back, brushed her silky hair away from her cheeks. “You and I are going to do a little project in the other room. Let’s leave these grumpy guys alone.”

  Emily peeked up at her. Coughed.

  The girl’s dark eyes searched hers. Cara hated the caution, the fear clouding Emily’s gaze. She knew she hadn’t been a good mother to her own kids, didn’t deserve this child’s trust, but…

  Oh God, just once more, she wanted to see the tender affection and devotion she’d seen in her baby’s eyes when they were young. Before life had made them hard and cynical.

  Emily’s wariness rankled, but Cara shoved her hurt aside and pulled the girl to her feet. “Come on. I’ll show you how to make paper flowers. Okay?”

  Rick knelt to examine the patch of crushed flowers. After following the evidence in the woods, rumpled leaves in the neat carpet of debris on the forest floor and the occasional broken limb, he’d emerged from the trees at a rocky overhang. Immediately, the smashed flowers at his feet caught his attention.

  He studied the scene carefully, the way Pop taught him. Whether tracking animals while hunting or looking for signs the Vietcong had recently passed through the area in ’Nam, his methods were much the same. Observation, attention to detail, and an understanding of the outdoors were Pop’s tools. And now they were Rick’s. Just one of many skills Pop had passed on to him in order to pull off this mission.

  Jaw tensing, Rick plucked a couple of the tender blossoms with crimped stems and crumpled petals. He sniffed. They were not browning yet and their injuries still gave off a sweet herbal scent. Recent damage. He gauged the size and shape of the foot that had done this. Only a bear had a foot this large. Or a human.

  McKay.

  Damn careless idiot! Stomping on God’s creations with total disregard. Just like the United States’ government, destroying human lives, ripping apart families without compunction in an obsessive pursuit of world power and greed.

  But he’d give Uncle Sam what he had coming. Retribution. Just like he’d catch McKay and make him pay for these delays.

  Rick shoved to his feet and tossed the broken flowers aside. He scanned further along the ground, nearer the edge of the overhang. On the dry, dusty earth around the outcropped rocks, he found the impressions of shoe tread. Work or hiking boots, he’d guess from the marks.

  Two sets.

  Rick paused. Squatted to have a closer look. One set of prints was definitely smaller than the other. Two distinct pairs of impressions. McKay wasn’t alone.

  Fisting his hands, Rick squinted out at the wilderness spread below the cliff. Frustration coiled inside him, winding his muscles tight and fraying his patience.

  So McKay had help. One of the parachuting firefighters, no doubt. Fuck.

  He let a deep breath hiss through his teeth. No matter. Let McKay have a whole Army battalion helping him.

  I will still find you.

  Perhaps this was even a stroke of good luck. He could track McKay all the more easily with two people leaving evidence for him to follow.

  As he pushed to his feet, the radio he’d taken from the dead smokejumper crackled.

  “Fire 812, this… Delt… Lima.” Static broke up the transmission.

  Rick pulled the radio from his belt and waited. Listened.

  “Fire 812, 16 Delta Lima. Do you copy?”

  Silence followed. Rick hesitated then raised the radio to his mouth. “16 Delta Lima, I copy.”

  “Whitefeather? That you?…don’t sound…good.”

  Damn. He hadn’t considered that they’d know the smokejumpers’ voices.

  Pressing the talk button again, he faked a cough and rasped. “Yeah, Whitefeather here.” Cough. “Choking on all this damn smoke.”

  “Roger that. I’m about two miles out, and already seeing a pretty dense smoke column from your fire. You need an air tanker to make a drop?”

  No! No more damn planes. He had to keep the smokejumpers’ air support at bay until he found McKay and could get out of the area.

  “No. Uh…we’re okay.” Cough. “Got everything under control.”

  He heard the rumble of an engine and glanced toward the sky where he spotted the approaching aircraft. Rick trotted back into the cover of the trees, watching the plane’s approach.

  “Your repeater’s still out, so dispatch asked me to relay any messages. How on that?” the radio squawked.

  Messages. Shit. Rick scrambled to come up with something that wouldn’t stir suspicion. What had he heard television reports say about wildfires?

  He mashed the button, coughed again for effect and masked his voice. “No message. Uh…fire’s about…eighty percent contained. Over.”

  “Roger that. Your pick up’s set…0600 day after tomorrow,” the voice from 16 Delta Lima filtered through the static. “We’re in…middle of…bust. Might could bump…sooner if…get that bitch to lay down tonight.”

  Rick fumbled through the terminology he’d heard tossed around in town during active fire seasons. A bust meant the area had an outbreak of lightning-generated fires.

  Good. Plenty of distractions for the fire dispatch center and air support. “No need. Keep the pick up as scheduled.” Cough. “We’re fine. Send air support to the other fires.”

  “Roger that. And get…throat lozenge, man. You sound like…” Static obliterated the last word, but Rick could fill in the blank. “16 Delta Lima clear.”

  What was the smokejumper’s name? Something Indian. Whitebird? White…feather. “Yeah, uh…Whitefeather clear.”

  He watched the approaching plane bank into a turn and head the other direction. And laughed his relief.

  Rick wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow and hooked the radio back on his belt as the sun ducked behind a cloud. His pitiful charade had been enough to divert attention from the mountain for the time being.

  Moving his rifle strap from one shoulder to the other, he set off again, certain he was right on McKay’s heels. The first fat drops of rain splattered on his cheeks.

  Perfect timing. He’d made it to that rocky ledge and found those footprints on the dusty ground just before the rain came to wash them away. He picked up the boot prints and followed where they disappeared into the woods and the path of ruffled leaves resumed.

  The tide had t
urned in his favor for a change. McKay didn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter Nine

  Whitefeather tore the common plantain leaves he’d collected from the meadow and stuck them in his mouth. He chewed the leaves into a mush while keeping a wary eye on the encroaching flames.

  After peeling back the edge of Boomer’s bandage, he scooped a bit of the plantain from his mouth and dabbed it in Boomer’s wound.

  The force of heated sap blew apart a pine tree with an ominous boom, and the reverberating crack woke Boomer from a restless sleep. He blinked and rolled his head left then right. “Mike? Mike!”

  Whitefeather laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Mike’s okay.”

  “I heard a gun!” Boomer’s breathing was shallow and fast. Not good. Especially not now, when it was time to move him.

  “Easy, man. It was a tree.”

  Whitefeather added another dab of the chewed poultice to Boomer’s injury then readjusted the compression dressing.

  Boomer scrunched his nose. “What was that?”

  “Plantain. It fights infection, prevents bleeding.” He sighed and glanced toward the eerie orange glow creeping through the woods. “The fire’s getting close. It’s time to go.”

  Whitefeather pulled the travois he’d built up beside Boomer. Fishing out a couple more acetaminophen tablets from the first-aid kit, he held them out to Boomer. “Here. Take another dose. You’ll need it. This could be rough.”

  Boomer met his gaze with pain-blurred eyes. “I thought…it already was…rough.”

  “Then it’ll be hell. Sorry. Better than becoming bacon.” Whitefeather put a hand behind Boomer’s head to help him sit up some. He held a canteen to the injured man’s lips. “Drink. You gotta stay hydrated.”

  Boomer drank then sank back to the ground with a groan.

  “You got our…shake’n bake bags? Just in case…”

  Whitefeather slapped the PG bag where he’d packed two of the silver, one-man fire retardant tents smokejumpers carried but prayed they never had to use. “Yeah. I got ’em.”

  “Let’s get this…over with.”

  “Roger that.” Whitefeather took a swallow of water and recapped the canteen before stashing it in a pack with the other supplies he’d ratted from the fat boy box. Their water was running low. He’d have to find a creek or spring and sanitize some water once they got to their new location.

  Closing his eyes, Whitefeather inhaled slowly, filling his lungs with the smoky air then pushed the breath out just as slowly, finding his energy, his light, his center. He muttered a quick prayer to the ancestor spirits and another to Jehovah. Didn’t hurt to ask both his parents’ deities. Doubled his odds someone would answer him. He added one to Big Ernie, the smokejumper god, for good measure.

  He took out the stick he’d found and opened Boomer’s mouth. “Just like the Old West, Boom. Bite this instead of your tongue, okay? I’ll be as careful as I can, but we gotta haul ass. Fire crested that ridge a minute ago.”

  He nodded in the direction of the encroaching fire line. As if echoing the need for speed, another tree exploded.

  Boomer’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He squeezed his eyes shut, bit down on the stick and gave a terse nod.

  Whitefeather hooked his arms under Boomer’s and scooted him half onto the travois. Then placing a hand under the injured leg, he eased it over. Boomer used his good leg to help lift and push, growling his agony around the stick in his teeth.

  Whitefeather hefted the supply pack and Riley’s PG bag onto his shoulders and grasped the sapling birch handles of the travois. With one last glance toward the woods where Riley’s body lay in the path of the blaze, Whitefeather channeled the pang of loss into moving the friend he still had a chance to save.

  “Mush,” Boomer rasped and lifted a corner of his mouth in a pain-tinged grin.

  Whitefeather snorted. “Woof.”

  Firebrands and sparks rained down, carried on the swirl of hot air blasting from the fire head. Time to go. Past time.

  With a heave, he got the crude litter moving. The added weight of the supply pack made for slow going. He dragged the travois, impeded by snarled weeds and rocks. Whitefeather wove through trees and slash, the debris littering the forest.

  Crackling and popping, the fire chased them. Waves of heat throbbed around them. An elk galloped past, antlers burning, clearly more terrified of the fire than of humans.

  A strong gust of wind shot flames to the upper branches of the pines.

  “Shit! Birdman, move!” Boomer cried. “Leave me. Get outta here!”

  Whitefeather glanced at Boomer, whose eyes were fixed on the ceiling of limbs. Angling his head, Whitefeather watched fire skip from the crown of one tree to the next. Surrounding them.

  “Fuck that! Hang on!” Whitefeather ditched the cumbersome supply pack, keeping only the smaller PG bag. He poured on the steam, his muscles quivering. Sweat rolled off his back, his face. He plowed through the woods. The travois bumped over rocks and holes.

  Boomer screamed with every jolt and jar.

  Scorching wind whipped in his face. Black clouds and embers swirled. The fire roared, hunting them down. A lethal animal charging through the forest.

  Whitefeather’s lungs burned, smoke choking him.

  Boomer coughed, cussed. “Leave me! Save your ass!”

  He didn’t spend the energy answering. Like hell he’d leave Boomer to die.

  He smelled his own hair, his eyebrows singe. Faster!

  Adrenaline and stubborn determination fueled his legs.

  Twigs snapped. Flames licked closer. Teeth clenched, Whitefeather growled, strained forward.

  The travois tipped. Toppled. Boomer was silent.

  Whitefeather whirled around, righting the travois. “Boomer!” He hoisted his friend’s limp body back on the homemade stretcher. “Randolf, answer me!”

  Nothing.

  Nothing but the moan of searing wind and thundering inferno.

  Whitefeather choked on the thick clouds billowing around him.

  No time. Go!

  Sweat dripped in his eyes, stinging. Blinding.

  Mush. Boomer’s wry humor gouged Birdman with a dull edge.

  Pull. Run. Faster.

  The smoky haze shifted. A clearing lay ahead. A natural firebreak.

  Thank God. All of them.

  Something cool and damp struck his face. Again.

  Rain. A sprinkle, then a downpour.

  Re-energized by the gift from above, Whitefeather charged on. Moved downhill. Away from the fire. Toward the clearing.

  At the far edge of the small field, he stopped. Bent at the waist, he gasped for breath. He lifted his eyes to the orange glow as shifting winds swept the fire uphill. He lowered Boomer’s travois to the ground and moved to the side. “Boomer?”

  He searched for a carotid pulse. Sagged with relief when he found the steady throb beneath his fingers. Boomer had only blacked out.

  Just as well. The pain in his leg had to be awful.

  Whitefeather took a swig of water, wiped sweat from his face. He wouldn’t think now about how close they’d come to dying.

  Rain pattered on the dry earth as Whitefeather picked up the end of the travois again. And kept moving.

  They’d been walking for hours.

  Jackson had exhausted every banal topic of conversation he could think of, trying to keep his mind off the throb in his shoulder where the pack bumped the sore joint. And off the wounds Lauren had opened with her questions about Janine.

  God yes, he’d loved Janine. Loved her so much that losing her was suffocating. The only way he could survive was to push the pain down, lock it in a corner of his soul where he didn’t have to deal with it. Not while he had to get Emily through her loss. Emily needed her father more than he needed to wallow in his own pain.

  Fire shot through his arm, and he hissed in pain.

  Lauren cast him a sidelong look. “So why is it these terrorists want you? Why you?”
<
br />   Jackson grunted. “I figured you’d get around to this conversation eventually.”

  “It’s a pretty obvious question. Here we are traipsing through the wilderness with well-armed thugs on the loose. Don’t I have the right to know why?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Finally he sighed. “You have every right to ask. I just don’t have the right to answer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Damn it,” he grumbled. “Rick knew enough without me saying anything. The project’s already been compromised.”

  “What project?”

  Another heavy silence.

  “The classified project I was drafted to work on with the Pentagon.”

  Wide-eyed, Lauren slowed and turned to face him. “The Pentagon. Like the Pentagon? In Washington?”

  “You know of another one?”

  “Holy hell.”

  “Hang on. I’m only getting started.”

  Jackson trudged past her, and she scurried to catch up.

  “What did the Pentagon want from you?”

  “Stabilzon.”

  “Stabi-what?” She kept stride with him despite the quick, agitated pace he set.

  “Stabilzon, or silico-tertiary-butylzircononitride to be more clinical. It’s the dendrimer I developed. The breakthrough in nanotechnology I told you about.”

  “Why does the Pentagon want some micro-sized molecule? I thought guys believed bigger was better.”

  He sent her a dirty look for her sarcasm. “Stabilzon is one of those drug-delivery molecules I talked about.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You found the cure for cancer?”

  He shook his head. “No. My team and I developed a dendrimer that—”

  “Whoa, what’s this dendrimer word you keep using? I dropped out of college, remember? Give it to me in lay terms.” Her self-effacing comment irked him, but he let it pass.

  “Dedrimers are polymers, synthesized molecules.”

  “Gotcha. So you made a molecule that the military wants?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What does it do?”

  Jackson hesitated, but she deserved the truth since she’d gotten embroiled in this nightmare with him. “It identifies specific living cells in the body and releases its payload, whether a cancer-fighting drug or…a nerve agent.”