I feel Wokowski's arms wrap around my shoulders and his legs around my legs like he's going to ride me into the ground. Before I have time to ponder this he shoves me from his grasp. The mantra takes over again. I count one, two, three with my left hand melding to the iron ring on my chest and the wind whistling through the helmet like a hurricane.
Three!
I rip at the ring. It comes loose in my hand. Nothing happens. Oh God—Oh God. I have a strange image of Wokowski's dirty laundry shooting up out of the pack. And I make a promise to myself. If I survive this, I'll live forever after a sedate, quiet life. I'll go to law school or anything. I'll hang up my ropes and axes for good. It's the same lie I've told myself again and again over a lifetime of adrenaline addiction. Like always, this time I swear I'm cured.
Then there's a noise like the tearing of paper and I'm jerked into the sky. It's as if God has answered my prayers, reaching down and plucking me from certain death.
A rectangle of white is rigid above me. The chute looks good. So impossibly fucking good. A voice calls from close to me, “You okay, QuickDraw?”
Over my shoulder, just a hundred feet away and a little higher than me, Wokowski is drifting along in the dark.
“I think so,” I say through a dry mouth.
Below me, in the distant light of the fire, pine trees are silently flying by beneath my feet with alarming speed. One of the butte's walls is not far away to the south. Ahead a hillside is rising up to meet us like a catcher's mitt.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I FORGET TO CROSS MY LEGS like Wokowski had told me to and approach the ground in a full sprint, as if I'm running a one-hundred-meter dash. But my feet never touch the ground. The parachute hangs up between two trees and I discover that I'm madly churning air as I sway just three feet off the ground. I almost groan with relief—I no longer have to worry about being pancaked or impaled. Now, I remind myself, I only have to worry about falling off the cliff, getting shot, or being burnt to a crisp.
Nearby I hear several sharp cracks. For a moment I think Laughlin's down here somewhere, shooting his rifle. But then Wokowski's voice comes from somewhere not far away.
“Goddamn it!”
I assume he'd say something other than this if we were under fire.
By exploring the parachute's complicated harness with my hands and squirming, I manage to get myself unbuckled. I hit the rocky ground surprisingly hard for just a three-foot drop, with my feet tangled in the climbing pack. Reaching up, I tug at the chute's steering lines and realize that it's not going to come free. There's no time to deal with it, and besides, I'm not going to lug it up the cliff. I listen again for the direction of Wokowski's curses then shoulder my small climbing pack and head in that direction.
The hillside is choked with dry, crackling wood. Felled trees lie at angles everywhere, their intermeshed branches creating deadfalls as tall as I am between the still-standing trees. This entire forest will go up like the flare of some giant match head when the fire reaches it. Pushed by the strong wind, ghostly eddies of smoke are already swirling through the trees. My boots crunch on the wood as I clamber over the tangles. The only other sound now is a distant roar, like a jet aircraft at full throttle, a few miles to the west. From the same direction comes an evil orange glow that penetrates through the smoke and the night.
I use Wokowski's curses to guide me through the forest. It takes me ten minutes to come to where he is draped over a snarl of downed and splintered wood. He's curled in a large ball, holding his right knee tight against his chest.
“Hey, Wook. You okay?”
He turns his face my way and curses some more, softer now. “I hit my goddamn knee against something.”
“The knee that ended your smoke-jumping career?”
“No, damn it! This is my good knee!”
We're both silent as he rubs his leg. He manages to let go of it for a moment in order to tear off his helmet and goggles. His parachute rustles in the branches of a tall pine.
“Can you walk?”
“Shit. I don't know.”
With my feet on solid ground—even ground that I can only look at now as fuel—I can feel my confidence beginning to return.
“We've got to move, Wook. We've got to get going.”
He curses some more and tries to wriggle off the snag. I hold out my hand to him. He grabs my wrist and allows me to lean back and haul him to his feet. Then he hops about for a minute on one leg—his good one, or at least his less-bad one—making grunting sounds as he tentatively weights the other.
“It hurts like hell, but I think it just got knocked. I'll make it, QuickDraw.”
“Good. Because I can't shoot worth a damn despite that fucking name.”
“Oh yeah. Sorry, Burns.” He looks up at where his parachute is fluttering in the wind, wrapping itself around the top of the pine. “Where's your chute?”
“Back there. It wasn't going to come down.”
I expect him to say something about my abandoning the smoke jumpers' property but instead all he says is “Good.” He unhooks himself from his own harness and doesn't even bother trying to free his. “Evidence,” he mutters. “Better off burned.”
You can't just step over the line, Roberto would say. You've got to jump!
Despite the streaming clouds of black smoke that blot out the stars and the moon, Elation Peak is visible—a silhouette outlined by the orange radiance—across a mile or so of a deeply timbered valley. From this rear angle the butte looks like the stump of a giant tree that had once reached all the way to heaven. I lead off and Wokowski limps along behind me.
After a couple of hundred yards we stumble onto the small meadow we'd aimed for from the plane. The going here becomes a lot easier. Wokowski's gait is already steadying and we're picking up speed.
Coming closer to the base of the butte, I get my first good look of what we'll need to climb. It's not a near-vertical wall like the North Face of the Grand, but a broken cliff only five hundred feet high. Wooded ledges and abundant chimneys and cracks will make the climbing easy.
But apparently Wokowski doesn't see it that way. “You sure about this?” he asks. “We can try the slope.”
“He'd see us coming. Besides, this is what I do.”
I throw off my pack and then peel off the heavy Kevlar suit. Wokowski does the same. Climbing in them would be near impossible. Running had been hard enough.
“More evidence,” he mutters. I realize he's making jokes— the first I've ever heard from him.
We both wriggle into the lightweight alpine harnesses I've brought and I tie us together with doubled figure eights. I begin a quick lesson on belaying but he cuts me off, telling me that smoke jumpers learn the basics in order to get in and out of the trees they frequently land in.
“I'll tug twice when I'm off belay. Two times again when you're on, okay?” It's time to start being quiet even though I doubt Laughlin will be able to hear us over the distant fire's jet-engine roar. He's five hundred feet above, across the summit plateau, and no doubt hypnotized by the approaching flames and his plan for his captive, whatever that is. “Then start climbing, okay? Just follow the rope. I'll try to find the easiest way.”
Wokowski takes a handheld radio off his hip. I hadn't noticed it earlier. He depresses the transmit button and asks, “How are we doing?”
“Who are you calling?”
“A friend of mine. A spy who's hanging out by the map in the situation room.”
The hissed reply is barely audible. “. . . fire's six miles from . . . Peak. Winds at fifteen knots . . . rising. Estimate . . . two hours.”
“Say again?”
Nothing but static.
“We're going up the east wall,” Wokowski says into the radio. “You hear? We're going up the east wall.”
The static continues unbroken.
“Was that two hours before the fire reaches the butte's west slope?” I whisper from where I'm already stemming my way up a wide gash in the rock.
“I think so. We'd better hurry up. We don't want the fire to come around and get under us.” He doesn't mention that Cali will surely be cooked or shot by then.
Two hours is not much time. Not for me to drag a big man with two questionable knees up five hundred feet of stone. And then he'll have to somehow get into a position to take out Laughlin. I hope he doesn't try any good-cop bullshit, like trying to take him alive, and hope that the theft of the gear and leaving it for destruction means he's hopped all the way over the line. I don't ask, though. There are some things like murder—even when it's not exactly cold-blooded—that you just don't talk about.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MY GOD.” THE words slip out of my mouth in a tone of awe and reverence.
The flames are gigantic. They claw and writhe hundreds of feet into the night sky. They fill the entire western horizon. And even though the fire is still a couple of miles away, across the summit and beyond a small valley, I can feel its hot, stinking breath on my face. It sucks then blows at me, respirating deeply like a bellows in its need for fuel. Suddenly this idea of Wokowski's that we'll ride it out in a paper-thin aluminum shelter is more than ludicrous—it's suicidal. We are going to die.
I pull myself over the final edge and run to a jumble of large boulders. The smoke, wind, and stinging ash curl around them, but at least the tall rocks protect my eyes from the unholy sight.
I can't resist another peek, though. You've got to look the bony fucker in the eye, Roberto would say, and I shiver despite the superheated air.
The plateau before me is a broad, downsloping tabletop of brush and stone. Thick smoke drifts across it, forming snakelike shapes that slither between the boulders. I'm thankful there are few trees up here to provide the hottest kind of fuel. The lookout tower, lit up by the oncoming flames, stands a hundred yards away at the summit's southwestern corner. It looks like a delicate spaceship on its four spindly legs. Like it might lift off into space, its booster ignited by the monstrous blaze.
“My God,” I whisper again. Through smoke-stung eyes I spot a human shape curled between the pilings.
It's little more than a silhouette outlined by the fire, but the slumped shape of a body is unmistakable. I will my eyes to focus against the smoke and almost wish I hadn't. I think I can see the white-and-yellow pattern of the pajamas Cali had worn the second night in my cabin.
Some self-awareness returns and I huddle again behind the boulders. Putting my back to the big rock behind me and leveraging a foot on another rock, I tug hard on the rope twice, wait a few seconds, then jerk it twice again. The slack comes quickly as Wokowski scrambles up that last, easy pitch. He has followed me up the cliff faster than I'd expected. Either he's a natural or he's very eager to climb to his death.
I watch him pull over the edge. I guess I want to see his reaction, to share this horror. I'm glad I do. Even though I know he's seen hundreds of fires before in his previous career, his eyes still go wide and his muscular jaw falls slack. His mouth moves and I read the same words that I could only whisper. Then he crawls over the cliff's upper lip and limps forward to crouch at my side in the shelter of the jumbled boulders.
“You see anything?” he asks.
“Someone's tied up underneath the pilings.”
“Cali,” he says softly. I hadn't wanted to say her name.
Wokowski unslings the rifle from where he'd been carrying it over one shoulder and unzips the case. The bolt snicks back and forth as he checks its load. The rifle's long oiled barrel reflects the orange in the night sky.
I lean out a second time to peer from behind the rocks, then quickly sit back down again. The moment my head had broken cover I had felt a cold spot on my forehead the size of a silver dollar. It was the same sensation I'd felt that day in the meadow—of being watched through a rifle's sights—and somehow I'm certain that Laughlin knows we're here.
Wokowski's radio makes a series of farting noises. He lays the rifle across his knees and unhooks the radio from his belt.
“There's a radio in the lookout, isn't there?” I ask him.
Wokowski nods, coming to the same realization. “Yeah. They leave it up there in the winters, along with some canned food, in case a lost hunter or snowmobiler needs help.”
So Laughlin could have been listening to Wokowski's spy telling us about the fire's progress. And he could have heard Wokowski reply that we were coming at the summit from the butte's rear wall instead of the forward slope.
“Say again,” Wokowski says into the radio. “We're on top now.”
This time the voice from the other end is fairly clear. “The weather op just told me that there's a high-wind warning in the valley now. Gusts up to forty knots. It's going to be picking up speed. You need to hole up ASAP, Wook.”
“Okay. We're backing off. We're going to head for the highway and get out of here. Out.” He turns off the radio.
I peek out again at the small plain before us, studying the tower's windows. As the helicopter pilot had said, the large glass panes appear to be propped open. There is no light from inside and the interior is dark.
Wokowski rips open the Velcro cargo pockets on his uniform pants, pulling out the three small packages that are inside. Each is about fist-sized and looks like an emergency blanket wrapped in clear plastic with a red pull tab. They are the fire shelters. Christ, they're small. The fact that he's only brought three is significant. Good.
Wokowski hands me one, saying, “It's like a big sandwich bag with a slit down the center. Peel it open and get in. Pull it around you. Find a clear place like on rock or dirt. Stay away from grass and brush. Try to find a depression, too, far away from cliff edges because they'll funnel up heat. Keep your nose in the ground even if you think you're burning. You lift your head and you die.”
“These things work?” I take it and stuff it into my pocket. It doesn't weigh more than a few ounces.
He nods. “I've never had to use one, but I know people who have. Just stay in it and don't move no matter how hot it gets. It may not seem like much, but it'll reflect ninety-five percent of the heat.”
A second jumble of boulders are piled between us and the lookout tower. I point to them, unholster my pistol—which seems as ridiculous here as the shelters—and run toward the rocks. The cold spot my imagination tells me is real slides back and forth over my chest and stomach. I dive for the shelter of the rocks.
This new pile of rocks is lower than the previous one. Lying in the dirt behind them and panting, I peer around a low corner and point my gun at the tower in an attempt to provide covering fire as Wokowski runs after me. I glance back at him and see he's limping fast more than running. But no shot or flash of light comes from the tower. Wokowski must have felt the same thing I did, though, because he almost throws himself on top of me.
“How the fuck are we going to do this?” I ask, not being able to put off the question any longer. “He's got to be up there, and we know he's got a rifle.”
Wokowski tries to push his long gun into my arms. “You can cover me.”
“You didn't hear me earlier. I can't shoot for shit, Wook.” My voice sounds high over the fire's deep roar. “And with your knee, you can't run for shit.”
The answer is obvious. It will have to be me.
Wokowski is kind enough not to state the obvious for a few seconds. During the pause he looks at the ground behind our boulders. He twitches in surprise. “Look at this.”
There's a small hole in the boulders, not much bigger than a badger hole. I roll over to look at it—anything to prolong the inevitable for another moment. It's a shallow cave. I work my headlamp out of my pocket and shine it in the opening, which is barely big enough for one man. Two gallon jugs of water and a pile of blankets are secreted inside.
“We can use it when the fire comes,” I tell him, then mention the water and blanket.
“We should keep it in mind. It might be better than the shelters. Quicker than deploying them, at least.”
&
nbsp; Anything would be better than those flimsy bits of tinfoil. But I tell him, “There's no way the three of us would fit.”
He looks into it. “We might fit if we had to.”
Looking around the corner of rock again, I can see the fire is on the verge of dropping down the steep hogback ridge and into the valley. I remember the technician telling us that once the fire hit the hollow it would go off like a bomb. There's no putting it off any longer. The figure stretched between the pilings is no longer still—it's jerking and rolling on the ground. At least she's conscious. Then she starts to scream.
The sound of her screams is more terrifying than the flames across the valley. They are so raw and animal-like that I have to look away from the tower. She sounds nothing like the woman who had shouted in delight as she leapt down the chute on Teewinot, who just yesterday had looked up from the hospital bed with wet eyes and told me, “I thought you said I was safe, Anton.”
“Cover me.”
Wokowski nods, his jaw flaring at the sound of each new scream. “Watch out for the trapdoor, Burns. Once you're under the tower you're safe unless he hears you or decides to pop out and head over here.”
I slip the gun into my right pocket and take a folding knife out of my left. I open the four-inch blade and hold the handle in my fist. Then, against all instinct, I run toward the screaming woman, the dark tower, and the coming flames.
THIRTY-NINE
I PUMP MY ARMS AND LEGS and suck in great gulps of the smoke and ash as I run. He sees me. I know it. He's up there behind the dark windows of the lookout, aiming his rifle. Maybe he's laughing at the way I juke and jive, vainly trying to present a tougher target. But the shot never comes to blow me backward onto my ass. I leap for the relative safety beneath the shelter's high platform, rolling, nearly taking an eye out with the open knife in my hand. I stare up at the ladder and the trapdoor before turning to Cali.
Trial by Ice and Fire Page 28