Fire Flight

by John J. Nance

  “Who’s still at your house?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Couple chicks, Janice, the staff. Some blond in my bed this morning. The usual.”

  “Jimmy, your people and your staff can’t stay.”

  “I’ve also got my fishing rod, my hot rod…buncha rods.”

  “Jimmy—”

  “My rods and my staff, they comfort me, dig?”

  “HEY!”

  “Wot?”

  “Please listen. If the fire roars down the valley and crowns—that means it burns treetop to treetop—that flame front is like a plasma and burning at about eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Eighteen hundred damned degrees, Jimmy! If it gets that bad and becomes a firestorm, it will vaporize everything and everybody in its path, and no amount of water or fire retardant has a chance of stopping it.”

  Jimmy was staring at him. “I don’t believe that! You soak a house, it can’t burn. Period.”

  “Jimmy, please. Hire a chopper and evacuate your people and yourself and just hope the firefighters can stop the fire. If you stay and it comes, all of you will die.”

  The well-known sarcastic, lopsided smile that had leered off countless magazines and CDs spread across Jimmy’s face.

  “Right. Not bloody likely a piddling fire’s gonna run Jimmy Wolf out of town. So, do what you’re hired to do, Mr. City Manager, and save my town!” He turned and pushed through the door and back onto the street before Larry could think about, and reject, evacuating him by force. The effort would be useless, even if legal. Jimmy Wolf was his own ultimate authority—regardless of how secretly scared he might be.

  WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT—SEVEN-THIRTY A.M.

  The harried ramp crew mixing and dispensing the fertilizer-based fire-retardant had started around midnight, using four huge, hastily-erected, plastic-lined portable tanks on the south end of the ramp and the fixed, regular metal tanks on the north side. The ramp crew had pumped that batch into the first wave of airtankers before seven-thirty A.M., and now the fleet was on its way back for a quick reload. All the tanks had been refilled, and the pumps were ready to transfer the tens of thousands of gallons of slurry into the newly emptied aircraft.

  The DC-6B with the number “88” on its tail pulled into the chocks and shut down, and the loading crew immediately moved into position to start the process. Two of the men ducked under the wing and began opening the appropriate ports in the large, internal tank as the captain descended the rickety portable air stairs to find a runner from Operations waiting for him.

  “Captain Maxwell? I have a message for you.”

  “Oh? Who from?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  The man handed over a “While you were out” slip of pink paper, and Clark held it as he turned back to watch Rusty alight from the cockpit. Rusty had felt sick on the way back from the last drop, and he looked weak and shaky as he climbed down the stairs and headed into the Operations building.

  “How’re you doing?” Clark asked him.

  “I’m just…feeling kind of sick. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure? We can replace you if you’re too rocky.”

  Rusty smiled and waved him off as he walked by. Clark kept one eye on him as he opened the message and read the single line.

  Please call Todd Blackson in Helena ASAP.

  He refolded the note and followed Rusty to the pilot lounge, intending to call the Helena-area phone number from one of the lounge phones.

  The name Blackson suddenly coalesced.

  That’s the FBI agent I called. The one who couldn’t come down, Clark thought.

  He stepped back out onto the ramp, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in the number.

  “Agent Blackson isn’t in at the moment,” the receptionist reported. “May I take a message?”

  “Well, I’ll be in the air another two and a half to three hours, but I could check back when I get on the ground again. I’m returning his call.”

  He passed on his cell phone number just in case, then disconnected, mildly frustrated that he couldn’t reach the man.

  Bill Deason was just taxiing onto the ramp in his P-3 Orion, and Clark glanced at his watch, wondering if Bill had taken a sight-seeing detour on the way back. The P-3 could fly faster than the DC-6, and they’d both emptied their tanks at the same time, so theoretically he should have landed first. Clark made a mental note to needle him, aware that his mind was returning unbidden to the FBI call, and how much he needed answers about the safety of the DC-6B fleet. He’d been very gentle pulling Tanker 88 out of its bombing run the previous hour, but if the fire jumped the ridge as feared, and spread down the north side, things would become immeasurably rougher. He’d felt himself hesitate once already as he pulled back on the yoke in flight, wondering if his wings could take it.

  How would it feel to have them fold up like that C-130? he wondered. He hated thoughts that drifted into fatalistic territory, but there was a morbid curiosity surrounding every crash as pilots commonly toyed with a “What if it had been me?” mind-set. The crew of the doomed C-130A in California the year before had just dropped its load of slurry and weren’t even pulling g’s when the wing box suddenly disintegrated. The wings—with engines still running—literally snapped off and flew up, like a bird’s wings caught on the upstroke. They’d held that vertical position for a few agonizing moments before falling away. The whole sequence had been caught on video, which was shown over and over again on TV, and Clark had taped it and replayed it many times, analyzing, projecting, and wondering. It was a way of coping with the loss of three friends.

  Clark felt an involuntary shudder move up his back. The shudder wasn’t in response to the image of final impact. That had been painless and instant. The shudder was in response to a pilot’s worst nightmare, which was loss of control.

  He returned to the Operations room to get his paperwork, passing several groups of fellow FLOPP members who seemed to be grousing more than normal about something. He caught a reference to cowardice and another to greed in the same sentence as Jerry Stein’s name, and he couldn’t stop himself from turning and asking what was up.

  “Did you know that Jerry was supposed to fly Tanker Eighty-four this morning?”

  “Yes,” Clark replied. “I heard Randy Tate took it when Jerry couldn’t get off the phone.”

  “Yeah, off the phone my ass,” Dave Barrett snorted. “He’s scared shitless to get in his own DC-6 fleet, and he’s scaring the copilots, and I’m not so sure any of us should climb back in. Everyone was buzzing about it when I walked in a few minutes ago, Clark. I tell you, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole fleet is parked and out of pilots by noon. That’s how much damage he’s done to morale.”

  Clark cocked his head. “He was supposed to take over on the first reload.”

  “Yeah, he was,” Dave agreed. “But he’s been hiding over there in his office. Tate just took off without him. Something’s going on, and, frankly, I’m getting very worried. If he doesn’t trust his life to these birds, why should we?”

  Clark saw his copilot coming out of the rest room, his face a fine shade of ash. He met Rusty halfway across the room.

  “You look terrible. How do you feel?”

  “Ah…just, you know, throwing up,” he said, looking weak and unsteady.

  “You been eating at some cheap restaurant I don’t know about?”

  Rusty shook his head, and Clark realized he was actually taking the question seriously.

  “I just need to sit for a minute or two, and then I’ll get on with the preflight.”

  “Rusty, you can’t fly like this.”

  “No, really, Clark, I’m okay.” Rusty looked up, breathing hard, and shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I’m just tired.”

  “You’re sick as a dog, and I need a living copilot in the right seat.”

  “I’m living, Clark. You need me.”

  “I need you sharp and well. Stay here a minute.”

  Clark stepped away,
leaving Rusty propped up against a wall, then returned with a heavyset older woman wearing a Forest Service uniform.

  “You know Lynda from down there at the Ops counter?”

  “Yes. Hi, Lynda.”

  “You’re right, Clark. We’ll need the coroner. I think he’s already dead!” she teased in a gravelly voice as she looked Rusty over.

  “Lynda’s a nurse.”

  “Clark—”

  “No protests. You may have food poisoning or something more serious.”

  “Just…let me go back to the hotel and sleep it off.”

  “No way,” Lynda said as she felt his forehead. “If you went back to the hotel like that and curled up, and this is a case of ptomaine or botulism, you could wake up dead.”

  Rusty tried to laugh, but the effort made him wince. “You, too?”

  “What?” she asked, glancing at Clark.

  “He’s bummed that you’re also a fan of Yogi-isms,” Clark explained.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, taking his pulse. “I’m simply un-Berrable.”

  “Oh, God,” Rusty moaned. “Now I truly am gonna be sick.”

  Clark waited until Lynda began guiding him toward the door and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll check on you on the next reload, Rusty. Get some rest and get better.”

  When they were gone, Clark moved to the Operations counter to report his crew short one first officer.

  “Okay, well—”

  “Don’t call the replacement yet. Give me five minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Clark pushed through the doors and jogged to his truck. He drove quickly around the end of the runway to the Stein hangars and Jerry’s office, taking the stairs two at a time to find him at his desk with files and financial records strewn in every direction.

  “Hey, Clark. What’s up?”

  Clark walked to the desk and stood, staring at him, unaware that Diana Stein was sitting in the far corner.

  “Why, hello, Clark,” Diana said, startling him. Clark looked over at her and tried to take it in stride.

  “Hello.”

  “No, it’s ‘Hello, Diana.’”

  Clark smiled. “Okay. Hello, Diana.”

  Jerry was sitting back and smiling at the exchange and, Clark imagined, rather enjoying his discomfort.

  She got up and walked slowly toward the back of her husband’s chair, her hands finding his shoulders.

  “I don’t like to be so formal around the crew members,” she said, glancing down at Jerry, who had reached up to pat her hand.

  “And,” she continued, “I can see you’ve got some business to discuss, so I’ll see you boys later.”

  “Bye, babe,” Jerry said, watching Clark nod to his wife as she glided out of the office and closed the door. When she was gone, Clark crossed his arms and stood quietly staring at Jerry.

  “What?” Jerry said, half in amusement. “Sit down, man.”

  “Jerry, did I do you a big favor coming back this season?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You heard me.”

  Ever cautious of a verbal trap, Jerry cocked his head and smiled. “Okay, what’s up? More money?”

  “Screw the money, Jerry. Please answer my question.”

  “Of course you did, Clark. You did me a big favor. You are doing me a big favor.”

  “Then I want one from you, right here, right now, friend to friend, man to man, no backing out.”

  All the caution lights in Jerry Stein’s head illuminated at once, and he stood carefully, locking eyes with the big pilot.

  “What’s the favor?”

  “My copilot’s sick. I want you in the right seat.”

  Relief and amusement crossed his features. “Oh! Hey, we’ll get you a—”

  “No, Jerry. You. Your ass in the right seat of Tanker Eighty-eight in the next five minutes. Rusty’s headset’s still in there. You don’t even need your brain bag.”

  A pained expression replaced Jerry’s smile.

  “Clark, hey man, I’m up to my ass in alligators—”

  “No, Jerry!” Clark interrupted again, using a tone Jerry dared not challenge. “If you don’t come with me now, you’re going to be up to your ass in out-of-service airplanes because they’ll have no pilots, then they’ll void your contracts, and then the bankruptcy filings will follow. While you’ve been hiding in here, your DC-6 crews have been out there losing faith. We all heard your little pep talk this morning, and we were all a bit relieved that you were going to fly a DC-6 instead of the Skycrane today. It kind of told us that, just as we’d hoped, our old pal Jerry knew of absolutely no reason why the remaining DC-6s he owns aren’t perfectly airworthy. Get it? The guy who would be expected to have inside knowledge? If he’ll fly ’em, they must be all right. So you miss the first launch with Tanker Eighty-four, and we all wonder. Then Randy Tate leaves in Eighty-four for the second round, and there are pilots over there contemplating mutiny right now.”

  Jerry took a deep breath and licked his lips. He glanced at his watch, then out into the front of the hangar, then back at Clark.

  “You are nervous, aren’t you, Jerry?”

  “No! No, I…of course I’m worried, because we don’t know the cause.”

  “But you’re willing to let us put ourselves at risk, right?”

  Jerry sighed, a singular sound of defeat.

  “Okay,” he said. “Screw the paperwork. Let’s go.”

  “After you,” Clark said, his expression dead serious.

  Jerry looked up and smiled. “What? You think I may run out the back door?”

  “Your choice. But everyone will know. And we’ll all be right behind you, running from the ramp.”

  “Screw your suspicions, Clark. Let’s go kick some flamin’ ass!”

  Jerry grabbed his jacket and pushed open the door, bounding down the stairs with Clark in close trail.

  The sound of an R-2800 engine rumbling to life on the ramp met their ears as they arrived on the eastern ramp. Dave Barrett was firing up his DC-6B, and Clark realized the reload crew had almost finished with his DC-6B as well. He left Jerry to go do the preflight and moved back into Operations to clearly inform everyone that Jerry Stein was flying right seat in Tanker 88. The news had an immediately positive effect, and he was pushing through the door again when a familiar face caught his eye as a man moved around the corner of the Operations building.

  Wait a minute! That’s Michaels…Randy Michaels, the FBI guy. If he’s here and poking around, they must be onto something.

  Clark started to head after Michaels, but stopped as he recalled the urgent need to keep the airplanes moving in sequence the way Sam Littlefox had worked it out. Reluctantly, he resumed course to Tanker 88 and climbed into the cockpit to begin running checklists, relieved to find Jerry there in the right seat hard at work.

  As Dave Barrett was lifting off the runway and he and Jerry were finishing their runup before takeoff, the warbling “message waiting” signal on his cell phone caught Clark’s attention. He reached down to his belt and silenced the warning. He’d listen to it in the air he decided, before they got too far out for the signal to work.

  “West Yellowstone Traffic, Tanker Eighty-eight taking runway one-nine for VFR departure to the southeast, West Yellowstone,” Clark intoned on the common frequency used in the absence of a control tower.

  Clark found his mind drifting away from the disciplined thoughts he should have been thinking on takeoff roll. He needed to be ready to make instantaneous decisions on whether to stop or fly if an engine failed before liftoff, and if something went very wrong after liftoff, he needed to be able to handle the emergency smoothly and flawlessly, giving clear, calm orders. Yet, the presence of the FBI trainee, and what could be an unheard message from the FBI agent in Helena, melded with the diminished level of trust he felt in his airplane. On top of that, Jerry himself was sitting next to him, and there was little doubt he’d be considered a traitor for turning in his old friend to the feds. If Jerry
was guilty of something, Clark would be responsible for ruining him, or even putting him in prison. The images were a disturbing mélange driving a growing sense of unease in the pit of his stomach.

  Maybe, he thought, putting Jerry in the right seat wasn’t such a hot idea.

  “You’ve got her, Jerry,” Clark said, when the big airliner was less than five hundred feet in the air. “I think it’s probably against your policy, but I need to make a call and check on Rusty.”

  It was a minor lie, but it disturbed him. With Jerry sitting there, he was awash in the need for discretion if not subterfuge—on top of the already-weighty demands of the job.

  “I’ve got her,” Jerry replied, obviously concerned at the premature transfer of control.

  Clark already had his headset off and his cell phone to his ear.

  His assumption was right. The message was from Helena:

  “Captain Maxwell, this is Agent Blackson. I apologize for not being available when you returned my call. I had called you because I had a concern regarding our previous conversation in which you told me that you had been informed that our Denver office was handling the matter you wanted to brief me on. You said you thought the special agent’s name was Brown, or Black, or something with a ‘B.’ This concerns me, Captain, because I’ve checked with our Denver office, and not only are there no agents assigned there with a last name beginning with ‘B’ who know anything about the specific subject matter, but we did an all-office check and found that none of our agents by any name are aware of any such concerns or subject matter. Just to be sure, I also ran this through Salt Lake, and they, too, had no knowledge. So I really need to know who represented to you that this matter was being handled by the FBI, and by whom. If you’re being inadvertently misled or otherwise, I don’t want to let this drop. Matters like this concern the FBI very greatly because of the potential terrorist aspect. Please call me back as soon as you receive this message.”

  Clark saved the message and sat in silence for a few seconds, frustration overwhelming him that he couldn’t make a call while airborne.

  Whoa, hold it. If I can reach the transmitter site to get the message, I can reach it to make a call.