Fire Flight

  That did, indeed, sound like vintage Jerry, Clark thought.

  They could both see the field looming ahead, and Clark altered course to bring them in for a tight left base, making the requisite radio calls before calling for the checklist. They were flaps and gear down in the final turn before Jerry spoke of the subject again.

  “Clark, please trust me. I’m not the bad guy. In fact, I may be one of the victims.”

  Clark couldn’t restrain himself from nodding, a result of his tendency to want to please. But even though he wasn’t brave enough to state it, trust was not something he could manage on Jerry’s word alone.

  BRYARLY, WYOMING

  Larry Black saw the dust being kicked up by the caravan of cars and SUVs before spotting the lead vehicle. They were barreling into the center of town from the southwest, which could only mean Jimmy Wolf.

  “Hang…hang on,” he said to the panicked homeowner on the other end of the cell phone. “No, look…just get down here right now. Bring the pet bunny. We’ll do our best, but the main thing is to get yourself out of that house and get down here. I’ve gotta go.”

  He punched the phone off and turned to a harried young woman standing next to him with a clipboard fluttering with dog-eared pages listing every local resident.

  “Mrs. Harrison. We may have to send someone with a gun up there to get her.”

  “Jimmy’s coming,” Andrea, his receptionist and town secretary, reported.

  “I know.”

  The Rolls-Royce was in the lead, followed closely by a Lincoln Navigator, a Humvee, a Jeep, and two late-model pickups, all of them crammed full of people. The Rolls aimed directly at the two of them and braked hard to a stop before Jimmy jumped out and waved.

  “Okay, Lare…you win. I’m kicking them all out.”

  Larry shook his head but tried to affect a smile. “It’s not a contest, Jimmy.”

  “Wotever…but ’ere’s my entire household in your care.”

  “We’ll get you all out on the next departure in about ten minutes.”

  “No…I’m not going anywhere, mate. Just them.”

  “Jimmy, we’ve been through this.”

  “I want water on my house, Lare. Who do I talk to?”

  “Look—”

  “No, mate, you look!” Jimmy Wolf said, punching his index finger gently into Larry’s chest. “I’m not crazy. I know the choppers will be tied up in short order with the spot fires. Before that happens, I want them to soak my roof.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not so crazy, then, right?”

  A group of frightened-looking citizens was approaching from an adjacent street, and several others deputized to keep control and direct the residents to the impromptu helipad moved to intercept them, pointing the way to the green where one of the Chinooks was just settling down.

  Larry sighed as he waved to them before turning back to Jimmy.

  “Okay, look. Do you have your phone?”

  “Of course.”

  He scribbled down the number. “This is the number of Jackson Helibase. I probably should have you talk directly to Bozeman Dispatch Center, but first you can ruin this guy’s day. Grant Spano, the manager. He’s in control, Jimmy. Not me.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  Jimmy Wolf turned away, punching in the number as Larry made a mental note to earmark the date and time the rock star had actually thanked him for something.

  The sound of another Chinook approaching captured his attention as three more residents hurried up to talk to him. He gave them a wait sign and turned to Andrea.

  “I think I just saw two sheriff’s deputies get off that chopper. Grab them and—”

  “Get them up to Mrs. Harrison’s, the Billings place, the Williamsons, and the other three who’re refusing to go, and brief them on the impending problem with Jimmy, right?”

  “Right. What are you, a female Radar O’Reilly?”

  She smiled. “I like to stay ahead of you.”

  “You’re scaring me,” he said quietly with a quick smile, then turned to the three anxious faces standing patiently to one side.

  Chapter 30

  NORTH FORK RIDGE DROP ZONE

  “Good Lord, look at that!” George Baird was saying almost under his breath.

  “I know,” was the singular response from Karen as the entire squad huddled in the lee of the rock wall and peered westward along the north side of the ridge. The giant bubbles of flame and heat boiling off the south ridge were periodically rising into view and dissipating, but not before the infrared energy had flashed in their faces, instantly transmitting a sample of the intense heat.

  “I don’t think,” Karen began, “that I’ve ever seen anything like this in my life.”

  Since shortly after they had reached the prepared safe zone, the shower of sparks and firebrands had been flowing like a hellish river from south to north over the ridgeline and then out over the valley, falling inexorably into the forest where spot fires too numerous to count were beginning to flare.

  There were two Skycranes making rapid round-trips between a small lake two miles away and whichever spot fire they could catch first, and the effort seemed to be working. The line they’d cut along the ridge was still holding, the main flame front remaining on the south side, though straining to crawl across the divide and explode the northern forest as well.

  “Look, that one just downslope. We can get to that one,” Karen said, pointing to the nearest flareup several hundred yards westward from their position. “What do you guys think?”

  Dave Sims scratched his soot-stained chin. “I don’t know, Karen. Maybe we can try, as long as at least one of us remains as lookout. If the main front jumps over the divide, we’d have to get the hell out of there and back up here very quickly.”

  She nodded, pulling the radio to her to check with Lead Four-Two, who was still orbiting overhead and making runs along the northern slope, trailed by another tanker, approximately every ten minutes. The red, dusty look of dispersed fire retardant and the distinctive smell were all too familiar, and while it hadn’t eliminated the spot flareups in the pine and larch on the north side, it was slowing the ignition process.

  “Okay. Let’s go. Pete? You stay here with the radio in hand and call us if you see anything threatening.”

  The squad scrambled out carrying the chain saws and Pulaskis and moving as fast as possible down to the tree line and toward the nearest spot fire, which had consumed only two trees so far but was already spreading rapidly. Karen could see one of the Skycranes straining to climb after sucking up another sixteen thousand pounds of water from the lake. Behind it were two Jet Rangers with small, orange water buckets, and she thought of trying to call one in, but thought better of it. The helicopters were attacking the fires closest to the town. She and her squad could take care of the ones nearest to the upper slopes.

  For a while, at least.

  She knew there was a chance of getting trapped by a sudden flareup coming over the ridge. If that happened, their only chance would be to run back to the rocks, and she knew all too well that sometimes wind-propelled fires could outrun the best sprinters, even if they were carrying no equipment. She mouthed a small, silent prayer that their line on the ridge would hold, and that Peter would know when to sound a retreat without waiting too long.

  IN FLIGHT, LEAD FOUR-TWO

  Sam had his hands full just coordinating the tanker attacks on the north side of the ridge, but his was also the best view for the choppers’ crews working to douse the spot fires, and he’d ended up being their air-traffic controller as well. The portable radio microphones were constantly in and out of his hand and vest as he worked one, then the other, reporting on the effectiveness of a drop or swinging one of the Skycranes around to see a place they’d missed that was flaring up.

  Down valley Sam could see the steady progress of the Chinooks in ferrying the citizens of Bryarly to safety. The helicopter manager on the air-to-ground frequency was reporting 60 per
cent completion of the evacuation, and he sounded increasingly worried as several spot fires broke out within a half mile of the town.

  Sam checked his kneeboard. He had two airtankers in the queue with his favorite three due back from West Yellowstone in twenty-five or thirty minutes.

  He banked over the ridge again, trying to decide whether to direct a few more drops on the leading edge of the fire, but decided against it. The intensity of flames and heat was just too extensive. Better to use the slurry as a prophylactic on the north side and keep hoping for the best.

  He banked back to the north, noting the small procession of bright yellow-shirted smokejumpers moving rapidly through the green, out of their protected lair and toward a small spot fire down in the tree line. He was close enough to see one of their number holding back in the rocks, and figured he was a lookout. It was time to check on the back door that had concerned him earlier, just in case the fire was getting clever.

  HELIBASE, JACKSON HOLE AIRPORT, WYOMING

  At first, Grant Spano had declined to take the call. But when an aide returned to his elbow with the somewhat wide-eyed news that the Bryarly resident on the other end was none other than rock legend Jimmy Wolf, he couldn’t resist. Grant lifted the receiver, not sure what to expect.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this is the bloody manager of operations?”

  “Yes, it is. Grant Spano here. Is this Mr. Wolf?”

  “Chrissakes, mate, it scares me when people say ‘mister.’ Just Jimmy’ll do.”

  “Okay, Jimmy. I understand you’re in Bryarly.”

  “Right. And I need a favor really quick.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I have a big home up here with a shake roof, and it’s dry as a friggin’ bone. I need one of your helicopters to wet it down for me.”

  Grant transferred the phone to his other hand. “Ah, Jimmy, you realize we’re using everything we have up there right now to save not only your house, but the whole area and the town.”

  “Course I know that.”

  “Well, we’ve got spot fires breaking out all over the woods between you and the ridge, and we need every helicopter on the spot-fire suppression. I’m sorry, but we can’t spare any assets for your house in particular.”

  “Look, mate, I’m not really asking, you know? Don’t make me call the bleedin’ congressional delegation to get this done. One load of water, and I’ll stay out of your hair.”

  “We can’t, Jimmy. I’m sorry. We have to think of the greater good.”

  “I’m watching one of those suckers right now, Director Spano, and he’s sitting on his arse with a huge canvas bag that’s empty a half mile from a lake that isn’t!”

  The news stopped Grant for a second. “Do you have his N number?”

  “Yes.” Jimmy read the registration number from the side of the Jet Ranger, and Grant checked his list.

  “Okay, that one’s on standby duty for close-in fire suppression. We absolutely can’t spare him.”

  “That’s nonsense! Get his bag wet! Then you have a fifty-fifty chance of having him filled with water when you need him.”

  “Jimmy…look. We’re going to do the best we can to save your place. But the idea of dumping water on your roof in particular versus fighting the fires is out of the question. I’ve got to go. I’m fighting a battle here.”

  He handed the phone back to his aide, who hung it up.

  “Tough one?”

  “Somehow I doubt we’ve heard the last of him,” Grant said. “Okay, get that map over here.”

  WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT, MONTANA

  Jerry Stein had scrambled out of the cockpit to get to his office as soon as they’d set the parking brakes, but only after promising to be back in the seat in exactly twenty minutes. He’d taken the steps to his second-story hangar office two at a time and closed the door behind him to call Joe Groff on his cell phone.

  “Joe, who, exactly, told you about Maxwell’s call to the FBI?”

  There was a hesitation on the other end. “Why, Jerry?”

  “Hey, don’t ask me why. Answer the question, please.”

  “Jerry, there are things you don’t have a need to know, and things you really don’t want to know.”

  “You mean plausible deniability?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Forget that in this instance. We’ve got a plane down and two crew members dead and one of my best captains trying hard to rattle everyone’s cage because he’s really concerned, and you know something? Maxwell asks some good questions…questions I can’t answer.”

  “Such as?”

  “You first, Joe. Which captain overheard his FBI call? And why are you sure the FBI hasn’t responded?”

  “Are you in your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be right there.”

  “I’ve got ten minutes, Joe.”

  The line was dead, but within five minutes Joe Groff appeared, closing the door behind him.

  “Man, I’m almost out of time,” Jerry said, tapping his watch. “Now what’s with this cloak-and-dagger stuff?”

  Joe Groff laughed. “That’s what I do, Jerry. Cloak and dagger.”

  “Come on, Joe. I’m in no mood for games.”

  “Clark Maxwell only thought he talked to the FBI.”

  “Sorry?”

  “He talked to me. Not the feds.”

  “What?”

  Joe filled him in on intercepting Clark’s initial call, then calling off the FBI and meeting with him in the guise of an FBI employee.

  “Jesus Christ, Joe! That’s a felony!”

  “No it isn’t. Trust me. I did not represent myself as an agent. It’s okay.”

  “I would have never approved this!”

  “You want to know what he’s worried about?”

  “I already know what he’s worried about, and he’s not off target.” Jerry summarized his conversation with Clark, and all the things he’d said were worrying him.

  “Well, he’s an honest man. That’s the same laundry list he gave me as the surrogate FBI guy.”

  “So, Joe, you’re my security guru, assuming they don’t stick your ass in a federal prison. What are the answers? What the hell is going on with my airplanes? Have we been cheated, or what?”

  “I’m still working on that.”

  “Well, you’d better work fast, because with the feds on the trail—”

  Joe was holding his hand up with a smile. “Remember, they’re not on the trail because he never actually talked to them.”

  “You’re sure that’ll hold? You said he actually did make contact?”

  “Trust me, Jerry. It’s cool. The FBI guy in Helena was overjoyed to blow it off. Case closed.”

  “I’m not going to be a party to illegal activities, Joe.”

  “You’re not!”

  Jerry stood and grabbed his jacket. “Earn your keep, okay? But for God’s sake, do it legally. And if anyone ever asks you under oath or otherwise, I want you to remember that’s what I’ve always told you.”

  “Yeah, Jerry. I remember.”

  “Now, why the hell did Tanker Seventy-four look uninspected, and did we have the same situation with any other birds, including Jeff’s? That’s your yesterday assignment.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be back in two hours, and I want answers.”

  “Two hours? Jerry, I’m not a mechanic. It’ll take me two hours to figure out how to check on that Florida repair place.”

  Jerry brushed past him and turned on the top of the landing. “Do it, Joe. And if your little thespian experience blows up in your face, just remember that I knew nothing about it and never authorized you to do any such thing.”

  “I know, I know. You’re clean. Jeez.”

  But are you? Joe thought to himself. Jerry was very good at seeding the record to appear exactly how he wanted to appear. So what kind of clever move was it to launch his own security guy on a trail that might lead right back to the boss?
>
  The most clever kind of all, Joe thought, hide in plain sight.

  A few hundred yards away Clark was restowing his cell phone, aware that the conversation with the real Agent Blackson had probably triggered a manhunt for the bogus agent. The fact that the FBI would be diverted from the main issue of what was happening to Jerry’s fleet was undoubtedly going to relegate the more important issues to the back burner. He’d related everything he knew about the meeting in the bar, what the man looked like, and what he said. Somehow, Clark told him, the imposter had to be connected with either Stein Aviation, or the Florida repair shop that had supposedly inspected the DC-6 fleet.

  Blackson had promised immediate action. “We get irritated,” he’d said, “when someone pretends to be one of us.”

  Clark checked his watch and headed back to the aircraft, his step quickened by the thought of Karen on the side of a blazing mountain.

  They were airborne again in almost record time, and slowing within twenty-five minutes as they approached the North Fork area once more. Clark was alarmed at the growth of the convection column enveloping the entire southern flank of the ridge where Karen and her squad had been.

  Jerry had returned to the cockpit in a distracted and almost sullen mood. A result, Clark figured, of their previous airborne discussion. As the nonflying pilot, he was handling the radios, but his response to the latest transmission was far too slow, and Clark pointed to the microphone and hit the transmit button himself.

  “Roger, we copy Lead Four-Two, Tanker Eighty-eight. By the way, how are the smokejumpers doing?”

  The voice of Sam Littlefox came back rapidly.

  “They’re hanging in there, Eighty-eight. They’re on the north side fighting the spot fires. I’m going to put you on hold right now behind Tanker Ten and three others while we watch this thing.”

  “Is the ridge holding?”

  There was a significant delay in the response, and when Sam’s voice returned to the frequency, it chilled Clark to realize he was choosing his words carefully.

  “Yeah, but…I’m having some worries about protecting the squad’s flank, Eighty-eight. I want to keep at least two tankers fully loaded and on hold in case we have to lay down an escape route for them, and you’re my fourth and fifth arrivals.”