Fire Flight

by John J. Nance

  “Yes! We’re trapped in here.”

  A male voice, more distant and muffled, joined hers. “Something’s blocking the entrance.”

  “Hang on!” Clark said.

  He stood and tried to roll the log, but it was far too heavy and deeply embedded. The radio was swinging from his belt, and he pulled it out now, pressing the transmit switch.

  “Attention, everyone on this net. This is Tanker Eighty-eight downslope. I’ve got two alive, but they’re trapped in some sort of hole. I need at least a half dozen of you down here to help me move a log.”

  Voices started coming back in a cascade of conflicting transmissions that Pete finally sorted out.

  “Wave your arms and keep waving them until we see you in the glasses,” Pete instructed.

  Clark leaned down again to the hole.

  “You have enough air for twenty more minutes?”

  “Yes. We’re hurting a little, but we’re okay. I heard the transmission.”

  He balanced himself on the back of the log and began waving, keeping it up for nearly two minutes before the reply came.

  “We’ve got you!”

  He could see a new cascade of movement above as yellow shirts began moving downslope.

  It took eight of them, a chain saw, and several tries to roll the section of the huge log away and expose the partially collapsed entrance to the den.

  The two lost smokejumpers emerged with considerable help, unfolding themselves slowly, their legs and feet asleep and tingling from being deprived of good circulation for hours. Dave’s injured ankle was swollen to twice its normal size. Karen tried to stand prematurely and almost pitched headlong to the ground. Both were dehydrated and filthy, and Karen’s back had been bruised slightly by the fall of the trunk, but the shelters had protected them against the monstrous temperatures that had raged just outside the hole until the huge tree had sealed it from further flames and radient heat.

  But the weight of the same tree had effectively buried them alive.

  There were hugs and tears and explanations and apologies flying among the tight-knit squad and Clark stood back slightly, watching the process and feeling anything but the hero Karen had instantly dubbed him.

  He watched her, thinking how beautiful she was even in her present state, and wishing he could be bold enough just to walk up and enfold her in his arms in front of her squad.

  But he held back, feeling a calm that had begun to fill the void left by Bill’s demise.

  No. Bill’s sacrifice, he thought. After all, it was these people Bill had been determined to help by flying lower and closer than safety would allow.

  He was immersed in the thought when she moved shakily from the embrace of her squad and walked the few yards to him, sliding her arms around him and looking in his eyes as she mouthed, “Thank you.” He was partway through “You’re welcome” when she kissed him. A long and deep and very disturbingly sensual kiss delivered to the cheers and catcalls of her fellows.

  Chapter 38

  NATIONAL INTERAGENCY FIRE CENTER, BOISE, IDAHO—

  LATE AFTERNOON, DAY THREE

  A very tired Jim De Maio looked up from the newly delivered meteorological map spread before the command staff and suddenly thrust his right thumb in the air as he broke into a broad smile.

  “Yes!”

  Lynda Gardner, a small stack of papers in her hand, glanced at the four others in the briefing room.

  “It’s only a possibility, Jim.”

  “I don’t care,” he enthused. “Just the mention of the probability of precipitation means we’ve got a chance.”

  “The winds are a far more important element,” she cautioned, smoothing her hair back. “And with the low suddenly on the move southeastward and the winds shifting to north-northeast over that valley—”

  “And,” Jim interrupted, “with the Air Force C-130 MAFFS units and the California P-3s, which will have at least two flights before dark, and with the helitack operations continuing on the spot fires, and with that temporary Army bridge they brought in to get the ground force back into and around Bryarly, kids, I think we’re going to finally catch it and win one.”

  “Still too soon to tell,” Alex White added.

  “Did everyone see that live shot from the news helicopter we allowed over the valley?” one of the others asked. “It showed the main flame front slowing enough for our ground teams to cut line on the other side of the retardant drops about two miles from the first Bryarly house. The best guess is that with the wind shift Lynda mentioned, the fire will lay down overnight while the crews work, and we can hit it with a fresh aerial assault in the morning.”

  “Unless it rains, in which case we’ve got it,” Jim added.

  “Absolutely! There’s a great chance it won’t blow up if we get sufficient moisture on it.”

  The rescue of the two missing smokejumpers had already been reported and cheered, as had the formal containment of the Sheep Mountain fire threatening the Grand Teton Park facilities on the east side of Jackson Lake.

  Lynda held up a newly received fax. “We moved a hotshot crew in on the fire started by the airtanker crash, and they stopped it cold.”

  “The copilot was picked up, right?”

  “Yes. Uninjured.”

  “Any word from the crash site on locating the pilot’s body?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t know. The last report said the wreckage is pretty mangled and very spread out.”

  WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT, MONTANA

  Clark finished shutting down the Jet Ranger while watching the intense activity around the Bell 212 parked a hundred feet away on the Forest Service ramp. He’d trailed the 212 all the way in from the North Ridge drop zone, wishing Karen could have been sitting in the copilot’s seat next to him rather than with her squad in the other helicopter. She’d waved as she and Dave were hurried from the 212’s cabin into a waiting ambulance for a quick trip to the local clinic and a medical checkover. Karen had promised to find him by phone as soon as they let her go, and Clark was looking forward to the call.

  As the ambulance pulled out, the sight of Bill Deason’s old PB4Y-2 caught Clark’s eye and triggered an overpowering feeling of melancholy, born of fatigue and confusion and frustration, but mixed together with more intensity than he could handle at that moment.

  Clark forced the indelible image of the P-3 sinking into the trees from his mind, knowing the respite was only temporary.

  Darkness had covered the town, held back on the ramp by sodium vapor lamps, but closing in around them like a dropped veil. There was still purple and light to the west, but it was fading, and suddenly he had an irresistible urge just to get to his truck and leave.

  Clark left the Ranger’s keys and the clipboard on the pilot’s seat and moved quickly to the parking lot. He slid into the driver’s seat and was in the process of turning the key when Misty Ryan knocked loudly on the passenger-side window, causing him to jump.

  “What? Misty!”

  He fumbled with the window control to roll down the glass.

  “Please let me in, Clark.”

  “Sure…wait…” His finger found the unlock switch, and she glided into the passenger side, closing the door behind her as she swiveled around partially sideways to look at him.

  Her cascading mane of red hair was uncombed and windblown, and her missing makeup told of tears and anguish. She looked older than he recalled, yet there was a calm about her he hadn’t expected.

  The tears were beginning again.

  “I found out about Bill a couple of hours ago when I got back.”

  Clark nodded, unable to add anything himself.

  “Oh God, Clark! Judy was just comforting me yesterday! I…I was going to go to her as soon as I heard, but…I can’t, and I don’t know why.”

  “It’s all right, Misty. You’re still in shock.”

  She was nodding through her tears, which were flowing freely.

  “I’m in shock in more ways than one,” she
replied, leaving a part of Clark’s mind searching for the predicate to her words.

  “We thought you’d left for good,” he said.

  “I had. I made it as far as Pocatello. I just wanted to put as much distance between me and this place as possible, and I guess I was lead-footing it because I got stopped by the Idaho State Patrol, who wanted to see registration and insurance for Jeff’s truck. I found them in his glove compartment, which is where I also found this.” She held up an envelope and several pages of paper in a plastic sleeve.

  “What are they?”

  She sighed.

  “An envelope that says for me to open only in the event of Jeff’s death. I guess I should have just kept on going and cashed in, but…regardless of whatever anyone thinks of me for being Jeff’s girl…I do have some principles, and I draw the line at this stuff.”

  Clark leaned forward, truly puzzled. “Misty, I’m not understanding this. What was in the envelope?”

  She nodded. “Let me…tell it from the start, okay? ’Cause…I don’t know who to go to. I was going to go to Bill…and Judy…when I heard about the crash.”

  “And you waited for me?”

  She laughed briefly. “Yeah. Something Bill said about how steady a friend you’d been. But it was getting cold out here. I was going to watch your truck until you showed up.”

  “I’m listening, Misty. Take your time.”

  “I’m cold, Clark. Could you—”

  “Sure.” He started the engine and turned on the heater. “It’ll take a minute to warm up.”

  “Thanks. Okay. My biggest problem, Clark, has always been that I wanted to believe Jeff even when I knew he was lying. But women are like that, you know?”

  “I do.”

  “No one knows this, but I saw Jeff in the Caymans late last October, when there was no reason for him to be there. He was with a little blond copilot and flying a DC-6B that looked suspiciously like one of Jerry’s.”

  Clark shifted in the seat, his eyebrows involuntarily rising.

  “A DC-6B?”

  She nodded. “Turns out it was one of Jerry’s. I don’t know which one.”

  “The Caymans, you say?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It took me weeks to catch up with the rat, and when I did, he admitted everything…or so I thought.” She cocked her head. “Do you know about him being with the CIA?”

  Clark searched her eyes, wondering if somehow this was a failed attempt at humor. “That’s about the last affiliation I would have suspected. But, yes. Jerry told me this afternoon.”

  “Well, he was. And Jerry did know all about it because he leased Jeff all of his DC-6Bs, the one you fly, too, and the CIA used them for some South American thingy involving food and refugees or something. Jerry knew all that because the CIA paid him very well.”

  “How do you…I mean, do you know this for certain, Misty?”

  She was nodding vigorously. “Oh, yeah!”

  “Misty, Bill and I called the FBI yesterday because we found some very strange things about the DC-6 fleet that…well…that suggested maybe someone was flying them off the books during the winter.”

  “You were right,” she said. “And you know what else? Jerry got paid millions. He leased his airplanes to the CIA through Jeff.”

  Clark realized he’d been holding his breath and exhaled sharply. “I was having trouble believing that, Misty. But apparently it’s true.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she replied.

  Clark looked at her in some confusion. “What?”

  “Oh, it’s what Jerry believes. That he leased the airplanes to the CIA.”

  “He didn’t? You’re saying he thinks he did, but he didn’t?”

  “No. He leased his airplanes through Jeff and collected a fortune, but the lessees weren’t who he thought they were. Jeff fooled Jerry. And he fooled me. When I nailed his miserable hide to the wall on why he was in the Caymans, he gave me this long and detailed story and told me about flying DC-6s back and forth from maintenance in Florida to winter storage in New Mexico and then through the Caymans down to Ecuador and Peru.”

  “What…makes you think that isn’t true?”

  She leaned over and handed him the papers she’d been holding.

  “The first sheet is just the instructions he left me on where to find a series of hidden files he’d planted on my laptop. The second is a copy I printed out from one of those files.”

  To My Beautiful Misty—Your Eyes Only

  Baby, if I’ve directed you to open this file, then I’m either dead or missing. In any event, you are as of this moment a very rich woman, and I want you to take the money and run. But first, you have to know how to take care of yourself.

  I’m not with the CIA, babe. Never was. I hated lying to you about that, but you actually got the same story I gave Jerry to get him to lease me his airplanes. I’m not going to give you all the details, but let’s just say that I was actually brokering aircraft for certain interests in Colombia, and they paid me handsomely. I have to tell you this because even though I earned it, they’re liable to come poking around someday to see if they can steal it back.

  I paid Jerry a great deal of money that he thought came from the CIA, and in return, my clients got the use of some old, indestructible warhorse DC-6s, and I got very healthy financially as a result. With a little friendly maintenance tweaking to fuzz up the extra flying, the planes slipped back into the fold each spring in great shape, and no one was the wiser. Result? Three offshore accounts in different banks and islands containing a grand total of $6.4 million, as of April 25, 2003. All yours, doll! I’ve listed below the account numbers and the passwords, and each bank has specific instructions on file to release any and all funds to you as long as you have a copy of the coded authorization form that’s in this file. Document 2 of this group tells you how to keep your money safe and not alert the IRS, and what not to do! Document 3 is very dangerous, because it lists my Colombian clients, but it’s something you need to know because you do not EVER want to do business with or otherwise get to know or be around any of them. Remember, this is earned money, not stolen money, and the only trick is to keep Uncle from taking two-thirds of it as taxes.

  Also, do not confide in Trent Jones about anything, but especially this legacy to you. If he had any hint there was profit stashed away, he’d think he was entitled to some of it. He’s not. He’s already been paid handsomely.

  Bottom line, as they say? You never saw any of this and you know nothing! That’s the only way to stay safe. I know you like to be a woman of principle, but for God’s sake and your own, don’t go to Jerry or the cops with this or you’ll just blow it for yourself.

  The text went on to talk about how much he loved her, and how much he wanted her to enjoy being wealthy, and how much he hoped it was compensation for putting up with him and his serial womanizing.

  Clark looked up, thoroughly shocked. “Colombian clients?”

  “Yes,” Misty said.

  “What were they doing with our airplanes?”

  “What else would someone do with a fleet of DC-6Bs in Colombia? I’m not going to have anything to do with drug money, drug kingpins, or fooling the IRS, or anything.”

  “And this was on your computer?”

  “Yes. Embedded on my hard drive. I would have never found it. It’s a strange little numbered file in an obscure subdirectory that looks like one of those gazillion files Microsoft embeds, and it was a ‘hidden file’ at that. He’d made me memorize a password a year ago, and I could never figure out why, but he’d test me periodically to make sure I still remembered it. Now I know it was to unlock the file.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “I don’t know who to go to, Clark.”

  “This is a kind of will, Misty, but he never had the authority to sublease those planes. And, oh my God.”

  “What?”

  Clark swallowed hard and looked at her. “I’m guessing, because we don’t know the cause of the crash yet, but I’m
wondering if the wing came off Jeff’s aircraft due to unlogged abuse he himself caused.”

  “Poetic justice, I guess,” Misty said quietly.

  “Something like that,” Clark replied, looking down at the letter again. “He wasn’t even scheduled to fly that airplane. It was a last-minute switch.”

  Misty shook her head.

  “Clark, I loved the rat, but I wouldn’t have stayed with him for a second if I thought he was breaking the law or helping drug runners. Please believe me.”

  “I do. Don’t worry. This letter pretty well exonerates you.”

  The tears were flowing again.

  “There’s an FBI agent already investigating this, Misty. You need to…I mean…”

  “Why are you hesitating, Clark?”

  “Just…trying to work out the money thing for you.”

  She was shaking her head. “No. I’d rather wait tables than have blood money. I feel very strongly about that! That’s not my money, regardless of what Jeff says.”

  “What if the FBI and the courts disagree?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m no lawyer, but…this might really be yours.”

  “I’ll let the law decide. I don’t care.”

  Clark looked down at the printout again, digesting the amount of money Jeff had referenced. There was no choice, and she was right, but it was way beyond what his entire working life had produced, and that had staggered him for a second.

  “How do I find the FBI agent?” she asked.

  “His name is Todd Blackson. Hold on…” Clark fished for a slip of paper in his shirt pocket and punched in the agent’s cell phone number to arrange a meeting. He closed the phone.

  “He’d like us to meet him in ten minutes.”

  “Okay. Where?”

  “Across the field. Hangar One.”

  There were footsteps on the wooden stairway leading to Jerry Stein’s second-floor office.

  Jerry had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, wishing he was somewhere else and doing almost anything else. But Special Agent Blackson was obviously coming back with a question or two he’d forgotten to ask in a nearly two-hour interview. Blackson had arranged for a light twin belonging to another company to take him to Jackson Hole to interview Trent Jones. Obviously the intervening time was going to be spent with more embarrassing questions about his DC-6B fleet—questions for which an owner should have had ready answers.