Wild Fire

by M. L. Buchman

  It might not be an escape, but at least it was a temporary reprieve.

  Except they were wheels up out of both Da Nang and Dong Ha in record time. The last hour and a quarter flight up to Dong Hoi should have been fun, pointing out the sights as they flew over rice paddies, sand dunes, beach, and river. Instead, an awkward silence reigned.

  “Sorry,” was all she could think to say as they descended into Dong Hoi.

  “No worries,” Janet had latched onto the Aussie-ism.

  “We’re just worried about you,” Brad agreed.

  “I mean we know it has to do with, you know, some guy.”

  “Yeah, some guy,” Ripley would be tearing her hair out if she wasn’t wearing a helmet.

  “But seriously, Rip. You gotta get your shit together, girl.”

  “Thanks, Janet. I didn’t know that.” Ripley once again followed the Beech King Air into the airport. Was she going to be stuck following in Gordon’s wake all day? Forever? No way! But her protest sounded lame even to her own ears.

  San bay Dong Hoi was a small airport. A single concrete strip with a small terminal building and a parking apron that could handle only two regional jets at a time. A second parking apron had been built, but had nothing around it except for low grassy fields, perfect for their operation.

  Unlike the relatively leisurely pace at the previous airports, Mount Hood Aviation slammed into full gear the moment they hit the ground.

  Firehawk Oh-two had the container of Denise and Brenna’s service shop set at the edge of the apron and in moments they and Janet were thoroughly checking over each aircraft.

  Firehawk Oh-one set down the launch-and-recovery trailer for the small drone and Ripley made sure she was there to see what was going on.

  Steve and Carly worked together with the efficient unison of long practice. MHA must have owned this setup for a while for them to get so smooth. In moments they had the trailer’s stabilizers down. From Oh-one’s cargo bay they carried over a black case eighteen inches square and four feet long. Sure enough, it was a disassembled ScanEagle drone.

  She’d seen them on the aircraft carrier, but never up close like this. It was a sleek package, like a fat mailing tube with a pointed nose. Within minutes, they’d bolted on a pair of five-foot wings, a tail section, and a two-bladed propeller the length of her forearm attached to its tiny engine. In the payload bay, Steve inserted a pair of cameras, daylight and infrared, and a communications module the size of Ripley’s hand. A gallon of fuel and then the tiny engine buzzed to life. After warning everyone back, Steve shot the drone aloft with a sharp snap and hiss of compressed air from the launcher.

  “Fifteen minutes to the fire. I’ll have images for you then,” Steve announced in general as he climbed back into Oh-one’s cargo bay. He had a console there of three screens, a keyboard, and a set of flight controls.

  Ripley was shocked when she saw the billowing smoke that was revealed as soon as he had the ScanEagle turned and headed inland. What state had her brain been in that she hadn’t seen that coming in? This was the narrowest part of the country, just fifty kilometers from the beach to the Laotian border. The ScanEagle only flew at a hundred-and-forty kilometers an hour but it was already sending back images that told her one thing: this fire was a bad one.

  “People!” Mark called out and soon everyone except Steve and the three mechanics were huddled around a topography map covered in markings.

  There was also a Vietnamese woman there. She was as short as Denise and as slender as Vanessa.

  “This is Vo Thi Chau Tham. She will be our liaison for this fire. Ms. Vo is the assistant supervisor of the Provincial Fire District.”

  She wasn’t what Ripley had expected, though she wasn’t sure why. The supervisor wore work boots, fitted jeans, and a silk blouse that she wore like everyday wear but was gloriously colored in an ornate orange and gold floral pattern. Her straight black hair fell halfway down her back in a neat ponytail. She looked beautiful and delicate and when she spoke, her voice was very light.

  “Please simply call me Tham Chau. That is my first and second middle name and it will be easiest for all of you. It is how a friend would call to me,” Tham Chau said in perfect, unaccented English with just the slight sing-song of her native tongue that might be soft, but it was pure business. “This is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park. There is a small airport here by the park, Khe Gat Airfield, that would have been ideal for your use, except that it is currently on fire. Over a thousand hectares have burned.”

  That earned her some low whistles of surprise. Twenty thousand acres, thirty square miles. This was a monster.

  “It is accelerating not slowing,” Tham Chau continued. “It is not contained on any side and it is beyond our capabilities. These marks on the map are our army personnel, these the firefighting teams. We have five hundred people on the fire. More are coming. And this is the burned area.” Even as she indicated the perimeter, a man with a handheld radio rushed up and expanded the line adding another hundred acres or so.

  There were several gentle coughs and grim expressions around the circle. There were a half-dozen helicopters on a fire that would normally call for two dozen plus air tankers and a couple thousand strong, professional ground crew.

  “We have very little experience with wildfire in our country,” Tham Chau concluded sadly.

  And right there Gordon knew he was in trouble.

  The Vietnamese didn’t just need someone to coordinate the helicopters…they needed someone to coordinate the firefight. Someone to choose where to risk ground teams and how to cut off a blaze of this scale. But how had MHA known, or whoever was pulling the strings on Mount Hood Aviation…like perhaps the US military or the State Department…ah! How had they known to move the team here?

  “We,” Tham Chau continued, “have had many small fires over these last weeks. Finally, five days ago, this one escaped from us and we could not stop it.”

  That at least explained the timing. Or rather the last part of the timing. Four days ago they had been awakened at dawn to leave Cooktown, Australia. How much happenstance was it that the Carrier Strike Group had been passing at that moment? And that MHA was practicing fire tactics in FNQ rather than central Oregon for the week before that? Which begged the question of just how deep was the shit he was standing in?

  “Have you determined the origin of the fires?” Ripley was obviously wondering at the timeline as well. No. She was asking about the multiple fires.

  “Munitions.”

  All attention riveted on Tham Chau.

  “Most of our fires are started by old bombs. A farmer digs them up to reclaim the metal, or he starts a small fire to clear land and it ignites an old bomb, and it is now a big fire.”

  Gordon wasn’t the only one to look uncomfortably aloft. What must it have been like to have flights of B-52s sweeping by overhead and laying down massive carpets of destruction.

  “It did not work,” Tham Chau said, misreading Gordon’s thoughts. “Many attempts were made by your air force to start forest fires during the Second Indochina War, but they failed against the rich moisture of our jungles. But now, we are in our worst drought in a century and have broken many temperature records this year. Humidity is at a record low and this is also taking moisture from our trees. That is why the fire is so out of season.”

  Steve brought over a large tablet screen and laid it down beside the map. It was a live feed from the ScanEagle drone. Dense jungle, thick smoke, and an overlaid heat map. The fire was progressing on every front, though most rapidly toward the north.

  “Tell me about the terrain,” Gordon turned back to the liaison, only at that moment realizing that Mark was there but not saying a word. He was leaving Gordon to take the lead…a pattern he really had to ask about soon.

  “It is very rugged and there are very few roads. There are two great rivers,” Tham Chau traced the lines with a delicate hand, “and over three hundred caves. Our Son Doong C
ave is the largest in the world. It can only be reached by a two-day hike. Most of the hike must be upon, sorry, in the river. There are more than twenty peaks that reach over a thousand meters. The valleys are very narrow and deep.”

  “So, basically an absolute nightmare for firefighting,” Vern commented.

  “Worst that I’ve ever seen,” Mickey agreed. As he was the longest-term heli-aviation firefighter on the team, the only one with more years than Gordon, that was not a good sign.

  Gordon studied the map, then tapped his finger at the marked point of origin.

  “We start here. Robin’s and Jeannie’s Firehawks on the right flank with Mickey’s little 212 flying cleanup.”

  “Hey!” Mickey protested and Gordon ignored him and kept his smile to himself. Score one for the home team.

  “Vern, Ripley, and Vanessa…”

  “Her helicopter is smaller than mine.”

  Gordon kept ignoring him. “…you’re working the left flank.”

  “You are ignoring the main fire?” Tham Chau sounded worried.

  “Yes, for now,” he reassured her before she could protest. “The flanks are expanding sideways. If we try to tackle the head, the flanks will overrun us. If we can contain the flanks, then we can start narrowing the head. Until then, simply tell your people up near the head to stay out of harm’s way. Every hand who can get there, help us defend the flanks.”

  Tham Chau watched him for a long moment. He couldn’t read her eyes, narrowed to thin slits. Then she looked at the other waiting pilots.

  Finally she nodded.

  “It seems that these people trust you. For now I will do the same,” she rested a fine hand on his arm to reinforce her statement. “I will fly with you so that I may interpret on the radio.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure that will be very helpful,” Gordon nodded. Then he called out, “Denise? We good to go?”

  “All birds fueled and checked.”

  “Good. Janet,” Gordon called over to her. “You’re grounded. You and Brenna are my lead mechanics. I want record speed on turnovers for every helicopter and full safety checks every time they rotate back here for refuel.” He pointed at Denise. “Feel free to tie her down if that’s what it takes to keep her off her feet as much as possible.”

  “Hey!”

  But it was easy to ignore Denise’s protest when he saw the relief on Vern’s face.

  “Think of yourself as one of those white-vested types on the aircraft carrier in charge of safety. You can check your team all you want, but you pick up so much as a socket wrench and I will have them tie you down.”

  Denise planted fists on her hips, but the baby must have kicked because a moment later her hands were on her belly and all the protest slipped out of her face. The soft look that replaced it was a wonder to behold.

  “Let’s go, people.”

  All of the pilots ran for their aircraft, except Ripley. Instead she ran up to him and pulled him into a kiss hotter than any he’d received since Australia, maybe hotter than he’d ever received. It fired through him in a flash of heat that could melt a path through a Wyoming blizzard.

  “What was that for?” He managed when it ended as abruptly as it started.

  “I’m not the possessive type, so this will sound weird. I just want you to be sure you remember which one of us belongs in your bed.”

  “Which one of who?” Would he ever understand women?

  “The lovely Ms. Tham Chau.”

  “What about her?” He looked around and spotted her climbing aboard the Beechcraft with Mark. She was very attractive; he simply hadn’t thought about it.

  “You didn’t notice her coming on to you?”

  “Was she?”

  “Oh, god,” Ripley brushed her lips over his. “You really are too sweet for words.” Then she turned him and gave him a hard shove toward his plane before she ran over to the Aircrane.

  Gordon just shook his head as he climbed aboard and pulled up the stairway that turned into the door.

  He knew exactly who belonged in his bed. He was a little surprised at Ripley though, after all of her protests of “No, never.”

  Definitely a good sign that at least some part of her psyche was on his side of the question. Now he just needed to tip over the rest of her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The battle of the fire flanks was mostly won by nightfall. Vanessa’s MD and Mickey’s 212 weren’t night-drop certified, but the other four helicopters were and kept right on going.

  Gordon had them run another two hours, but he knew they were tiring. So he’d stationed Vanessa, Mickey, and Mark on the three Firehawks and climbed aboard the Diana Prince himself, taking the observer’s seat. He figured that the fresh blood and on-board conversations would get him another couple of hours of useful flight time before everyone was too ragged to be safe. It was hard to believe that twenty-four hours ago they’d still been on the aircraft carrier for a long, sleepless night while being harassed by the Chinese Chengdus.

  Being back in the firefight felt good, familiar. He could forget all of his concerns about why they were here and what Mark was trying to do with him. Flying above the fire was beginning to feel familiar, enough so that it was a relief from the other worries. But even sitting in the Diana Prince reminded him of who he really was. He was a heli-pilot first.

  Steve had set him up with the tablet, and Gordon was frequently conferring with him and Carly as their Fire Behavior Analyst. But for this stage of the firefight, very little guidance was needed. With a second tactical display, he might not even need the Beech King Air. Mounting a couple more radios and keeping Steve’s drone aloft would make this an ideal control location.

  Tham Chau had been formally polite, even pleasant, but Ripley’s “declaration” must have worked. Tham Chau had been very helpful, but politely distant throughout the day.

  During the day, MHA and the Vietnamese ground teams had gotten it down to the point where the need for radio communication was minimal. And for the nighttime work, he’d told Tham Chau to have them all pull back to a safe distance and get some sleep.

  Tomorrow, they would return to the routine they’d worked out. The helicopters would fly over and douse the fire enough to knock it out of the crowns of the lush Indian mahogany, the towering Hopea, and the mid-story guava crape myrtle. The ground teams—just like the US teams, armed primarily with saws, shovels, and flails—would cut out the laurel, camellia, and wild rose undergrowth, then bury and beat the fire to death. When the helos hit the next section, the ground teams would follow along.

  Small teams, mostly those flagging from the exhaustion from the long days they’d already been on the fire, were intentionally left behind. They worked along at a slower pace as the mop-up crew. The helos also worked back and forth across the middle of The Black between the two flanks, killing hotspots so that the fire hopefully wouldn’t reignite behind them.

  “It seems like we’re making progress.”

  Gordon could hear the weariness in Ripley’s voice over the intercom and didn’t want to disappoint her. But he was looking at the feed Steve was still running from his drone. The ScanEagle had a twenty-four hour loiter time on a single tank of fuel, so it was acting as their infrared nighttime eye in the sky.

  “That bad, huh?” She prompted again, trying to make it funny, which he appreciated.

  “We’re doing well against the flanks.”

  “Victory!” Ripley crowed it out with far more energy than he could muster. “Hey, at this point I’ll celebrate any little thing.”

  Looking out the observer’s large window, Gordon contemplated the fire. Even more than back in his poor dead MD, the view here was astonishing. There was no console at all blocking his view, just a small set of flight controls placed conveniently by his right hand that would allow very fine control of any hoisting operation. For fire operation, he looked up into the front end of the water tank. Looking down, everything below was wide open to view, racing away from him at a hund
red miles an hour.

  The darkness of the night jungle was complete. Phong Na and the other small villages near the southeast side of the park had been evacuated. Not a single light showed in the night. Their chances of saving the villages were miniscule, but at least no lives were at risk there. Out of the intense darkness, the first fire in this area would show up. Because his observer’s seat faced backward, each appearance was a surprise when the Aircrane rushed over it and each fire appeared suddenly.

  A small one popped into view. Then another. A third to the right and a fourth directly below. He could see a ground team tackling the last, the humans garishly lit by the flame’s glow. Once a fire escaped its first few acres, hand-to-fire combat—with a lot of air support—was the only true solution. The final battle was always fought on the ground.

  The head fire still had him stumped. It was climbing into the three hundred square miles of Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park. He, Mark, and Tham Chau had flown low over that country. It was beautiful, immensely wild, and many of the evergreens that defined the majority of this section of jungle were wilting; some even had browning leaves. The tops of the conifers were drooping. The wet season hadn’t arrived on schedule, and the summer heat wasn’t easing. The gentle October fall was baking more like a country that…well, was too close to the equator.

  But the fire wasn’t…right.

  He couldn’t identify the itch. Maybe it was because these species burned differently, but that didn’t feel right. Perhaps there was weaker Coriolis effect this close to the equator, making the fire smoke move wrong. But it was more than that. No matter how Gordon studied the fire—from the air, on Steve’s data feeds, or on the ground reports combined on Tham Chau’s maps—something wasn’t making sense.

  None of the other pilots felt it. Mark had tried to act as a sounding board, but hadn’t been any help. Carly was too involved with the active fire’s behavior to see past that. And he was reluctant to approach more of them, not even Ripley, for fear he was quietly losing it. Perhaps he’d just gotten his brain rattled when he crashed.