The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  The room came with its own coffeepot, packs of creamer, and three different kinds of sweeteners. And it had cable TV. Cory Cantwell poured a premeasured pack of Folgers into a filter and filled the pot at the bathroom sink. As the coffee dripped, he reloaded the Glock’s 15-round magazine from the box of 147-grain Winchesters he kept in his overnight bag and then returned the pistol to his briefcase.

  He’d now killed five men with the Glock. Sure, they were terrorists, but still human beings, and their deaths hung heavy on him. His firearms instructor had fought in Afghanistan and said about that, “Cantwell . . . when the gunsmoke clears, better by far that you are the hero, not the victim. Keep that in mind.”

  Cantwell poured coffee and accompanied it with Jim Beam and cigarettes. When the pot and the bottle were empty, he showered and went to bed exhausted.

  He would always remember that despite the trauma of that day he slept like a baby.

  * * *

  In the morning, at six-thirty sharp, Nancy Payne woke up Cantwell with coffee, orange juice, and a McDonald’s bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit. She looked fresh and pretty, and he woke feeling a little rough. He put the blame on last night’s coffee. Had to be.

  “There’s a plane waiting for you in Redmond, Mr. Cantwell,” she said. “It seems that some bigwig out of Washington wants you in Arizona as soon as possible.”

  “Arizona? Cowboy country. Why, for God’s sake?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “A job for a Punisher?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Nancy looked genuinely puzzled. Then she said, trying to be helpful, “I saw the movie with John Travolta.”

  Cantwell managed a smile. “And I’m talking too much.” He picked up the Winston pack, found a crumpled cigarette inside, and said, “Hey, it’s my lucky day.”

  * * *

  There was a black, unmarked Ford Taurus waiting for Cory Cantwell at the Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, and its taciturn driver took him to a firefighting base camp in less than an hour.

  The camp was like a small town.

  All the resources of the firefighting apparatus had been mobilized. Air tankers and helicopters flew overhead, bulldozers and backhoes idled at the edge of camp, spewing diesel fumes. There were parked water trucks and buses, and near them were makeshift shower stalls and dining areas. Stacks of supplies filled most of the empty spaces between . . . cases of sleeping bags and clothing, tools and over-the-counter medications. Radios and piles of batteries, tents, and stakes. The entire National Wildfire Service was represented there. All of it in service of a fire that had already passed, already done its damage.

  Cory Cantwell introduced himself to the base manager, a tall, slender man named Stewart Fitch who’d once been a New York cop, and said, “So tell me why I’m here.”

  Fitch still had buzz-cut hair, and his eyes were guarded and wary, something his experience in the NYPD had taught him. Put him in a lineup of fifty men, and an experienced crook would spot the ex-cop in seconds.

  “Damned if I know why you’re here,” he said. “I wasn’t even told you were coming. Maybe it’s about the flash flood that killed Steve Bender’s team, but I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “Smoke jumpers drown while tackling a forest fire. Don’t that beat all?”

  “Hard to believe,” Cantwell said.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Fitch said. “But it happened, and it could happen again, I guess. Walk with me.” He kicked a loose rock that skittered through pine needles for twenty feet before coming to a halt. “I’ve heard things,” he said. He scratched a mosquito bite on the sun-reddened side of his neck. “Not good things. Well, not bad things either. I should say strange things.”

  “Tell me about them,” Cantwell said.

  “I heard some smoke jumpers are to be armed and turned into an anti-terrorism response unit,” Fitch said. He turned his head and looked at Cantwell. “Have you heard that?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard it,” Cantwell said.

  “Is it true?”

  “Yeah, it’s true.”

  “What kind of guys are in the unit? Ex-service?”

  “All smoke jumpers are eligible, but they’ve got to be volunteers.”

  “It sounds like an interesting job,” Fitch said.

  “It can also be dangerous,” Cantwell said.

  Fitch said, “All right, I’ll level with you, Superintendent Cantwell, I recognized your name. I heard you’re in command of the new unit. Is that true?”

  Cantwell saw no point in lying about it. “Yes, I’m the man in charge,” he said. “But I have no unit and no idea when one will be formed. It all depends on funding. Police and structural fire departments receive money for the possibility of terrorist attacks, but so far the land management agencies like our shiny new National Wildfire Service get little or nothing to plan for and detect arson threats.”

  Fitch could have asked more questions, but he saw Cantwell’s face tighten and decided to call it quits. He said, “Well, if and when you get the unit formed, count me in.”

  Cantwell smiled. “You’re my first volunteer.”

  “Better than ten pressed men, huh?” Fitch said.

  “So they say. Let’s keep in touch.”

  “Are smokers allowed?”

  “Cigarette smokers, you mean?”

  “Nah, I just took up smoking a pipe. My wife is pregnant, and she and my two kids hate it.”

  “There’s nothing in the rules that say I can’t recruit pipe smokers,” Cantwell said. “Or pot smokers, come to that.”

  Fitch nodded. “Glad to hear it.” Then he said, “Walk around if you like. If you’re hungry, we’ve a cafeteria of sorts set up in the tent over there. Fair-to-middling sandwiches and stale donuts mostly. We did have a chocolate cake, but that went fast.”

  A firefighter standing beside a pile of equipment called Fitch’s name, and the man said, “I got to go. Talk to you later, Cantwell.”

  But for Stewart Fitch there was destined to be no later.

  * * *

  Cory Cantwell walked around the camp, deeply disturbed by what he saw. The flash flood deaths, coming on at the end of a long season of firefighting, had taken a heavy emotional toll on the firefighters, even more so because there was no one to blame. It had been an act of nature, and they knew it.

  Cantwell shook his head. The fire was out, the floodwaters had subsided . . . so he asked himself what the hell was he doing there? No doubt time would tell. He got a ham-and-cheese sandwich, a bag of chips, and a bottle of Diet Pepsi from a commissary tent and sat outside on a patch of grass where he’d already dumped his pack. He finished the sandwich and leaned back, intending to rest for a moment. The drowsy day was warm, birds rustled in the surrounding pines, and insects made their small sounds in the brush. Cantwell closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  “Superintendent Cantwell?”

  A woman’s voice. For a moment he thought it was Nancy Payne and was fully awake in an instant. Two people looked down at him. One was a short, stocky man with a large mustache and an unruly shock of white hair. Beside him, carrying a black leather briefcase, stood a young woman in a dark business suit over a white silk blouse. At that moment, Cory Cantwell thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was not pretty in the conventional sense, rather she was handsome, with slightly masculine features, especially her strong chin and high, prominent cheekbones. Her eyes, slightly amused, were hazel, green predominating, and her wavy auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders, except for an S-shaped strand that had fallen onto her high forehead. Cantwell’s gaze went to her shapely legs and high-heeled shoes, the first he’d ever seen in a base camp.

  Cantwell scrambled to his feet as the older man extended his hand to him. He then became suddenly aware that he was still holding the triangular, plastic sandwich wrapper in his right hand. He quickly shoved it into his pants pocket, and it just as promptly fell out again. As the woman smiled, he ignored the damned
wrapper, stuck out his hand, and said, “I’m Cantwell.”

  And where I have seen you before?

  “Jacob Sensor,” the man said, shaking his hand.

  Of course. The famous fixer.

  It was widely rumored that Jacob Sensor was the power behind the President, the man who had supposedly urged her to run in the first place. What Sensor wanted, the President wanted, too, or so it was said. The hostile, liberal media called him a lackey masquerading as an honorary senator, but Sensor was nobody’s errand boy. He was tough, intelligent, tightly wound, and as ruthless as a Borgia pope.

  Cantwell smiled. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “We’ll come to that in a moment,” Sensor said. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Clint Eastwood?”

  “Not recently, sir,” Cantwell said.

  “Well, you do,” Sensor said. He turned to the woman. “Doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I guess so.”

  To Cantwell’s disappointment, she didn’t seem too impressed.

  Sensor said, “Superintendent Cantwell, you’re heading up the new anti-terrorist unit. Am I right?”

  “The Punishers? Yes, I am.”

  “No, Mr. Cantwell . . . a thousand times no,” Sensor said. “I don’t like that name. It’s sensationalist and indicative of how this . . . thing . . . was thrown together by the Homeland Security Administration without any real thought or planning. At this time, how many anti-terrorist firefighting personnel are under your command?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Cantwell said.

  “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “How many can you contact in an emergency?”

  “None, sir.”

  Sensor shook his head. “Well, that’s honest at least.” He looked long at Cantwell, studying the younger man’s face. Then he said, “Judging by what happened yesterday, terrorists know who you are and what you are, and the media is getting wind of it.”

  “It would seem that way, sir,” Cantwell said. “They say we’re killing birdwatchers and innocent tourists instead of people who hate us.”

  “Yes, it would seem that way,” Sensor said. “And they know who I am, so we’re very much in the same boat, or should I say, sinking ship. Sinking, that is, until we can get your unit organized. For that I need the President’s support, and to get that support, especially funding, I must present her with a coherent plan. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, sir,” Cantwell said. “But at present I am aware of no plan, coherent or otherwise.”

  “Then it’s high time we had one, and that why I’m here,” Sensor said. “Every American forest is currently at grave risk of a future pyroterrorist attack. Fire can unleash the latent energy in our woodlands to achieve the effect of mass destruction. We, and by that I mean you, me, and everyone else living in government must make the threat known to the public and have them understand this dire danger to our homeland. Did you know that there are more houses built in the countryside than in our cities? As an example, Montana is a choice terrorist target because of the vast population increase in its forested valleys. Pyroterrorism in the western states is real, and it’s no longer a question of if but when.”

  “States like Montana have first-rate National Guard units,” Cantwell said. “Can’t the guard be deployed where the danger is greatest?”

  “How long does it take to deploy a National Guard unit?” Sensor said. “By the time they arrived, the fire would have run its course, like cops showing up twenty minutes after a bank robbery.” He shook his gray head. “No, armed smoke jumpers are the answer. They can get to the attack site while the terrorists are still in the area.” Sensor glanced over his shoulder as though fearful that someone may be listening. “Kill enough of the arsonists, and the rest will think twice before they even set foot in a forest. That’s my opinion, and I’m trying to get the President to agree with me.”

  The older man stepped closer. “Superintendent Cantwell, there’s one very important point you should be aware of . . . wildfires from terrorism are much more damaging than naturally occurring fires. In other words, strategically placing the ignition points affects how the flames spread over the landscape, and this is a technique that must be taught by experts. Let’s hope that we don’t have disgruntled traitors in our midst.”

  Unbidden, Mike Norris sprang into Cory Cantwell’s mind, and he instantly dismissed the thought as disloyal and treacherous. For all his faults, Mike was a patriot, and his hatred for the National Wildfire Service would do nothing to alter that. Cantwell felt ashamed of himself, but his moment of self-flagellation passed when Sensor started talking again.

  “From now on, you must be discreet, Superintendent Cantwell,” the man said. “Yes, by all means go ahead and recruit new members for your team, but do it in the utmost secrecy. The last thing I want is to panic the public and send the media into a feeding frenzy. But the fact remains that pyroterrorists present a serious and present danger to our country, and they must be dealt with and soon . . . if we can find the money. Did you know the liberals in Congress are pushing their OBOA bill, and it could soon pass the House?”

  “I’ve never heard of it.” Cantwell said. “What does it mean?”

  Sensor said, “OBOA . . . Open Borders, Open Arms. Do you believe that crap?”

  “I’m sure if the bill passes, terrorists will love it,” Cantwell said.

  “Damn right. Hell, they love it already. Those who would do our nation harm are well aware that I oppose OBOA and will do everything in my power to see it defeated in the Senate. That’s why I’m a marked man, or so the CIA and FBI tell me.”

  “Then you should have bodyguards, surely?” Cantwell said. He looked around the camp. “Where are they?”

  “I’ve no use for them,” Sensor said. “I don’t want to be the mark surrounded by a bunch of guys in black suits wearing sunglasses and earpieces that only attract a would-be assassin’s attention.” He smiled. “Besides, I don’t need a bodyguard. I’m a Texas boy born and bred, and I can look after myself.”

  Cantwell said, “Sir, I’ve already dealt with five terrorists, and each one of them did his best to kill me. I can’t do it all by myself, nor do I want to. The bottom line is that I’m a firefighter, not a paid killer.”

  “Unfortunately, the only way to fight foreign killers is with killers of our own,” Sensor said. “If the President signs off on it, and I see no reason why she won’t, by next spring I plan to expand your unit to a hundred men and women, each trained as an arsonist fighter. And that is why I want you to take my young protégé here under your wing.” Sensor placed his hand on the woman’s arm and urged her forward. “I rescued Sarah Milano from a Department of Homeland Security desk job, and I know you will give her every courtesy.”

  The woman saw the doubt in Cory Cantwell’s face and said, “I graduated from Harvard with a degree in environmental science and engineering, and I passed FBI qualification in the Glock 19M, the Remington 870P shotgun, and both the AR-15 and M-16.” She smiled. “And sometimes for recreation I shoot the Colt Python .357 my father gave me as a graduation present. I do love Colt snake guns, Mr. Cantwell.”

  “You’ve shot at paper targets. Have you ever killed another human being?” Cantwell said.

  Sensor answered that. “No, she has not. But if she ever has to, I’m sure Miss Milano will acquit herself well.” For a moment, he watched a backhoe maneuvering around a felled tree trunk and then said, “Cantwell, I want Miss Milano and you to act as a team. You’re familiar with Western firefighting, and you’ll teach her what you know. What you don’t already know, you’ll learn together. I want you to discover where we are most vulnerable to terrorist attack. Acting on your recommendations, we’ll base our armed smoke jumper teams close to those locations. If anyone, and I mean anyone from the President on down, gives you a hard time, call me. In the meantime, you’ll have my complete moral and financial support, but let Miss Milano
handle the finances. She’s had some accounting training and is very good with budget matters. Now, do you understand all that?”

  Cantwell nodded. Sensor looked tough, hard-eyed, and competent, a man of action with no backup in him. Cantwell was sure that hidden under his coat he had an old Texas shootin’ iron tucked into his waistband with a dozen notches on the handle. “How long do I have to turn Miss Milano into a Punisher?” he said. He was irritated and used the forbidden word on purpose, a man forced into a job he now wanted no part of, with a woman . . . well, who could prove to be a complication.

  “You have as long as it takes,” Sensor said. “All I ask is that you give me the basis for an anti-terrorism unit that can stop the arson wildfires.” He smiled. “Simple, isn’t it? A piece of cake.”

  Cantwell had nothing more to say. and Sarah Milano seemed to be deep in thought.

  “Well, good luck to you both,” Sensor said. “Mr. Cantwell, don’t underestimate the terrorists. They’re well organized and have unlimited funds supplied by several oil-rich nations in the Middle East, and their command and control is simple. I believe one man lies at the heart of the Fire Warrior operation, and if your unit can find him, and kill him, the threat will cease.”

  “At least until they put a new man in charge,” Cantwell said.

  “Yes, but by then, God willing, we’ll be better prepared,” Sensor said.

  Cantwell was surprised and more than a little unsettled. When a powerful Washington politician invokes the Deity, things must be really serious.

  Base manager Fitch stepped beside Sensor and said, “If you’re ready, I can take you to the gully where the flash flood happened, Mr. Sensor. But I warn you, there isn’t much to see . . . rocks and water, mud puddles, and then more rocks and water.”

  “Nevertheless, I told the President I’d visit the place,” Sensor said. “She wants to set up a memorial cairn at the spot, and for once both political parties are behind her.”