The Ides of Matt 2015

by M. L. Buchman

  Helo 41 twisted to the left and she could see the silhouette of the pilot looking down and to the side, but still couldn’t tell his age or build. “Yep, that does indeed look like you have a fire, Ms. Swallow Hill. And right on your front stoop.”

  Then the helicopter twisted back to face her rather than diving down for a closer look.

  “If you don’t mind my sayin’, Ms. Swallow Hill. Never have seen you out of your glass tower before. I can see that I was missing a fine sight. A fine sight indeed.”

  Before she could think how to respond, he’d slammed over his controls and half rolled into a plummet down the valley.

  So, he liked the way she looked. Big deal. Most guys liked how she looked. Then she raised her binoculars and focused them down the slope again.

  “Wish’t,” she imitated his voice, “I’d a thought to look through this here contraption when you were a might closer, Mister Tyler.” Instead of Tyler’s smooth Colorado, it came out more Mexican-Italian-Texan which sounded even stupider out loud than she’d imagined. A burst of giggles tickled its way up her throat and she was never one to hold back a giggle when it came.

  So, he thought she was pretty? Well, with that gorgeous voice of his, he didn’t have to be a handsome one. Maybe she’d find a way to meet him…when there wasn’t a fire on her mountain.

  For now she’d just sit and watch the airshow.

  5

  Six hours later she wished she could just sit and watch.

  Tankers were on other fires. Helos were spread thin. Most of the smokies were in Colorado. And the Swallow Creek Fire was taking unfair advantage of their lack of attention. The south side of Swallow Hill was engulfed in flame and the plume of smoke kept blanking out Marta’s view.

  She’d retreated into the cab, closed the windows and doors, and donned a dust filter mask so that she didn’t choke on the ash.

  “Hang on, sweet thing,” was all the warning she had before Tyler unleashed a hundred and forty gallons of water over her cab. It whumped down onto the roof with a crash like thunder. The half-ton of water striking in a single blow made the cab shake its head like a wet dog shedding bathwater. The structure shuddered and then calmed.

  It was a good move, once she was over the shock of it. Soak down the tower so that no stray ember alighted and caught the place on fire.

  Soaking down the tower.

  That was definitely not a good sign. You didn’t do that unless the fire was close.

  If she had to move, it was going to be fast. Her big pack would slow her down too much. She grabbed her fanny pack and shoved in a small medical kit along with spare batteries for her radio, and a water bottle. She pulled down her favorite family photo, parents and two hopelessly dense but terribly handsome older brothers gathered at Manuel and Graziella’s wedding. She kissed the photo for good luck, snapped a can of bear-repellent pepper spray onto the belt along with a foil fire shelter—because a firefighter is always prepared, even when she’s a lookout tower woman on the verge of totally freaking out.

  And then she couldn’t think what else to do.

  The helos were losing the battle and she was losing options.

  Ten minutes. She was a fast runner. Marta would give them ten more minutes and then she’d be jackrabbitting down the trail and to hell with the firefight.

  6

  At fifteen minutes, she’d eased down three of the five flights of steps, reluctant to leave the Swallow Hill Lookout un-womaned in the middle of a fire.

  The air was thick with smoke and growing hotter by the minute. She could taste the char right through her filter mask. The fire’s roar, always a distant thunder in her experience, was now a passing freight train. It wouldn’t be long before it was a jet engine at max thrust, and just as hot.

  At seventeen minutes, she’d made it down another flight and the steel handrail was warm against her palm.

  Was the air clearer? Or was it her imagination? She looked up and couldn’t see the cab at all. It was wrapped in a shroud of smoke that was climbing the hill and soaring aloft.

  Okay. It was her imagination. That and she was getting closer to the ground.

  The airshow had become a distant sound, muffled by the fire’s thunder, but she could still pick them out. Another helo had just arrived. A tanker as well. But Tyler had left to refuel just a moment ago.

  She checked her watch, had to rub at her eyes to make them focus.

  Duh!

  Marta rinsed her eyes from the water bottle, dried them with the hem of her t-shirt, and then pulled on the goggles that habit had shoved onto her hair.

  Now she could see her watch. Tyler had been gone twenty minutes. Long enough to refuel in Missoula and get back here? Probably. Maybe he was the returning helicopter she could hear circling above the tower. That meant there was still only him and the tanker. It made her feel safer, knowing he was close by.

  She heard him setting up for another pass, then she heard a high buzzing sound—impossibly close to her. She thought she saw motion out of the corner of her eye, but it was gone into the smoke too fast to be sure.

  Seconds later she heard an odd crunch. Something mechanical and it didn’t sound good.

  “Goddamn it!” Tyler. On the radio. Swearing.

  That didn’t sound good at all.

  “Helo 41 report!” The Incident Air Commander called down when Tyler didn’t continue.

  “Hobbyist drone over the fire. It came up out of the smoke and I think I hit it.”

  “Any issue?”

  “Assessing.”

  Marta tried to breathe. Tried to count seconds in her head. Tried to think of some way to help him—

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Helo 41. Tail rotor not responding, I have to put it down, fast. Visibility zero. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

  “Tyler!” Marta screamed at the sky.

  And then, almost as if he’d heard her, his helo plunged down out of the smoke so close by that it felt as if she could touch him.

  A blade clipped the steel tower not five feet above her head. With a horrible metallic rending sound and a high whistle, a chunk of rotor blade flashed by her head.

  She dove down the last flight of stairs, rolled on the ground, and looked up in time to see the helicopter hit the rocky slope, bounce upward, then thump down hard, crushing one of its long skids.

  He’d been moving so fast; the helicopter careened and tumbled down the slope.

  Marta was away from the platform and racing after the helo even while it still rolled. The five thin blades battered and flailed at the rock. Chunks flew in every direction.

  A hard dodge to one side and a four-foot section missed her by mere inches. She barely noticed, her whole being focused on reaching Tyler through the mayhem.

  The helo balanced upside down for a long moment, perched on the remains of its rotor head. Then in an almost lazy last gasp, it rolled back onto the meadow—most of the way onto its belly.

  Marta reached the bird and finally realized where it had stopped. Another half roll and it would have tumbled right off of Swallow Hill, a two thousand foot fall down a cliff face too steep to walk without a rope.

  She reached the door, yanking with sheer adrenaline until she had it free.

  Someone was shouting on the radio.

  Wasn’t Tyler.

  So didn’t matter.

  Tyler lay sideways in his harness. Slowly, so slowly, he twisted around to look at her.

  He had a half dozen cuts on his face and was bleeding from several of them, but none of them badly. Despite the cuts and blood, she could see that while he wasn’t beautiful—so much for girlish fantasies—his face had a ruggedness that was quite attractive.

  He offered her a sideways smile, then hissed and reached up a hand to gently test a split lip. His eyes had not left her face for a second.

 
“Hello there, Ms. Swallow Hill. Sorry for dropping in unannounced like this. Poor form for a gentleman come calling.”

  “Terribly poor form,” she did her best to match his tone. “Let’s get y’all out of there before something worse happens.”

  “There’s only one of me.”

  “What?” She climbed into the cockpit to help him.

  “Y’all isn’t singular, Ms. Hill. It’s for a group of folks. Especially if they’re from the Deep South, which I’m not.”

  “Then how’s that sentence supposed to go,” she worked his harness free and did her best to ignore how close together they were in the tiny space, she kneeling on the tilted co-pilot’s seat, him still strapped into the pilot’s position.

  “Should be: ‘Let’s get you out of there…’.” He spoke in a deadpan accentless voice, clearly making fun of her, but trailed off in a way she didn’t like.

  There were no obvious signs of blood. So maybe he’d just been concussed rather than collapsing into shock. She’d taken the standard First Aid course for lookouts, but it wasn’t much. The bottom line for a lookout was: do anything to yourself worse than a small cut and you’re screwed. Help was a long way off.

  Between them, they maneuvered him out of the cockpit. The smoke was getting thicker and she’d lost her mask and goggles somewhere during the sprint. A path of destruction had been flattened through the tall meadow grass by the helicopter’s tumble. It was a wonder he was still alive.

  “My ankle isn’t working quite right.”

  They both looked down as he clung to her. It was twisted to the side. Grotesquely.

  She looked at him, liking that he was a couple inches taller than her own height, and did her best to keep her voice light, “I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that.”

  “Not if I want to go walking anywhere on it,” he agreed and continued to hang onto her.

  “Where’s my pilot? Tyler, report!” The ICA’s voice screamed from her radio.

  She pulled it out, “I’ve got him. But his ankle is broken. Request immediate medivac.”

  The stream of vitriol that poured out of the radio was quite impressive.

  “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s rarely a passionate man, except about his pilots,” Tyler whispered close to her jaw, with his nose practically buried in her ear. “Hey, Ms. Swallow. You smell right nice. Like—”

  Something romantic?

  “Like, tomato sauce.”

  Crap! She must have rubbed her hand in her hair while she was cleaning up her mess from the hike up. “It’s an…old family recipe.”

  “Good enough to eat.”

  She considered taking offense, but if he was coming onto her, he wasn’t doing it with a grope or a grab, so she’d tolerate it for the moment.

  “Swallow Hill, this is ICA. I can’t get to you. The entire peak is shrouded in smoke and you have my only helo in the area. Can you confirm the hobbyist drone?”

  Tyler pointed with the hand that wasn’t around her shoulder at the mangled tail of his wrecked aircraft. There was the remains of something white and mechanical caught in the rear rotor blade. She didn’t know how to fly, but she knew a helicopter didn’t do so well without its rear rotor.

  “Roger that, ICA. Have visual on a hobbyist drone, or at least the remains of one.”

  “I’m gonna kill the bugger that flew that thing. I swear I am. Tyler, I have to pull back the tanker; I can’t have him hitting a second drone. We can’t get through the smoke even if I had a helo local. You’ll have to take care of yourself.”

  Marta held the mike up to Tyler’s mouth and hit the Transmit key for him.

  “Not a problem, Mark. I’m right comfortable where I’m standing.” And Marta was too. Very comfortable. He had an arm around her shoulders, and she around his waist, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for them to stand that way. He was just an inch or so taller than she was and she was upgrading that ruggedness to very good-looking.

  “No,” the ICA called back. “You’re not. The fire is going to crest the ridge in ten minutes and there isn’t a thing we can do to stop it, even if there weren’t any other drones in the air and I had the full fleet. Swallow Hill, you keep my pilot alive, god damn it.”

  Though there was nothing to see, Marta became aware of the sounds for the first time since the crash.

  She heard the heavy roar of the BAe 146 jet climbing clear of the area. High above, she heard the strong buzz of the ICA’s twin-engine airplane circling thousands of feet above the fire.

  Close to hand, there was a deep, basso roar that shook the air. So loud now that it felt as if it was shaking the ground.

  “A FEAR fire,” Tyler whispered, and this time she didn’t feel any tease close beside her ear.

  It was the worst stage of a wildfire before it overran you, the Fuck Everything And Run moment.

  7

  “Ten minutes,” Tyler sounded perfectly calm. Dangerously so.

  Marta remembered a cross-country race. She and a top runner from Boise had been deep in the woods and way ahead of the pack. They’d run against each other before and Barb was a tough contender.

  Then Barb had caught a foot on a high tree root and crashed to the ground. And she’d just sat there. Cheerful. Glad to chat and answer questions. But she hadn’t had a single thought for the race. No complaints while Marta had checked both her ankles which appeared fine. Barb hadn’t had any reaction even when she looked down at her broken wrist bent over backward. So decisive just a moment before, she appeared perfectly calm once injured.

  Shock.

  Tyler was in shock which meant it was up to her.

  Hightailing it down the trail was no longer an option. She should have left twenty minutes ago; she checked her watch. Thirty minutes ago.

  But at some moment very soon, Tyler was going to start feeling his broken ankle.

  The cab wouldn’t do them any good, even if they could get up to it. And the shattered helo was no option at all.

  “Tyler,” she cupped his chin and turned him to look at her. “Hang onto the helo, I have to check something out.”

  He grumbled about trading soft-and-warm for hard-and-metal, but made the shift.

  Marta crawled back into the cockpit and looked around, but couldn’t see it. It had to be here somewhere. She stuck her head back out.

  “Where’s your emergency shelter?” The foil shelters were the tool of last resort and she knew the pilots had to fly with one.

  “In the door pocket, pilot’s side,” he said it with enough clarity that she wondered if he really was in shock, or if he was just keeping a humorous façade up against the pain.

  She looked back down into the tiny cabin. There was no pilot’s door, there was only granite and tufts of grass where it should be. Crawling back out of the cabin, she looked around, still no sign of it, though there was the debris trail that started near the tower and was scattered across a hundred yards of the slope, she didn’t see anything as large as a door.

  The debris field continued past the helicopter and…

  She moved as close as she dared to the edge of the cliff and looked down through the thickening smoke. Fifty yards below them there might have been a piece of helicopter big enough to be a door, but it was far out of their reach.

  She had the one shelter on her belt. But as tempting as the idea of sharing a fire shelter with Tyler might be, it wouldn’t work. The shelter was designed to provide close protection for a single person. Maybe if they were both petite…but they weren’t.

  “Story of my life,” she mumbled as she looked around the barren hilltop for other options.

  8

  Her final glimpse before shutting the lid was of thick black clouds of smoke colored with the deep orange of fast-approaching flame.

  “And I had so hoped, Ms. Swallow Hill, that my f
irst water adventure with you might include something like skinny dipping. Seems my imagining came close. Care to complete a man’s wildest dreams, Ms. Hill?” She could hear his gentle smile even if she couldn’t see it in the pitch black.

  Marta appreciated it all the more because there hadn’t been time to move Tyler gently. The sweat of pain poured off him, but he’d kept his tone light and friendly despite the anguish of getting him in here. Whether the effort or the terror had done it, he was shaking off the shock. At least for the moment.

  They were submerged up to their necks in the concrete cistern of her lookout tower’s drinking water. The heavy steel lid above them was closed, for whatever protection it might afford. Then, draped like an air bubble over their heads, she’d spread her fire shelter. It was the only chance they had. Santa Maria Madre di Dios. Childhood prayers weren’t helping her much. She focused back on Tyler, except she couldn’t see him in the dark.

  “How about a rain check on the skinny dipping?” She barely managed the thought around her raw nerves. Now that she had done everything she could other than wait, the impact of their precarious position was striking home.

  “Rain, might help some. Douse this fire down a bit,” it helped that his tone had finally taken on an anxious note. His voice was becoming clearer, recovering from his shock. Sharing her fear with someone else made the situation a bit more bearable. A very tiny bit.

  A silence formed between them but she wasn’t feeling very comfortable in it. The cistern was seven feet deep and, thankfully, she’d used up the top two feet of it in her first two months here. Thankfully, they were both tall enough to stand in the five feet of water still remaining, rather than Tyler having to tread water with a broken ankle. It was also just four feet square so they were jostling and bumping underneath the water despite having their backs pressed against opposite sides.

  The water was cool, without being cold. At least not at first. It was starting to chill her and she could feel the panic approaching and…

  “Talk to me, please!” She begged before she went off the deep end. The fire’s roar beyond their shelter blanket and the steel lid over the cistern was muted, but growing fast.