* * * *
Fingers of light crawled along the exposed beams on the ceiling and down the white walls to the floor. The room held a chill despite the fleeting comfort of the sun’s rays. Frankie sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the latest marine weather reports. They confirmed what she already felt in her bones.
The unseasonably dry weather had made a tinderbox out of the inland Pacific Northwest. A low front was moving in off the coast, bringing only wind. Atmospheric conditions were ideal for a real barnburner.
There would be no rain to aid in the firefighters’ efforts. Warm, wet air would lift over the mountains of the coast range and condense into clouds, spilling its precious load of water long before it reached the wildfire. By late afternoon, lightning and the threat of more fires erupting would further complicate Forest Service efforts.
She checked the latest fax from Piercy Regional Air Center. The bad news list got longer. The larger blazes were to attempting to join together.
A third helicopter was now working the blaze. Two of the helos made water drops and the third acted as Air Attack Coordinator. For a fire of this magnitude, it was a pitiful show of force and dangerously inadequate resources.
Frankie bit her lip. No wonder they’d contacted the Coast Guard. Fighting fires in the northwest was not unlike going to war. One hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.
Frankie did the math. Of the hundred or so firefighters now on the ground, about twenty of them would be actual smokejumpers. The smokejumpers were the initial fire crew, parachuting in and working near the head of the fire to slow it down. The other eighty ground-pounders would be scratching fire lines elsewhere. Their tactics were all about containment. Eventually, if the task went as projected, the entire contingency would meet up and work together.
She hunkered over topographical maps scattered across the bed in a cartographer’s nightmare, shooed Stewie off a pile of charts for the millionth time and scowled. The breeze that filtered in from her open window did little to quell the acid of dread rumbling in her stomach.
Theoretically, on level ground with no wind and equally combustible sources of fuel in all directions, fire would spread in a predictable pattern. Frankie knew that in reality, that was never the case. Wind and terrain were the major factors used to determine and predict a fire’s movement and they were always present to one degree or another. A plan began to form in her mind. With a full crew onboard and enough fuel in the tanks, Stella could carry three to six survivors. Stretching that number would require some modifications.
A tentative knock on the half open door of her quarters drew her attention from the reports spread across the bed. Damon stood at the threshold. Anxiety clouded his roguish good looks.
“What’s up?” she broke the silence.
“I just heard about our standby status,” he replied. “I wanted you to know that my old smokejumping team is working this wildfire. Would you let me know if you hear anything?”
Frankie blinked.
“I didn’t know you were a smokejumper,” she set down the report.
“Only for a couple of seasons before I got into the Coast Guard.”
Frankie nodded.
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
Damon too had seen the weather change, watched the winds whip up the ocean. Those same winds would fan the flames of fire with equal gusto. Frankie wanted to give him the reassurance she wasn’t feeling herself.
“We’ll be airborne in seconds if they need us. Give me a few more minutes to get the data together and I’ll brief everyone.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Oh, and if you’re looking for something productive to do in the meantime.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “How about putting some extra supplies in the helo?”
“Medical supplies?”
“Yes, just in case.”
“Already done.”
“Well then, pack a few granola bars for them to eat. I’ve heard that smokejumpers are always skirting the edge of starvation.”
“Check.”
“Damon,” Frankie spoke quietly. “There’s not much else for us to do but watch and wait.”
“Always waiting,” he replied with a frown and trace of bitterness in his voice. “We’re always waiting for something bad to happen to someone.”
“Semper paratus,” she answered in quiet reminder.
“Always ready,” Damon echoed.
* * * *
Gage couldn’t believe it. Frankie had snubbed him, gave him the brush-off like she didn’t want to remember going at it like a crazed mink the entire week before. It wasn’t as though he expected one of her voracious, good-morning kisses. The least she could have done was made a little eye contact and let him know she remembered begging for mercy when he had her pinned against the mattress, stroking her into the double-digit orgasm of the night.
Gage sneered at his duffel bag.
Maybe there was more to Frankie’s actions than his bad behavior warranted. Had she decided to ignore his warning about taking other partners now that she knew all her inner parts were in working order? Was she prepared to move on already? Hadn’t he made his expectations perfectly clear? He had been places inside her she didn’t even know she had.
Rage, sharp and sudden, flared, before his years of training crushed the fury into a controllable planned burn. He would deal with this later when the two of them were alone and she’d be unable to pull rank.
He looked up to see Frankie exiting her quarters. Tight-lipped and focused, she twirled a pen between her thumb and index finger. Stewie made a fast dash between her legs. Quinton and Damon glanced up from their seats at the table.
* * * *
For the first time that morning Frankie looked directly at him. His expression was cool. His aura, dangerous. Eyes hot with fury, his green orbs met hers without their usual mockery. He was pissed, and a pissed Gage was not a nice thing. She steadied her shoulders, cleared her throat and spoke.
“Okay.” Her voice was a bit shaky. “Here’s the latest rundown.”
Frankie recited the facts and figures she’d collected over the last hour. Initially, both fires had been slow to develop, building during the day and then backing off at night. The first fire to be spotted had been driven southeast across the mountain range by the wind. A team of smokejumpers had dug a line all the way down to noncombustible mineral soil, stopping the fire’s forward progress. They thought their work was finished and were climbing out of a steep canyon when another fire, less than a mile from their location, was located and called in. The team was diverted to deal with it.
The Air Attack Coordinator now reported that the second fire had taken off and was rapidly gobbling up the acreage. Spot fires flared up everywhere, stretching like crooked fingers across the landscape. More smokejumpers were being flown in to assist. In the meantime, those on the ground were doing their best to contain a blaze leap-frogging its way to a small farming community.
The situation was critical.
Frankie fully expected the Regional Air Center to request they bail firefighters on the ground out of a tough situation. When that call would come was anyone’s guess. She had spoken with Station New Harbor and apprised its commander of their situation.
“Captain,” Quinton spoke up. “I’ve trimmed down the equipment in the back of the helicopter to bare bones. If we get a water call, we’ll be scrambling to reassemble.”
Frankie nodded. That tidbit of information told them all that they were officially housebound. No quick trips into town while on pager or lengthy runs on the beach. They had to be ready to go at a split second’s notice.
“Any other questions?”
Silence.
“Comments?”
Nothing.
“Advice?” she asked.
Damon raised his hand. “Have you heard who their crew supervisor is?”
“Someone named Robinson,” she replied.
“Spanky Robinson?”
>
“I believe that was the name they gave me,” she answered.
Damon shook his head in acceptance. “He’s good. One of the best old-timers in the service. They nicknamed him Obiwan. He’s an exceptional fire boss.”
“Spanky? Obiwan?” Quinton asked in disbelief. “One nickname wasn’t enough for this guy?”
Frankie smiled at the Aussie’s wry wit, glanced from Damon to Gage to Quinton and back to Gage. His jaw was set tight.
“Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“A word in private, Captain?” The words snapped out.
“Of course,” Frankie replied and motioned to her quarters. She moved in sync behind him and edged the door shut with her hip.
In the blink of an eye, Gage whirled on her. He moved so fast she couldn’t distinguish a single individual motion. Frankie blinked up at him and took an evasive step backward. The motion pinned her against the door.
“What the hell is going on with you?”
His resonant voice flooded her senses.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He pointed a finger in front of her face. His eyes narrowed into shards. “Your bad attitude.”
“What?” Her jaw shot up defiantly.
“You heard me.” The breath exploded out of his lungs, which doubled the volume of his voice. “You’re not deaf.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my attitude or my hearing,” she defended. “So, if you’re looking for bad attitude, mister, I suggest you check your mirror.”
The comparison was out of his mouth before Gage could stop it. “You sound just like Robin.”
Frankie thrust her chin out. A series of satisfying, extremely vulgar replies rose to the tip of her tongue. Oh, how she wanted to use at least one. She bit them down.
“You did your duty, Gage. You got me off. Now get out of my way. I’ve got a job to do.”
“Who said it was my fucking duty?” he yelled.
“It was exactly that, wasn’t it? Just fucking?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s done, Gage. Over! That’s what I’m talking about,” her voice trailed off.
“Done?” He hovered, glaring down at her. “Done?” he repeated. “What the hell do you mean, done?”
Frankie glared back, refused to budge an inch or speak in the face of the anger that shadowed them both.
“Well?” he demanded.
A knock on the door, Quinton interrupted them.
“Captain, there’s a call for you.”
She pushed her way past Gage and stomped into the main room. Damon anxiously handed her the phone.
“Moriarty here,” she snapped.
All three men crowded close while she scribbled coordinates on the corner of a thick yellow notepad. She raised her right hand to Damon and made a circular motion with her forefinger in the air.
“It’s a go.”
Quinton and Damon sprang into action.
“Affirmative, Harmony Bay is en route.”
Frankie disconnected. She pulled her flight jacket and helmet off the wall pegs and met Gage’s curious look. She wasn’t sure how it was possible but he looked ready to strangle and jump her bones at the same time.
“Eight smokejumpers. At least one injured. They’re making a run for it but the fire is gaining on their position. The Air Attack Coordinator predicts they’ll be cut-off with no way out.” Frankie moved toward the door while she spoke. Gage grabbed his own jacket and helmet and followed.
“No,” she shook her head firmly when she saw his intent. “Damon’s in the back. You and Quinton stay here and monitor our progress on the scanner.”
His expression moved from anticipation to rage.
“What?” He caught her arm and forcefully swung her around. “You need my help in the cockpit.”
“I need you to obey my orders,” she answered.
“It’s different in the ravines with all those trees and current updraft. Combine that with no discernible horizon, no landmarks and nothing to give you a point of reference in the middle of all that smoke? You need an extra hand up front.” He backed her against a metal filing cabinet, getting right up in her face. “Leave Damon and take me instead,” he hissed.
“No,” she blinked and dragged her eyes away. “There are injuries. I need a medic, not another pilot.”
“I can use scissors as good as the next guy and you know it,” he snapped.
Frankie leered up at him and then glanced out the big windows.
“I’ve made my decision,” she spat.
She saw that Damon had strapped himself into the flight mechanic’s seat. Frankie pulled on her gloves. No time left to argue. “You controlled me in the bedroom, Gage, not here. It’s my decision and it stands.” She ducked under his outstretched arm and sprinted to the helipad.
* * * *
When the dedication of aviation pioneers succeeded in revolutionizing search and rescue with the introduction of Sikorsky's helicopter, little did they anticipate that one day a tattooed woman with sweat-plastered hair under a heavy helmet, would share that same vision with a passion bordering on the suicidal. One look at her face was proof enough.
“It’s gonna get hot up here,” Damon warned needlessly.
They were forty miles northwest and heading inland over the coastal mountain range. Her hand pulled back, adding power to the climb. Ahead of them, black smoke filled the sky like the mushroom plume from an atomic bomb. Farther north she could see the formidable Beaumont Dam with its riveted iron penstock leading down to the hydroelectric generating plant.
Frankie triggered the intercom switch. “Did you bring any marshmallows?”
“No,” he grumbled. “I forgot the wieners too.”
“That’s why we’re here,” she joked and then grew serious. “Just make sure you keep your buns and weenie out of that barbecue.”
“Roger that.”
The smokejumpers working the southwest ridge containing the valley had planned their best escape route. They were almost out of harm’s way when the wind made a freaky change, trapping them in a ravine between steep vertical cliffs. One of the eight jumpers fell and fractured his ankle, which slowed them down even further. They radioed for help. An air tanker was diverted to drop fire retardant ahead of the group, trying to buy them a little time but the flames skirted the perimeter, picked up speed and advanced once again. Hampered by their injured firefighter, the smokejumpers were running out of time.
“Coast Guard helo, this is Air Attack Two-Twenty.”
“Go ahead Two-Twenty,” Frankie answered.
A deep voice came back over the radio with updated coordinates and urged her to “proceed with haste.”
Frankie dropped down the lee side of a ridge into a deep, narrow canyon. A meandering, brackish river wrapped around granite boulders the size of a truck. The helicopter caught a sudden circular downdraft, bucked and bounced all over the sky. Frankie fought to break them free, found calmer air seconds before hostile head winds slammed into them. Her gloved hands plied the controls. Her boots caressed the pedals at her feet.
Acting.
Reacting.
Anticipating.
They were three hundred yards from the western edge, close enough to feel extreme heat and see flames licking up two hundred feet and more. Much of the sky was a putrid yellow-gray with poor visibility due to the hazy smoke. The world had turned into a cauldron. Tears streamed down her face. She tried to blink them clear. Stella was slammed down hard and jolted to the right in the swirling air currents.
“Good thing I skipped breakfast,” Damon joked.
Frankie was too busy to answer. They hit another stomach-wrenching gust of turbulence. She pulled them up and away.
The fire had crowned out, jumped from ground to high in the canopy of fir and pine trees, exploding in enormous balls of flame. Flames were spreading fast, leaving large unburned areas beneath. Frankie could see the vertical development as the fire pulle
d trees out of the ground and sucked them into a vortex of destruction. Coils of layered black smoke rolled up from the flame front. Frankie glanced at her GPS. They were right on target.
“Okay, kids, where are you? Help has arrived. Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she sang softly and circled Stella, waiting.
As if in answer, eight soot-stained yellow jumpsuits popped into sight below. She angled in their direction and nudged the controls for more speed. The group cleared the ravine and headed toward an open field about fifty yards to the south. They had discarded their heavy gear in a last ditch race for survival.
“Looks like they’ve got more problems than a fractured ankle,” Damon announced.
One jumper limped along, assisted by another. Two jumpers at the rear of the group staggered under the weight of a third they were carrying. Hearing the sound of a helicopter, they looked up and waved frantically. The fire skipped from tree to tree and spread across the thick canopy, gaining rapidly on them. Frankie watched in horror as the greedy flames sought them out, seeking the fuel needed to feed itself.
The smokejumpers got a renewed blast of adrenaline with the prospect of impending rescue. They moved faster, spread out in a thin line. She over flew them and hovered, searched for a suitable spot to land before she angled in a steep descent.
“Ready for hot-load,” Damon’s voice came over the intercom.
Dust and debris flew up around them. With the fire so close, they both knew she would not risk turning off the engines. The main rotor would continue to spin and she would stay at the controls. In the back of her mind, Frankie gave silent thanks to whoever watched after her that Gage was nowhere near this hellish maelstrom.
“Roger that,” she replied.
They touched ground.
“Go.”
Through her peripheral vision, Frankie could see Damon streak across the meadow at a full-out run toward the jumpers. She turned and peered through her shaded helmet visor at the flames descending upon the group from all sides. The sight was hideously fascinating, Mother Nature in her most furious glory.
Guarding the Coast Page 13
