Flash of Fire

by M. L. Buchman

  “Oh no, I’m eight kinds of stupid. Maybe I’m just not totally dumb.”

  “What did you learn during the fire?”

  “Back to that again? Fine.” Robin started to describe the tactics and—

  “Let me rephrase. What did you learn about yourself during the fire?”

  That stopped her. Emily’s eyes were as pure blue as Mickey’s, perhaps a few shades lighter. But there was an edge there that Mickey didn’t have. Emily Beale could control an entire company, perhaps an entire regiment, with a single glance. Mickey’s eyes were windows to the man within.

  Robin considered lying back down and pulling the sheets over her head again. Seriously considered it. Instead she hugged a pillow in the shape of a clay “Hunny” pot.

  “Me? What did I learn about me fighting that fire? How little sleep I can go on?”

  Emily sighed and Robin hoped it had to do with an ache in her lower back but knew that it didn’t.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Robin tried to think of something, she really did. “I know I’m not the best pilot, but I figured that out the moment I climbed into that helo for an interview with the monstrously pregnant Queen Bitch Beale.”

  Emily laughed with delight at the description.

  “But on the fire I learned that I wasn’t a bad one either.”

  “What else?”

  Robin shrugged and couldn’t think of a thing.

  “Okay.” Emily stared up at the ceiling painted with green leaves of the Hundred Acre Wood and blue sky beyond. “Let’s try this. What did you learn about the other pilots?”

  * * *

  “You weren’t planning anything stupid, were you?”

  Mickey looked at Henderson. “What, like throwing myself in the river? No, it’s too damn cold.”

  “No. Like thinking about leaving MHA for another outfit.”

  “Crossed my mind.”

  “Come on, man. Use that brain of yours.”

  “Hasn’t done me much good so far.” Mickey picked at some of the small stones along the riverbank. There weren’t any good skipping rocks. He chucked a river-rounded pebble out to midstream; it disappeared into the smooth-flowing water with a tiny plink and a small ring of ripples that was washed away almost before they formed.

  “Mickey, you’re a top wildland firefighter, one of the best. You didn’t get here without a lot of hard work.”

  “So what? A relationship is supposed to be a lot of hard work? Doesn’t that sound like fun?” He chucked another pebble. This one entered with no ripples at all. “Besides, I think Robin already proved the pointlessness of that.”

  “What did you do to her anyway?”

  When Emily had asked the question, it had pissed him off royally.

  Pissed him off because he only had one answer and didn’t know what else he could say. He’d already tried blowing up with heart-of-fire fury…maybe he’d try confessing the truth. He gave in and went with it.

  “I fell in love with her.”

  “And you told her?” Mark sounded aghast.

  Mickey stared at him.

  Mark had slipped his mirrored shades up into his hair and was staring at him like he’d totally lost it.

  “Uh, yeah. I did. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Aw, shit, Mickey.”

  * * *

  “I also learned how good a leader Mickey is. He doesn’t see it, but he is.”

  “That”—Emily nodded—“is the real reason I wouldn’t let Mark fly with you.”

  “What so that I’d become…” What? Enamored? No! “…uh, attracted to Mickey? Pretty bitch-manipulative matchmaker of you, Emily.”

  “No, you silly goose. I wanted you to understand that you see things as they are, soldier clear. You have just described exactly the strengths and weaknesses of every person on the MHA team. If Mark had flown with you, you wouldn’t understand the rarity of that clear vision because he’d have explained it to you. That’s why I put you in the lead seat on Firehawk One; you totally pegged me as the Queen Bitch.”

  “QBB. Queen Bitch Beale. It’s a complete phrase,” Robin told her. “Though I eventually changed it to Queen Bee Beale, just so you know.”

  “I appreciate that. They’re both accurate, but you already know why.”

  Did she? Robin thought about it. “Because I’m the same.” The words came out slowly as she hunted her way toward the idea. “And it’s not that I wield it against others. It’s that I, that we, demand it from ourselves before all others.”

  “Head of the class, Harrow.”

  Robin looked down at her hands. They made sense when she was holding on to collective and cyclic. Even when she was being a waitress, she’d understood her place and what she was doing.

  “What is it?” Emily must have seen the confusion that wrenched at Robin’s gut.

  “If all this is so good, why do I feel so out of control?”

  “You mean why did you come and hide under the covers on a beautiful summer morning?”

  “Head of the class, Beale.” She tried to make it funny. But it wasn’t.

  “Well, I’m not the one who’s in love with Mickey Hamilton, so I can’t answer that.”

  Robin checked Emily’s expression.

  No teasing.

  No sarcasm.

  No joking.

  Robin really would have preferred if there had been some sign of joking.

  She took the Hunny-pot pillow and moved it up to bury her face.

  * * *

  “What did you do after she slammed you into the table for kissing her?” Mickey tried to imagine anyone doing that to Mark Henderson. Then he pictured Robin smacking him on the helmet with her paddle and maybe it wasn’t so impossible.

  “Went away. Licked my wounds for a while.”

  “How long a while?”

  “Couple days. Maybe even three. I nearly screwed up waiting so long.”

  Mickey laughed even though he didn’t feel like it. “Then?”

  Now Mark was the one tossing pebbles. Each one arced high, dug into the water with a sharp Thwup! and left a big set of clean rings.

  “What?”

  “I had a different set of problems to solve than you do.” Mark arced another one high.

  “What did you do?” Mickey tried throwing his own pebble high, but still it entered the water with a quiet plink.

  “I got emergency leave, flew halfway around the world, and showed up at White House security saying I was her jet-setting, playboy boyfriend. Secret Service was not the least bit happy about it, let me tell you; Frank, the head of the President’s Secret Service Protection Detail, still hasn’t forgiven me for slipping through his security even with the extra help I had. I think I told them that I piloted those high-powered ocean racers for a living…or something like that.” His smile spoke of much more as he continued throwing his pebbles.

  “Yeah,” Mickey agreed. “Different set of problems.”

  Chapter 13

  Mickey was still puzzling at his own set of problems when Mark’s phone rang.

  “Henderson.” His voice was no longer that of a guy throwing out pebbles and advice. Nor was it the leader of MHA. It had a sharp, military snap. And not that Mark Henderson ever slouched, but now he sat bolt upright.

  Then he keyed in some sort of a code.

  Mickey tried throwing a few more pebbles at different angles to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping, but they all merely plinked into the water.

  For his efforts, all he heard was a couple of “uh-huhs,” one “okay,” and a bunch of “yes, sirs.” A glance at Mickey, then a “Lola and Tim would be good.”

  Then, “I’ll let her know. I’m sure she sends her best right back to you. She’s talking about going to visit her parents sinc
e she can’t fly to fire. I’m sure she’ll drop in on you.”

  Another pause while he listened.

  Another pebble going plink.

  “Right, thank you, sir. I’ll keep you posted.” And Mark hung up the phone.

  “Where do Emily’s parents live?” Mickey had a guess as to who that had been and was trying to find a tactful way to ask.

  “DC.” Mark was watching him with a sudden intensity.

  DC. Someone that made Mark go all military and would be seeing Emily soon. “Was that—” The President? “Sorry, not my place to ask.”

  “What’s your assessment of Robin Harrow?” Mark changed the subject, which was answer enough.

  “You mean other than being in love with her and all?”

  Mark merely nodded. Once. Sharp and definitive.

  “An exceptional pilot. And a good leader. Who”—Mickey pictured the triumphant joy shining on Robin’s face as she shot off the Class III Tea Cup in textbook-perfect form—“doesn’t know that about herself.”

  “Doubt? I don’t need someone who doubts themselves.”

  Mickey studied the flowing water. He might have seen a bit of pancake flow by but did his best not to think about that.

  Doubts? No, Mickey had been feeling plenty of those himself all morning, mixed right in with the anger and frustration. But not his Ro—

  His? He’d hoped but apparently she wasn’t.

  But not…Robin.

  “No. She doesn’t doubt her decisions for a second.” Or she couldn’t have shut him out so fast and so thoroughly. “She’s an incredibly driven woman and it’s all about excellence for her. Robin just doesn’t see that she has already achieved it.”

  Then Mark reached across the gap that had separated them and rested a solid hand on his shoulder.

  “But you do see it, don’t you? Loud and clear.”

  “It’s why I fell in love with her.” And having said it, Mickey knew it was true. He loved that desire, that need of hers to always strive to be better than who she was in this moment. It was a need he’d taken a long time to recognize in himself.

  “Know the feeling. Remember that when she’s pissing you off next time, it will stand you in good service. Last question: Do you trust her?”

  Mickey had to stop at that one.

  What the hell was Mark asking?

  And the pieces began falling into place.

  He’d just spoken to the President on the phone—a phone that required a special code for security. They were on an unexplained break in central Alaska while fires were burning in the Lower 48. And the team was split, just as it had been before, with some MHA personnel sent to Australia and some…he’d never found out where Mark and Emily’s half of the MHA team had gone last winter or the one before.

  Mickey suspected that this time he stood on the other side of the split.

  “When did I cross over?”

  “A couple days ago when I received a Standby Alert, or three years ago when I came to MHA and got to know you but didn’t need you to cross over yet. You choose. Can I trust Robin?”

  “You need her on whatever this is, but you haven’t had time to know her well enough?”

  Mark hesitated, then nodded.

  Well, whatever else he did or didn’t know about Robin, Mickey did know one thing about her that was absolute.

  “Yes, you can trust her. Hundred percent.”

  Mark’s nod of acknowledgment was immediate. No time to consider or to weigh Mickey’s words in the balance. Mickey had said it, so it was fact. It was an almost giddy sense of power.

  But there wasn’t any doubt—not with the way she drove herself to fire.

  Besides, he’d trusted Robin with his love. And even if she’d battered at his heart, she’d also used her paddle to batter at his head and he’d survived that just fine.

  Mark rose to his feet and Mickey followed.

  Mark was right. There was a time to lick your wounds; there was a time to stop. He loved Robin. And he’d just keep that clearly in his sights until she realized that she was in love with him.

  Hopefully he’d survive her wrath until she got there.

  “Come on.” Mark nodded toward the blue pickup that Tim’s wife, Macy, had loaned him. It had two bumper stickers that said, My other car is a Bell LongRanger and Auntie Em, There’s No Craft Like Rotorcraft!

  Well, There’s no woman like Robin Harrow.

  At least not for him.

  Maybe he should get it on a bumper sticker for his Twin 212.

  He chucked his final rock high but didn’t wait around to hear what sound it made striking the water.

  Chapter 14

  “This has always bothered me. I hate when they put my helo on a plane as if it isn’t good enough to get there on its own.” Robin stared at the monstrous Boeing airliner. It and the MHA team were currently parked in the 2:00 a.m. darkness on Ladd Army Airfield, Fairbanks. “Can’t we fly wherever we’re going?”

  “Boss says no. Too far.” Denise flitted by with Vern in her wake. “I love it. Fold the blades and we’re good to go with this sweet little craft. This is the only plane that can do that.”

  This “sweet little craft” was huge—one of the four Boeing Dreamlifters. It was a Boeing 747—which was most of a football field long—but the fuselage was twice as big around as normal. They’d been specially built to haul prefabricated sections of 787s all over the face of the globe.

  Robin had traveled to Afghanistan with the National Guard and her helo aboard a C-5A Galaxy, and this was bigger. At the moment, it was broken open at the tail and they were using cranes to lift the Firehawks twenty feet into the air and then slide them into the cavernous hold.

  “I thought these planes only carried 787 parts. What is one doing in Alaska?”

  “They’re doing us a favor,” Mark said, coming from behind her.

  She’d been trying to ask Mickey. He was standing nearby, but he still hadn’t spoken to her except a perfectly civil “Hi.” Two whole letters. Okay, maybe she deserved it. Crap, she did. But she wasn’t quite ready to face him on it either.

  And his expression, which she’d only looked at once during their last two hours on the river when it had been twisted in agony, was now open and content. She’d always been able to read him, but not at the moment. Open and content, almost friendly, didn’t seem possible.

  Had he figured out she was unlovable and come to peace with it in a single day? It didn’t say much for the depth of his feelings.

  Or had he decided that she really did love him and she was just too much of a doofus to figure that out yet, so he’d wait? In which case he was a fool… Wasn’t he?

  “We have to arrive absolutely cleanly.” Mark continued his lecture while Mickey continued his silence. “No hint of military, not even for transport. Boeing would normally deadhead from Everett, Washington, to Nagoya, Japan, to pick up parts. We’re just giving them a load while getting us there. We’re only a few hundred miles out of their way.”

  “Japan?” Robin had only been overseas twice in her whole life. She’d spent all of that time either locked exclusively in highly protected Afghan air bases or racing as fast as possible past Afghan bad guys with the shit scared out of her for every single flight.

  “Briefly” was all Mark said. “Then Korea.”

  “Why?”

  “Think, Harrow. What does Mount Hood Aviation do for a living?”

  “Fight wildfire.”

  “Good girl.” And he walked away.

  “You’re lucky this Robin of the Hood doesn’t have a bow and arrow.” She raised her voice as she called toward his retreating back. “I’ve never shot one, Henderson, but you make me willing to try beginner’s luck.”

  His laugh carried back to her, a wholly unsatisfying sound.

  “I could teach you.
” Mickey’s voice was soft, barely loud enough to carry the few feet between them.

  She finally turned to really look at him for the first time since he’d cooked her pancakes eighteen hours and a whole lot of agony ago. The night was dark enough that the brighter stars could have forced their way through if not for the loading apron lights in front of the Alaska Fire Service hangar that blotted out even those. They were standing well clear of the operation that was up to Denise and the Dreamlifter’s loadmasters, but enough light reached their position for her to see Mickey clearly.

  He was looking right at her with those gorgeous blue eyes of his. She could see traces of the pain she’d caused, but mostly she simply saw Mickey, a man who could make her nerve endings scream and her body sigh. A man who she could trust. That alone was a whole new experience for her. The fact that he could also teach her to shoot a bow and arrow spoke all the more to who he was, a man perhaps patient enough to survive even her.

  “I’d like that,” she offered back just as quietly.

  They traded tentative smiles that felt pretty good.

  * * *

  Six hours later, Mickey had decided that the entire planet and every stinking soul on it was conspiring against his talking to Robin—especially his friends.

  The Dreamlifter was essentially the first-class nose of a standard 747, with a massive cargo hold bolted onto it. The flight crew was upstairs, as was the relief crew. The FAA had only recently authorized sixteen seats to be installed in pairs and a small grouping of chairs around a low table in the main deck of the nose section.

  Mickey had dropped into the outside of an empty seat pair when he boarded, only to have Vern drop in next to him instead of Robin.

  “Sorry about…you know.” Mickey made a shoving motion.

  “A couple aspirin.” Vern rubbed the back of his head where it had pounded against the wall in French Pete’s. “We’re fine.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  He nodded.

  They were good and chatted through the takeoff and climb to cruising altitude.

  Yet when Mickey had gotten the two-at-a-time tour of the 747 cockpit—which made him suddenly glad for the humble controls of his Twin 212—Cal had been his shadow. On his return, Denise and Jeannie were gathered around Robin’s seat.