Pure Heat

by M. L. Buchman

  Steve strapped in and checked out the cargo bay of the Firehawk as they lifted. First thing that struck him was the pristine paint job. Other than a couple of footprints on the decking, this sucker was factory fresh. Downright beautiful. He sniffed the air. He couldn’t quite detect the new car smell over the bite of the retardant that had just been pumped into their belly tank, but he could feel that it was there.

  The cargo bay of a Firehawk had room for a dozen people if they weren’t carrying four tons of fire retardant. The ceiling was only four and a half feet high, but the seats were low slung and comfortable. Two of them nestled up close behind the pilot and copilot’s tall chairs. These would be for the crew chiefs when one was required. Hopefully, one of the seats would be for him.

  The rest was open in case they picked up a helitack crew and all of their gear. Right above the cargo-bay doors were the heavy hooks for ropes so that the crews could rappel down into some otherwise inaccessible fiery hellhole. Neatly coiled lines hung from quick ties across the back of the bay. On either side of the cargo bay were the long doors that slid back to make the bay so easily accessible and open to the outside world.

  This was real. He’d done it.

  He scrubbed a hand across his face, hoping he hadn’t screwed up in his decision to come here. He’d trained. He’d learned new skills. Rebuilt his knee and his life, but that didn’t mean he’d done it right.

  Well, too late now. He’d contracted for the summer. But he just had to see the fire. Had to remind himself why he’d put up with all of those god-awful hours of physical therapy. The unendingly brutal hours learning new skills so that he could get back to a fire.

  There was enough space across the back of the copilot’s seat for the control equipment he’d need. If they put him on the Hawk. Right now it sported a small console of basic tanking controls. A quick glance forward between the seats showed that the pilot had a duplicate set.

  So, the guy who’d bailed at the helibase had been running the drop controls. Then they’d decided he wasn’t needed. Only reason to fly the extra body was a newbie pilot. He didn’t fly like a newbie. This guy was really smooth.

  Something about the pilot. Steve leaned forward for a better look just as the pilot spoke.

  “Ground control. Firehawk Zero-one on-site in two minutes.”

  Not he. She. He leaned far enough to see between the tall-backed seats. Long, dark blond hair, back in a ponytail, so he hadn’t spotted it at first around the seat back. Good chin. Mirrored shades. Bulky headphones and mike boom obscured some of the view. A vest worn loose hid the rest of her shape. Not much to see, but a good start with what was visible.

  “Zero-one, this is Ground. That was fast. We need a hit on us this time.”

  The pilot turned to face whoever perched in the copilot seat. The seat back was too tall for Steve to see the occupant or what their response was, apparently nonverbal.

  He wouldn’t have heard the reply anyway. Almost head on, the blond pilot was distractingly nice to look at. He quick-checked the left hand she had on the collective control and saw no ring, but she did sport a white tan line. Maybe married. Maybe recently divorced and seeking a little bit of consolation. He’d have to keep an eye on that. Yet something about his brief view of her face told him maybe not. Something about her expression said she wasn’t the sort you’d want to mess with.

  ’Course, Steve never turned away from a challenge.

  “Roger, Ground,” the pilot continued. “You clear?”

  Steve remembered the time he’d been on the ground and the pilot had missed the drop and hit the crew. The rust-red flame retardant had bowled most of them off their feet. The impact had hurt, and the retardant itself stung like a goddamn swarm of mosquitoes. Half of their gear stopped working. Air intakes on chain saws plugged with the crap. Portable pumps cemented so bad that you couldn’t pull the starter cord well enough to start the engine. He’d since learned to duck behind a tree if the pilot looked sloppy on his run.

  “We’re shifted, now flanking the south side of the black so you’re clear on the north.”

  That should be plenty safe. The fire had already burned across that area, therefore called “the black.” A destitute landscape of grays and charcoal, dust and heat. Now the ground crews were scouring alongside the area already burned. There they’d be hunting and killing spot fires that were spinning off from the main blaze and seeking new fodder.

  The flank of the fire’s leading edge would be clear for a helitanker strike. Once they’d dropped their load, it should create a temporary buffer alongside the advancing fire. Give the crew time to rush forward and maybe cut in a firebreak to turn this beast back on itself.

  “Roger. One minute out.”

  Looking forward to see through the windshield didn’t show Steve much from his position in the back. The two people in the pilot seats had a good view, but most of what he saw was the instrument console spreading across his sight lines.

  The large cargo-bay doors were still slid open. No reason to close them on a hot summer day.

  He pulled off his cap and leaned his head out into the slipstream enough to see but not enough to be battered by the roaring wind.

  The plume of smoke was gathering over the ridge ahead. Three primary plumes and a little stuff off to the sides fed the brown-black cloud that loomed over the ridge like an ogre’s massive club.

  They approached directly across the ridge, so low he wondered if their wheels were going to hit the protruding rocks.

  It was like they’d tipped over the edge of the world and were plunging into hell. A hell as familiar as an old friend and as dangerous as an unexploded bomb.

  Flanking the black along the south? The ground crew was nuts. They were going to get pinned.

  “The way they’re set,” Steve called over the intercom. “They think their escape route is over the ridge.” From up here he could see what they couldn’t, the flames threatening to climb up behind them from the next valley over. Not an escape at all.

  “He’s right.” Another woman. On the intercom. A woman in the copilot’s seat. He’d climbed aboard a girlie bird. Nice voice, some part of him noted.

  His heart ached for the team on the ground. They needed serious help, and they needed it fast. Did either of these women have what it took to deliver?

  “Ground, Zero-one.”

  “Ground, come back.”

  “Ridge behind you is a trap. Get into the black now. We’re going to cut your flank.”

  They didn’t respond.

  The pilot took them up over the heat, which tried to brush Steve back into the cabin, but he leaned out farther trying to spot them. He could see the crew scrambling downslope toward the black, the only answer that mattered. A microburst slammed the chopper down toward the flames, but the pilot compensated so fast that there was little change in the altitude.

  “Crew clear” sounded over the radio in a gasping breath, but he wasn’t sure. It was too fast. The ground boss wouldn’t have had time to count his guys yet, the way they were scattered.

  The pilot swung them down over the heart of it. A couple of trees exploded when the superheated pitch simply went off. A whole line of trees toppled over right behind the crew still scrambling into the edge of the black.

  “Shit!” came over the radio.

  “What is it, Ground?”

  “Trapped. A couple burners toppled and my leg is pinned. Getting hot. Shit! Dump. Right on me. Dump.”

  “We don’t have you, Ground.”

  Steve leaned out and searched the area. This is what he’d trained for, waited for, but his equipment wasn’t here yet. Not for another day.

  “Kicking smoke,” came Ground’s strained response.

  Five. Ten. Fifteen agonizing seconds they waited until the billow of brilliant green smoke from the man’s marker flare finally showed among the brown-smoke and orange-flame mess down below.

  “Eight o’clock, two hundred yards out,” Steve called. Damn, the fir
e was on all sides of the guy—and close. The green smoke flare had mixed right into the brown and black generated by the fire.

  The pilot was already diving on the spot.

  The doors opened and the load of retardant hammered down. The guy on the ground would be lucky if he didn’t drown in the stuff.

  Steve scanned the cabin quickly. He found a rope and harness. A portable breather and a Pulaski tool, ax on one side, adze on the other. The tool was as new as the chopper and sharp enough to slice skin if he wasn’t careful.

  The rest of the crew had continued to scatter downslope. They’d be a long time getting back up the near-vertical terrain to the injured man. Several burning trees now lay scattered across their path of retreat like matchsticks.

  “Get me over him!” Steve shouted into the headset.

  He snapped the rope onto the ring in the ceiling, slung it through the rappelling brake on the harness, and strapped himself in.

  “Wait!” one of the front-seaters called out.

  “I’m safe if we do it now. I’ve got air and can get in on him before the fire catches its breath and overruns him.” Steve ripped the headset free and pulled on the breather. His voice echoed strangely inside the face mask. It was an echo of his former life. One tug on the forehead strap and it fit like a favorite pair of shoes.

  “Now!” he shouted forward, then stepped out the cargo bay door.

  They were too high and still hovered over the flames.

  There were times you trusted your helitack pilot, and this was going to have to be one of those. He just hoped he’d been right about her being experienced, based on watching a ten-minute flight.

  Even as he slid downward, the chopper moved. He wasn’t rigged for the heat. Jeans and a button-down shirt rather than a Nomex jumpsuit and fireproof underwear. But he wore good boots and had the Pulaski jammed into his harness. Would have to be good enough.

  He began to fear that it wasn’t, but the pilot got him clear of the flame before he slid too low and started to cook. He went from black smoke to green and almost planted his boots on the man’s red-covered face.

  It looked like blood. Steve hoped it was retardant. That much blood and the guy wouldn’t survive to be rescued.

  First he scanned the area, ready to signal for an immediate evac, but the pool of red retardant had knocked out the fire completely for twenty feet around and slowed it for another twenty beyond that.

  Steve cleared the line from his rappelling brake and looked down.

  The guy pointed frantically toward his foot pinned by a six-inch-thick tree limb connected to a tree trunk at least three feet across. Too big to leverage free. No digging beneath because he was on rock.

  Steve shifted a few feet toward the tree and laid in with the Pulaski. He could hear the guy’s hiss of pain each time Steve planted the ax. The vibrations up the tree limb must hurt like hell. He ignored the man and kept swinging. Long swings, even strokes, making each slice count, each swing kicking another large shard of wood loose.

  Halfway through, he glanced up to make sure the guy was watching the fire. He was, but Steve checked anyway. The outer ring of defense was already cooking again. The flames were building.

  He turned back to his chopping, resisting the urge to try and hurry. Hurry never helped in these situations. Steady and even, make every slice count.

  At fifteen strokes a minute, it took him three and a half minutes to complete the chop through the limb. He kicked it aside to avoid burning his hands on the smoldering wood. Next time he’d bring gloves.

  The man’s white teeth looked surreal through his red-masked face, but he was smiling. It turned to a grimace when he worked his foot.

  “Sprain. Don’t think it’s a break. Thanks. I’d sign you up, but you ain’t dressed for it.”

  “Too late.” He’d never be able to sign on again. Steve held out a hand. “Merks Mercer.”

  The other man took it. “Terry Thomas. But that’s TJ to you.”

  “We need to get you out of here.” Steve hauled the smokie to his feet, but it was clear he wouldn’t be walking anywhere.

  The flood of retardant had created a calm pool in the midst of a full-surround firestorm, but now the pool’s outer ring was gone. The edges of the inner ring were starting to burn and smolder despite the heavy coating.

  Steve had forgotten how damn loud fire was, especially when it was pissed at being denied its prey. It roared at them louder than a whole stadium of Giants’ fans after a bad ump call. It spat embers that died in the red soil and clawed up every little branch. The flames towered above them to all sides except upslope. With TJ’s ankle, that wasn’t going to happen.

  The heat pounded against him, Steve’s cotton shirt and denim jeans offering no protection against the scorching breath of the fire though it still lay twenty feet away. For half an instant he wondered what the ignition temperature was on the two materials and which part of him would burst into flame first.

  “Hell, we need to get me out of here, too.” Preferably before he answered the question about the flammability of his clothes.

  He and TJ both looked down at the pouch on TJ’s hip. Inside lay a foil fire shelter designed for one. They both knew the statistics—one in five wildland firefighters died when the fire overran them. A foil shelter theoretically made a burnover survivable, but probably not with two inside if they even fit.

  As Steve looked back up, a movement caught his eye. A line from the sky. No, two of them.

  Two ropes from the helicopter. Both with clips on them. Somebody up above was thinking. He double-checked the knots, done right.

  The two men exchanged glances. They were both clearly thankful that they wouldn’t be spending their last moments breathing each other’s air. They snapped in and flagged the chopper upward with a hand signal.

  In moments they were drawn upward until they floated above the fire, which now screamed in frustration below them as it closed too late over the small circle they had so recently occupied. They were climbing through the smoke with the chopper a hundred feet above and the fire now twice that below. Dangling like puppets on a shoestring.

  Steve had clipped his line to a ceiling D ring, not the winch, so they’d have no way to reel him back up.

  TJ floated along as well, eight feet over and about ten feet up. He hung from a slightly shorter line tied off from the other side of the chopper.

  Neither had a radio. Steve never had one, and TJ held out his with a look of disgust. The radio was saturated with bright red goo. Steve made sure his sunglasses were well seated and then gave the okay signal to the copilot he could see hanging out the door and looking down at them.

  No good place to land them and climb aboard. And if somewhere under that red goo, TJ was bleeding, then time was of the essence.

  The three smaller choppers showed up to attack the fire even as the Firehawk pilot turned for base. All Steve and TJ could do was hang from their ropes and enjoy the ride back, dangling from MHA’s newest chopper like a pair of live rats no one wanted to touch. Five hundred feet below, the edges of the fire gave way to towering trees as they floated back toward base.

  Chapter 3

  The pilot set them down sweet as could be right by the retardant tanks.

  Steve managed not to collapse to the grass when he landed too much on his overworked left knee. By grabbing out to steady TJ, they managed to hang on to each other well enough to remain upright.

  He and TJ took a deep breath in unison when they had their balance and their eyes were no longer crossed with the pain. A shared nod with a grimace said more than enough about that.

  Then Steve called out, “Whoop! Now that’s what I call flying!” Though his body was buzzing from the pounding of his shirt flapping against him in the rushing wind, he felt high as a kite and well on the way to drunk.

  Dangling under a helicopter was absolutely the most beautiful way he’d ever found to fly, aside from dangling beneath a parachute. Yet another thing the docs had forbid
den. They enjoyed doing that far too much, but the way his knee felt right now from the unaccustomed exercise told him that just because they were doctors didn’t necessarily mean they were wrong.

  He and TJ shared a single bark of laughter at just how close their escape had been, and then Steve managed to duck under TJ’s arm before he fell down.

  The helicopter settled not far behind them as they shed the ropes and harnesses and Steve kept TJ stabilized.

  “You okay?” An angel had come from the chopper to TJ’s other side.

  There was no other word to describe her.

  Voice soft and sweet. She was tall. A black T-shirt clung to her frame and showed her to be slender in all the right ways. Her bright-blond hair floated past her shoulders and her smile lit her entire face. Blue eyes. The bright blue of the sky.

  Bright with worry she was desperately trying to hide behind that dazzling smile.

  “Fine, darling. Fine. Dodged it with just a bunged-up ankle, thanks to your friend here.”

  “My friend?” She peered over at Steve. A look of complete distrust shadowed her face as abruptly as the sun had shone there a moment before.

  Steve knew he was standing like an idiot with every bit of smooth smacked out into left field. All he could manage was a gawk. This clearly lowered her estimation of his mental abilities even as he stood there trying to tag base, any base.

  She was wearing his San Francisco Giants baseball cap.

  He’d dumped it on the cargo bay floor without a thought. It could have been blown out over the fire.

  But she’d retrieved it and put it in the only safe place that was handy, atop her head.

  He thought of asking for it back, but it looked damned cute on her. Maybe he’d ask for it later. He found it way too easy to imagine her wearing only… Clean it up, Mercer. You don’t fall for any woman that fast. The hat was black with a flame-orange SF. She matched the helicopter behind her. That was all. Pretty as a picture.