by Cassie Cole
I wasn’t in the mood to smile.
“I’m not your boss,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
He hefted the chainsaw. “This thing’s so worn down I can barely cut through a sapling.”
I tossed down my Pulaski and took the chainsaw from him. It was one of our older ones, and the cutting teeth were in bad shape. The blades were worn down so badly some of them were as smooth as a penny’s edge.
“We had plenty of fresh chainsaws in the warehouse,” I said. “Why in the flying fuck would you bring this one?”
“The Redding smokejumpers wouldn’t let us have anything else,” Haley explained. She leaned on her McLeod like a staff.
I clenched my teeth. “First of all, you are Redding smokejumpers.”
“Nobody’s acting like it,” Derek muttered.
I ignored him. “Second, bringing substandard equipment on a mission is a stupid thing to do, no matter the reason. Why didn’t you bring this to my attention before we left?”
Derek scoffed. “You think tattling to the team lead would have been a good way to endear the other jumpers to us?”
I pushed past him and walked to the truck. I was pissed off, but not because they were wrong—because they were right. And it was my fault.
I tossed the junk chainsaw into the equipment crate and pulled out a crosscut saw from the bed of the truck. It was five feet long, with wooden handles on each end. Just like the saws used by loggers and forestry workers a hundred years ago. All the trucks had them as backups, in case the chainsaws malfunctioned or ran out of fuel.
“Hinch, you’re with me on the crosscut saw,” I said. “Fox, Pulaski duty. Sale, you can switch to raking with the McLeod.”
While the other two guys returned to the fire road to finish cleaning it up, Haley and I carried the crosscut saw toward the new section of handline. Despite the chainsaw’s terrible state, Foxy had done a pretty good job extending the handline forward. We passed two dozen felled trees before reaching the big ponderosa pine that he had failed on. Half the bark was chewed up on one side, like a beaver had gone to town on it and then given up.
I nodded at our crosscut saw. “Did they teach you to use one of these at McCall?”
Haley gave me an even look as she positioned herself on the other side of the tree. “Ready when you are.”
We lined up the blade edge of the saw to the side of the tree. I nodded, and we began moving the saw back and forth across the wood.
A good tool was one that did most of the work for you. The crosscut saw was designed with that purpose. The teeth were sharp and cut through the soft wood with ease. All we had to do was move it back and forth steadily, with minimal force, and the blades cut deeper with each stroke. Sawdust began drifting to the ground.
Despite that, operating a two-person crosscut saw was tough work. Like exercising on a rowing machine, it required the operators to use their entire bodies. Legs bent slightly at the knees, arms extended at the end of the stroke, then using your legs, core muscles, and arms to pull it back.
We cut through the wood with relative ease, until the weight of the tree caused the remaining trunk to crack and splinter. We jumped out of the way and watched the heavy pine crash into the forest.
“Nice work,” I said, looking around to pick a new target. “This one next.”
Working the crosscut saw allowed me to zone out. It was almost meditative—back and forth, back and forth. I liked this type of work. I was a manual labor kind of guy. Give me a task, tell me where to be, and I’d work my ass off until it was done. I was good at following directions.
I wasn’t cut out for leadership.
No matter how many times I’d told Commander Callaway, he insisted I should be a team lead. I hated managing other people. Take today, for example. I was in charge of our little four-person team, but I was focused on what I would be doing once we got to the site. I should have been overseeing the gathering of equipment, ensuring the rookies didn’t get stuck with the worst tools. Instead, I’d delegated the task and not thought anything else about it until it was too late.
And as much as I wanted to blame the three rookies, they couldn’t bring it to my attention. Tattling to a superior, whether in the Marines or in the Forest Service Smokejumpers, was a great way to earn the animosity of your peers. I’d put the three rookies in an unwinnable position.
Like I said: I wasn’t cut out for leadership.
Haley handled her end of the crosscut saw easily. Honestly, that wasn’t a surprise. Smokejumping school was tough enough for a man, but for a woman? The physical requirements were the same whether you weighed one-twenty or two-twenty. It was easy for me to shoulder a hundred-pound bag and carry it the length of a football field, but that bag was nearly the same bodyweight as some of the female trainees. Suffice to say, the women who were able to pass the program weren’t just competent. They were certified bad-asses.
Having said that, Haley didn’t look like the other female trainees I’d watched come through the program. Not that the other women weren’t attractive in their own way, but Haley? When they had arrived the day before, I found my gaze lingering on her a little longer than the guys.
I couldn’t help it. It was one of those things that came natural, without thinking. Checking out a girl. Face, tits, ass—in that order. It was a primal instinct that was thousands of years old, an ancient part of the male brain searching for a potential mate to help pass on their genes. It wasn’t my fault I checked her out. It was evolution forcing me to.
When I had first met her in the barracks yesterday, my brain told me what to think about her. She was fucking stunning. A hot little thing with an hourglass figure perfectly toned with muscle. The kind of woman that made a man want to grab a weapon and fight off any other potential mates who might come calling. Haley was the special kind of sexy that demanded attention.
But it was more than that. Working with her out here in the forest, sharing a crosscut saw as we completed our objective together? It heightened all of her attractiveness. Made her more sexy. Even now, I couldn’t stop glancing at her. Imagining the body underneath her fire suit. And underneath the clothes under that. Down to her skin…
That’s dangerous, whispered my conscience. You need to think of her as a colleague, not an Instagram fitness model.
It was easier said than done. Although the over-sized fire suit she was wearing helped me focus on the task at hand.
We finished sawing through another tree, which slowly fell into the forest in the direction of the safe side of our soon-to-be handline. “Need a break?” I asked her.
Haley narrowed her eyes. “No, but if you need one, I can pretend I do too in order to soothe your ego.”
I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. “No ego here. Just know we have a lot of forest to cut today.”
She put her free hand on her hip. “Then you’d better pick another tree instead of coddling the rookie.”
She could give as well as she took. That was a good sign. Weak demeanors didn’t last long in a testosterone-fueled group like the smokejumpers.
Today’s the first day, I thought as we began on another tree. Let’s see how she is after a few weeks.
12
Haley
It took me a while to realize why Trace kept looking at me.
He did it while we were sawing, and when we were moving to the next tree. Little glances, always turning away before I could meet his gaze or catch him on it. I thought he was judging me as a smokejumper. Deciding if I was doing my job as well as he expected. His glances forced me to focus all of my energy on the movement of the saw, throwing my body into each stroke of the blade against the wood.
But soon I realized it was different than that. His stares were the same as a guy admiring a girl in the club. He was checking me out. This shocked me because of the baggy, unflattering jumpsuit I was wearing. I might as well have been an amorphous blob of human flesh for all this uniform showed.
No, he’s definitely
checking me out, I thought after the fourth or fifth time. The idea almost made me laugh.
As we worked, I began to fantasize about ways to call Trace on it. If there was a porn version of our job, the girl would loudly declare that it was too hot for her jumpsuit, then strip down to her bra and panties. I imagined myself doing that, which made me smile at the ridiculousness of it. My sports bra didn’t showcase my breasts as well as a push-up bra, but I knew I still had a lot going on upstairs. I could let my hair down, shake it out dramatically like a porn star. Make a silly pun about how hard the wood was.
And then he would take off his fire suit, revealing his glistening muscles, I thought. Huge biceps rippling with each thrust of the crosscut saw, almond-colored hair sticking to his forehead and his cheeks shimmering with sweat…
“You alright?” Trace asked.
Shit. I’d lost focus and missed a strike with the saw. I shook off my daze and said, “Lost my grip.”
He nodded and we resumed cutting into the tree.
I just zoned out daydreaming about my smokejumper teammate.
It was embarrassing even though I was the only one who knew. Admiring a muscular hunk and getting all hot and bothered. I might as well have been a groupie at a concert, swooning over Adam Levine.
Annoyed with myself, I forced myself to focus on nothing but the saw.
We worked steadily. Eventually Derek and Foxy finished stirring the old fire road and joined us in extending the handline farther north. I glanced at Foxy, tall and lean and smiling back at me like the class clown. Although what we had done the other night was sexy and fun, it wasn’t what I really wanted to do with him. Was I fantasizing about Trace because of an unfulfilled desire for Foxy? My lust spilling over to the next available man within my proximity?
I glanced at Trace. No, he’s fucking gorgeous all on his own. I didn’t need an excuse to fantasize about him aside from the way he looked, and the fact that he kept glancing at me.
The work went on. Occasionally the wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of smoke and a grim reminder of why we were building the handline in the first place, but I didn’t let it make me afraid. Unlike a normal jump, we could always hop back in the truck and drive away if the fire began encircling us. Trace asked me twice if I wanted to sub out with one of the other guys, but I turned him down each time. Eventually he must have gotten tired himself because he told Derek and Foxy to take over with the crosscut saw.
I silently fist-pumped in the air when that happened. I’d outlasted Trace before getting tired. Or he was switching things up for my benefit.
I chose to believe it was the former.
“Who needs parachutes?” Foxy said while we worked. “We’re doing good work like this. With the added benefit of not accidentally breaking our legs if we don’t land correctly.”
“Ground work is for other fire teams,” Trace said simply. “As smokejumpers, we’re supposed to be jumping into the areas nobody else can get to.”
“Geez, lighten up, man,” Foxy said. “I was just saying we’re keeping up a solid pace.”
“We are,” Trace agreed, glancing at me before returning to raking the ground.
The hours dragged out. Four, five, then six. At the eight hour mark we took a longer break to get some food in our bellies instead of just water and Gatorade. Nobody spoke while we slurped down Ramen noodles. It wasn’t a meal for enjoyment—it was fuel, as much as the underbrush in the forest was fuel for the insatiable wildfire bearing down on us.
It was seven o’clock when we finished the handline, reaching a rocky cliff face on the other end of the valley. Foxy and I high-fived, and Derek let out a cheer.
“Work’s not over!” Trace shouted. “Back to the truck, everyone! ICP says the burning edge will be here soon!”
We marched back along the handline we’d created. The dark, moist soil was soft beneath our boots. Like a farm field ready for planting.
We paused to hydrate, and then Trace gave Derek our single backpack sprayer filled with water. The rest of us grabbed Pulaskis. We spread out along the handline, each of us covering about a hundred-yard section.
Then we waited.
The smoke swirling through the air became blacker as the burning edge of the wildfire approached. It was only a low-intensity fire at this point in the valley, thanks to good strategy by the state forest service. The fire approached my part of the handline burning low on the ground, strangely similar to flames smoldering on the edge of a piece of paper. Most of the fuel was leaves and underbrush, which kept the flames from licking too high into the air aside from the occasional shrub or tree that caught fire. As it moved slowly and steadily toward me, the air grew hotter and hotter until it stung my eyes.
I began patrolling my section of the handline to look for any weaknesses. Airborne flames from leaves could ignite the fuel on the “safe” side of the handline, so it was crucial to spot it when it happened and stamp it out. When I came across potential reignition points, I used my Pulaski to dig moist soil around and on top, smothering the embers before they could spread. If any larger flashpoints appeared, I would use my radio to call for assistance from Derek and his backpack sprayer. Fortunately, I didn’t have any such trouble.
Over the next hour, the wildfire reached the handline and began to sizzle out. Burning with such low intensity, it didn’t feel dangerous the way many wildfires did. Still, I remained vigilant during my patrol.
When the last flames disappeared I took off my gloves and walked my entire section of line, feeling pieces of wood for anything hot. Some thicker branches could smolder for hours. Anything that could reignite the fire after we left needed to be identified and eliminated, either by chucking them back in the damaged area or by burying them with soil.
There was radio chatter as Trace called for the backpack sprayer. I watched Derek come jogging down the handline, and he gave me a weary grin as he passed. Even after a full day of non-stop work, and with his face covered with dark smudges and sweat, he managed to look gorgeous. Especially since he’s not pouting right now.
Finally, Trace came marching down the handline. “Spotters overhead said we look good. I think we can call it a day.”
I fell in beside Trace wordlessly, using my rusted Pulaski as a cane as we walked back to the truck.
“Hallelujah,” Derek said when we came upon him. He removed his helmet so he could wipe sweat from his forehead. “Always a good day when you can end it in a bed.”
“Aww, where’s your sense of adventure?” Foxy replied. “You didn’t like camping as a kid?”
“Loved it,” Derek said. “But I don’t sleep well when I know a wildfire is charging toward us like an NFL defensive back.”
“Hah! I hear that.”
Trace didn’t say anything, but I got the impression he was impressed with us. And why wouldn’t he be? Our little four-person team had constructed a three hundred yard handline in less than a day, and defended it with ease.
“What do you think, boss?” I said as we got into the truck. “Are we shitty rookies, or what?”
“I’m not your boss,” he replied, the same as he’d said to Foxy earlier in the day. “But yeah. You three did alright.”
Foxy laughed. “Alright? We did fucking awesome. We deserve some wildfire-fighting trophies. And not participation trophies. The huge ones they give for first place.”
“Fuck trophies. I’d settle for a hot meal,” Derek said with a weak smile.
“And a cold beer,” Foxy added. “Always a cold beer. Or three.” He winked at me.
“Technically, alcohol’s not allowed inside Redding Base,” Trace said stiffly. He hesitated, then added, “But there’s a gas station down the road from the base, and occasionally some beer will find its way into someone’s bunk.”
“I’ll make sure it stays hidden. Assuming any beer accidentally finds its way into my room,” Foxy said.
Trace drove off the fire road and onto the main road, but then he turned right instead of lef
t. “We going somewhere, boss? I thought the interstate was that way.”
This time he ignored the title. “Figure we’d take the scenic route home. Up the valley, rather than over it. Takes ten minutes longer, but we get to appreciate all the land we just saved from the fire.”
“Shiiiit,” Foxy said, drawing the word out into four syllables. “That’s better than a beer. I like it.”
“It’s good to keep things in perspective,” Trace said simply. “A reminder of why we do what we do.”
The road wound through the forest and up the valley. The trees eventually thinned as we came to the edge of the National Forest, and were replaced by the white picket fences of a neighborhood. Except there weren’t any homes built yet. Instead, there were perfectly mowed fields of short grass with paved paths and man-made lakes. I didn’t recognize what it was until we passed a sign:
SHASTA COUNTRY CLUB
“A golf course?” Derek said in disbelief. “We did all of that to save a fucking golf course?”
Trace had a deathly look on his face, and his fingers gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles were white. “God damnit.”
“Guess that’s all we’re good for,” Foxy said bitterly. “Forget cities, or thousands of acres of national forest. The only thing us rookies can do is protect some rich asshole’s country club.”
“Nobody died today,” Trace said. “It doesn’t always turn out that way. Be happy about what we accomplished.”
Despite what he said, I could hear the frustration in his voice. He felt the same as we did.
Useless.
13
Haley
It shouldn’t have mattered.
Our job was to protect huge swaths of the valley, decided on by Commander Callaway and the people he reported to. We couldn’t defend everything, so resource protection was always about valuing some targets over others. Protect a nature reserve while allowing a small camp site to burn. Defending a residential neighborhood instead of a single private hunting property.
