“Moo,” somebody said.
“How big is this thing now?” a voice asked. It was the Luce County sheriff.
“We estimate it’s already at four thousand to seven thousand acres, and it’s got a shitload of fuel above- and belowground. If it gets as big as Seney, we’ll need an army to fight it. Better to plan big and not need it than to plan small and be up shit creek. Other questions?”
None. “When you come to the ICP for daily briefings, don’t park here. Find a place elsewhere. Keep this area open for the incident commander and emergency vehicles. We’ll probably meet twice a day, early morning and again late evening. If you can’t get here, send a rep in your place, and make sure we have a list of your replacements before we break up today.” Fox paused to catch his breath. “I’ve seen this fire. ’Dozers will have to surge a couple of roads into the area. You know the drill. Stop it first, then crush it. For now we’re in the stop-it-any-way-we-can phase. Winds are gonna push it toward 123, and that’s where we’re gonna make the first big fight,” he said, and paused for emphasis.
“I don’t need to tell you that the town is south of us, and all those folks expect us to have their backs, and by God, we do and we will. Section chiefs, if you have someone who can’t cut it on their job, get their ass out posthaste. This is neither a training exercise, nor a dress rehearsal. This is the real goddamn deal, ladies and gents. We either produce or we are out, no hard feelings, and that includes everybody here. The incident commander will designate fire divisions, alpha, bravo, Charlie, and so forth.” Fox turned to McKower, “The IC may want your people to provide personal escort for division chiefs. Got enough people to cover it?”
“Six coming from the west side,” she said. “We’re good. Sarn’t Service will supervise COs, I’ll liaise with the incident commander and other law enforcement at the planning and allocation level. If you need help quickly, go directly to Chief Master Sergeant Service.”
Gar Fox smiled. “Thanks, Captain.”
This said, Fox moved on to the roles of other law agencies, methodically talking to the lead representative of each group, outlining probable duties and priorities, asking about what they needed or wanted. He was calm, rational, organized, and deadly serious.
Jeffey Bryan arrived and Service went to greet him as other CO trucks began pulling in. McKower stayed with Fox.
“Where’s Sedge?” Bryan asked.
“Still east of Crisp at the dig.” I already told him this. Is he being overly nervous?
“Do we need to get her out of there?”
“Not yet. There’s a twenty-mile gap. If she has to evacuate, I told her to hike east to Vermilion and we’ll recover them there.”
Bryan nodded.
“I’m not taking over for you sergeants,” Service told him. “McKower will work with the short team and I’ll fill in for her with you. I’m not going to micromanage your shit. You know what to do, so do it. When the western guys get here, give them familiarization rides in key areas over key routes, then turn them loose in their own trucks.”
COs were gathering, looking at him expectantly. “This thing may melt into chaos, but it will be controlled chaos. Stay calm and help people who need help. Most important, if you need help, ask for it.”
Service’s cell phone vibrated and he stepped away to answer it. “I’m at the corner by the district,” Friday said.
“Come through town north to Four Mile Corner. There are lots of gawkers. Be careful.”
Service walked over to McKower. “A Troop I met earlier tonight nearly hit a bear on 123. This is dense bear country. Make sure Gar tells everyone the facts. The fire’s gonna have the animals scared and running, and they may be acting stupidly, especially the young males.”
She patted his arm and his phone vibrated again. “Sergeant Service, this is Goldie at the lab.”
“Have we met?”
“No, I’m the dirt guy,” the man said brightly. “That sample you sent over?”
“What about it”
“Not enough. Silica is all I can tell you. Without more to work with, I’m SOL.”
“Silica—like sand?”
“Sort of, yessir, but that’s not why I’m calling. Don’t know if you meant for us to look at this, but you had a fair amount of Ascalapha odorata traces in the wooden box.”
It was getting noisy. Service pushed a finger in his open ear. “What did you just say?”
“Black witch.”
Service held the phone away from his ear and stared at it. “Is that like a rock band, or what?”
“No, no, sorry—it’s a giant moth. Some people see it fly at night, which is when it usually flies, and thus they think it’s a bat! Thing has a six-inch wingspan.”
“This is significant?”
“That’s for you to say, sir. Ascalapha odorata is native to the Deep South and to the tropics of Central America. On rare occasions they have ventured into the Upper Peninsula. I know of only two places where they’ve been found, but both are well documented and both are in Chippewa County: Vermilion Point, and a couple miles west of there.”
“West toward Crisp Point?”
“You’d know that better than me. Does this help?”
“If you’re the dirt guy, how come you know about moths?”
“Hobby for the wife and me. Truth is, working on once-alive stuff is a lot more fun than inanimate substances. I mean, dirt has organisms and all, but hey, it’s not the same.”
“What do you mean by ‘working with them’?”
“You know, radiocarbon-dating and stuff. Not us, but we have a vendor in Florida, and we can get results in a few days. They’re good.”
Service closed his eyes: Dumb. “They can date stuff like a bear bone?”
“How much you got?”
“Couple feet.”
“No problem. You want to send it over?”
“I will, but don’t try using it as a fly swatter.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll see. Thanks, Goldie.”
• • •
Friday winked when she slid out of the Tahoe, marched directly over to him, and planted a honker of a kiss that brought everyone in the area to an unbreathing standstill.
“Whew,” she said, separating.
Service introduced McKower and watched the two women make nice and sniff each other. Neutral—good so far. Service led Friday over to his pickup and gave her the keys and the bear-leg breakhead. “Jesus, that looks awful. Is it real?”
“It’s real enough, but the real question is, how old? This goes to Goldie at the lab.”
She rested her head against his chest. “You need to get your big butt home—all of it,” she said gently, and got into his truck. She slid the window down. “Call your granddaughter. I told Karylanne you were in Newberry, she told the kid, and the kid heard about the fire on the TV, and now she’s petrified that her Bampy’s gonna burn up.”
“As in the fires of Hell?”
“No, you dope, like a marshmallow. She’s a kid, not a sky pilot.”
He saw her look past him toward the fire smoke billowing in the north and he could see the concern in her eyes.
“Call me,” she said, blew him a kiss, and left him to do his job.
60
Chesbrough Lake, Luce County
SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 2007
The officers from the western U.P. had shown up after midnight and this morning were riding with east-end COs to get a look at the road systems and help start evacuations, which had been ordered at 0500 that morning.
Incident Commander Kerry Brownmine had taken charge. Gar Fox was with a CO up County Road 407, trying to assess the need for an evac up that way, and gauging where and how to cut a road into the main fire area, which was a little north and east of CR 407.
Service spent the night sleeping in the back of his Tahoe. It was a little cramped, but not bad, and he had slept deeply. He woke rested and immediately went through his truck to inventory and organize
his gear, and to start the chain saw to make sure it worked.
A working chain saw could save lives in a fire, especially his own. He had a spare fuel can, which he would fill when he got coffee. There was a spare chain in the plastic carrying box for the saw. He tried on his banana suit, helmet, and goggles. The suit fit well enough and had huge thigh pockets. He pulled his Tahoe over to the fire garage, which was empty of vehicles, and grabbed a double-bit ax and Pulaski from a barrel, signing a paper on a clipboard indicating he’d taken gear.
He drove from the fire garage to Pickelman’s on M-28, where he filled up the spare fuel container, making sure to leave it on the ground when he filled it. He went inside and handed the clerk a thermos. “Black coffee, please,” he said.
The woman filled the thermos and brought it to him. “Got any Styrofoam cups?”
“You on the fire?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Coffee cups and gas are on the house for you fellas. Be safe out there, eh?”
A man with a shaved head wandered over to him as he got to his Tahoe. “Your fire guys up dere don’t know shit,” he said.
“Who’re you?”
“Russ Cheeker, I been loggin dis county since fifty-two. Dat fire, she ain’t goin’ nowhere but where she is. Ain’t no place she can move to. All they gotta do is guard roads. I logged dat hull damn area. Just peat and swamp. How come then they got all them damn people up here running all over the place?”
“Better too many and not need them, right?” Service said to the man.
“Someday taxpayers gonna get pissed enough make you state boys toe the line, eh.” Why did emergencies seem to bring out the disgruntled?
There were still vehicles all over Four Mile Corner, but he parked north on M-123 and walked back to the mobile command post and stayed outside. The air was dry and warm, the humidity up. Humidity always seemed to elevate at night. He had no idea why.
Elise pulled in and walked over to join him. “It is very weird to sleep alone in your own home,” she said quietly, her eyes half open. Her house was on East Lake, which was west of town. She wore surplus military BDUs and scuffed heavy brown field boots.
“Ain’t captains ’pose to look spiffy and pressed?” he ribbed her.
“Only those who patrol office buildings.”
The organization had been battling for a long time to acquire some sort of Class C field uniform—battle dress, fatigues, whatever—and so far it had been a no-go. As it was, they worked in the field in uniforms that had to be dry-cleaned, which made no sense from any angle. All other cop outfits had fatigues of some kind. But not the MDNR.
Gar Fox arrived with a man in blue jeans and a faded green DNR shirt. He had beat-up hands, a homely, leathery countenance, and needed a shave and a haircut.
“Brownmine,” Elise McKower whispered.
The incident commander waited until everyone had arrived. He seemed secure in silence, not feeling the need to socialize and glad-hand. When the crowd had grown he looked at his watch. “Zero seven hundred, people. We will start all meetings on time. If you’re not here, ask someone to catch you up later. Remember this: All politics are loco, and a fire, technical definitions aside, is the ultimate political football. Every move we make out here will be second-guessed by someone somewhere and we are not going to worry about that crap. Just do your jobs and I’ll CYA.”
Brownmine looked for a response, got none. “Fire in strangmoor is tricky business. Let’s be clear: Our goal here is, one, to put out the fire, and two, to do it with no loss of human life and minimal structural damage. If your people get into a situation where they feel tempted to act heroically and in doing so risk their lives, tell them to get the hell out of that position. We have equipment rolling in. We have manpower coming in. This isn’t the old days. We know how to fight these monsters, so tell your people to play safe. This monster will eat us if it can, so let’s just not serve ourselves up to her. Grady Service here?”
Service held up a hand with a cup of coffee.
“You’re gonna be my shotgun. We’ll talk more when we’re done here.”
Service nodded and looked at the ground.
McKower whispered, “Know the diff between a Finnish introvert and a Finnish extrovert?”
Service squinted. “Do tell.”
“The introvert looks at his own shoes when you talk to him. The extrovert looks at your shoes.”
He chuckled and could see this pleased her immensely. “He check with you about putting hooks on me?”
“Never before laid eyes on the man, but Gar asked me last night who would be the best person to hold Brownmine’s hand, and I volunteered you.”
“Thanks much.”
“Always trying to help, Sergeant.”
Brownmine came over after the briefing concluded. “I met Eddie Waco at a conference in Reno a couple of years ago. Helluva man. He called me last night and suggested I use you as my personal escort, and your captain concurs. That gonna fuck up your plans?”
“Twenty-four seven?”
“Just when I need to kiss the fire. I’ll need someone who won’t drive with his foot on the brake all the time, and Chief Waco says you’re that man. You got fire gear?”
“In my truck.”
“Go about your business, but make sure I can reach you quickly. If we can’t hook up, who should I grab?”
Service pointed at McKower.
“Captain?” Brownmine said.
“Yes,” Service said. “But Lansing ain’t rubbed itself all over her and dulled her field edge yet.”
Brownmine’s eyes twinkled.
Gar Fox left the meeting to head up County Road 407, trying to find a way to cross to the fireground, which was a hair east and north. Brownmine issued an order at the briefing for all COs to contact all dwellings between Halfway Lake and Pine Stump and evacuate the residents. Same for all people around the Chesbrough Lake and Widgeon Creek areas, which were east of the Two-Hearted Headwaters Preserve.
Service gathered his COs and sent them out. Sergeant Bryan asked him if he could check camps and help with evacuations around Chesbrough Lake. There weren’t enough officers; Service passed this to Elise, who said she’d arrange for additional personnel from other districts.
In the interim he headed toward the lake area to urge people to leave. He let Brownmine know his destination before bugging out. Up on M-123 just south of Murphy Creek there were fire vehicles everywhere, parked helter-skelter. This part of the road was closed north to County Road 500, but the park at Tahquamenon remained open. If tourists needed to escape, they could go east into Paradise, then south to M-28 to get out of the danger area. A fire this time of year would kill tourist businesses, many of which were already on the brink of economic death.
Overhead, Blackhawks carrying 700-gallon Bambi buckets were dropping water along the road. The communications frequencies were cluttered with anxious but businesslike voices. It smelled, felt, and sounded like a small helping of war, right down to the incessant thump-thump and whine of the choppers working overhead.
He found himself alone, bumping along deeply rutted two-tracks, smoke curtains wafting like ghosts through the woods. He kept his windows up and air blower going to breathe clean air as best he could. His Automatic Vehicle Locator was going in and out of service, which made it impossible to know exactly where his colleagues were. The rolling map worked, but there were no markers from other COs.
By noon he had hit all the main cabins on the lake and started methodically working named and unnamed side lanes and trails, looking for tents, trailers, or isolated buildings. There were an astonishing number of them, and so far he had sent a half-dozen families packing.
One geezer had told him he was going to remain at his house and help fight the fire. Service took his digital camera out of his pocket, and said. “Show me your hand.”
The man did as instructed and Service took a photograph.
“What’s that about?” the man asked.
&
nbsp; “Needed a picture of your ring and watch to help us identify your charred remains—if we can find your body.”
The man gulped and decided to shove off.
Another man wanted to know about his cats.
“How many?” Service asked.
“Twelve or so,” the man said sheepishly.
“I think they’ll be just fine,” Service told the man. “They are born with survival instincts we don’t have.” He didn’t tell the man that most of them might end up as coyote snacks.
He drove up on a young couple humping wildly in the back of a rocking Volkswagen van. When he pounded on the van, a young man opened the side door. “We’re putting a priority on which fires to put out first,” he told the man. “And yours isn’t one of them, pal. Get thee elsewhere or go to jail. Your choice.”
“Elsewhere,” the man said, reaching for his pants.
“Can we at least finish up?” his girlfriend asked. “I’m, like, really close?”
“Move or jail,” Service said again.
“That’s so rude,” the girl yelped.
• • •
By early afternoon, it seemed that most people were gone. He was about to head back to the ICP when he saw a man stumbling along a two-track ahead of him. He stepped on the gas to catch up; at twenty yards the person turned around and looked at him. Kermit? The man bolted north into the brush and Grady Service ran right behind him, but in less than five minutes his lungs were filling with fire smoke, and he knew the man could easily hide in this miasma. Not smart to make a foot chase in a smoker.
So much for end-stage macular degeneration! Lying little fucker! Faking blindness.
Service called Jeffey Bryan on the district’s 800 channel. “I just saw Kermit,” he told the young sergeant.
“Where?”
“Between Chesbrough and Widgeon Trail,” Service said, coughing.
“Smoke getting you? Take a shot on your respirator.”
“It was him.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. He took one look at me and ran.”
“Pretty good for a blind man,” Bryan said. “You want help?”
Force of Blood Page 30
