Fire Flight

by John J. Nance

  Clark sighed, knowing very well the weary sound he’d just made was the fatigue he’d be dealing with all day. His body longed to go find the nearest bed and drop out of service for a few hours.

  The parking lot was still in shadow, the main illumination in his truck coming from the overhead map light as he scribbled a note to himself about the call. He finished and repocketed his pen, his eyes on the barely discernible fleet of old metallic pelicans in the distance. Maybe he’d been panicking for nothing, and maybe not. Maybe Jeff’s aircraft had sustained hidden damage unique to that airframe with a very hard landing someone didn’t report, or a four-g pull up that somehow didn’t break the wings off then and there, but could have started a fatal crack.

  But what if the logs were falsified, and the inspections were a sham? If so, how could Jerry be behind it? Jerry Stein might be slippery, but he wasn’t a criminal. Maybe Southlight had ripped him off. There were enough possibilities to make him dizzy.

  A sharp knock on the driver’s-side window caused Clark to jump practically into the steering wheel. With his heart racing, he turned to see one of the veteran mechanics standing there. He fumbled with the ignition key and lowered the window as he shook his head at Andy Simmons.

  “You scared the bejesus out of me, Andy.”

  “Sorry, Clark. I just saw you sittin’ out here, and I was wondering if they’d kicked you out of the hotel or something.”

  He shook the man’s hand and opened the door, raising the window and grabbing his flight bag in the process.

  “No, remember the glorified log cabin where I threw a party about six years ago?”

  “I sure do.”

  “I’m renting it again, so they can’t kick me out. Why would you think that, anyway? I’m the last guy to get out of control around here. Well, after Bill Deason, maybe.”

  “Not what I hear.”

  They started walking toward the hangar complex together.

  “So what do you hear, Andy? Am I getting an undeserved reputation?”

  “Well, when you beat up Trent to protect his pretty wife, yeah, that would give you a reputation. A good one with us!”

  Clark stopped and shook his head, his hand out in a stop gesture. “No, no, no, Andy. That’s not what happened.” He filled Simmons in on the minor extent of the scuffle and saw his expression droop.

  “Aw, well, that’s nothin’ then.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “And here we were hoping he’d be in traction this morning in some faraway hospital.”

  “He pushing you guys that hard?”

  Even in the subdued light Clark could see the look on Andy’s face harden.

  “There’s a lot of stuff going on around here I don’t like, Clark.”

  “Really? Anything I should know?”

  “Considering you wrote that letter last year and know a lot about this system, I’d say yes.”

  Clark felt his head spin slightly at the surreal impact of finding yet another person who knew.

  “God, is there anyone who doesn’t know I wrote that letter?”

  Andy brightened again and chuckled. “Yeah. Most of us. I just guessed, and you just confirmed it.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be telling Trent or Jerry. But I want to talk to you.”

  “Sure. When?”

  “This evening, I think. I know we’re busy as hell but I need to unload on someone. I’ll leave a note on your truck or something.”

  Clark waved and headed toward Operations but turned back suddenly.

  “Andy, just a question.”

  He moved back toward Clark to keep his voice down. “Shoot.”

  “Over the winter, our sixes weren’t flying any, I don’t know, missions or anything, were they? I mean, I assume the only flight time they have since the inspections last year in Florida is what we’ve flown this summer. Right?”

  Andy Simmons stared at him for several uncomfortable seconds before answering.

  “Are you asking if we flew them out of here?”

  “No…I know the airport isn’t open in the winter, but I was wondering if, maybe, they flew out of Helena, where Jerry normally keeps them.”

  “So, you’re just basically asking if we flew them at all during the winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Couldn’t have, Clark. They were all down in Florida. We didn’t get them back until April.”

  Chapter 12

  NATIONAL INTERAGENCY COORDINATION CENTER, BOISE, IDAHO

  The tension in the command center had been rising since midnight when the latest weather forecast confirmed the worst: the high winds blowing from the south and whistling through the Jackson Hole, Grand Teton, and Yellowstone areas were expected to strengthen before daylight, urging the fires to even greater intensity.

  Jim De Maio, the assistant director, had caught a few hours of sleep in his office downstairs and was back in the briefing room with six others as they took stock of the coming critical battle, and the assets they had with which to fight it.

  “We’ve already lost the valley called ‘the Meadows,’” Lynda Gardner briefed. “The flame front easily jumped the lines and climbed the east slope last evening and got north of Crystal Peak, and it’s about to turn into the next valley, here. You can see on the infrared shot taken an hour ago…it’s too late to stop it from jumping the ridge, so the entire valley north of Black Peak is our next stand.”

  “How about to the west?” De Maio asked.

  “Just as bad. It’s coming up to Sheep Mountain, and the winds are going to fan the flame front and push the head up the valley and into Kelly. We’ve got fifteen crews cutting line down that valley, and the choppers have been working out of Jackson; but it’s a natural wind conduit, and I think we’re going to lose a lot of structures.”

  “We need tankers?”

  “Too late for tankers to help there.”

  Jim looked around the table. “Who’s got the update on the new spot fires north of there?”

  “I do, Jim, and it’s equally grim,” Alex White replied. “We had firebrands raining down through the night almost to Gros Venture Road, and since we had two helishot crews over south of Kelly, we had to rely on our ground crews to race up and down this valley all night. They’ve got most of the spot fires contained, but our problems are north of Gros Venture Road, as you can see here.” He pointed to another white spot on the map indicating intense heat in the mountains to the north.

  “We’re looking at Grouse Mountain?” Jim asked.

  “Southwest of there a few miles, south of Green Mountain. This is a lightning strike from two days ago we thought was contained, but the rapellers lost it last night and got chased north.” He paused and looked around the table, making sure they were all paying attention before turning back to De Maio. “Jim, we’re going to need everything we’ve got on this one today,” Alex said. “This is a potential killer. If it gets north of Green Mountain, it’ll go all the way to southern Yellowstone.”

  “These are all the same class of forest, I assume?”

  “All of them. Primed, dry, ready to go. And here…this is a natural wind funnel as well.”

  Lynda Gardner had an index finger in the air, and Jim nodded at her.

  “We’re critical on tankers, as you know. We’ve got a single P-3 at West Yellowstone, and with the loss of two DC-6s, that leaves us five DC-6s, plus Stein has a few Jet Rangers and a Skycrane. Stein’s only DC-7 will be staging out of Jackson Hole. But that’s it. We should get three more tankers coming in from California tomorrow, provided they don’t get diverted.”

  “Can West Yellowstone handle all that hardware?”

  “No. But they’ll have to. They’re already bitching and moaning.”

  “I’ll bet. How about the helos with buckets?”

  “We can spare no more than two from Jackson, a Skycrane and a Chinook.”

  “This…this thing is already a half-mile wide. Is there any
chance?”

  “Like I told you yesterday, Jim. We’ve moved too late on all of it, but in this case, the hot spots got outflanked by the wind. Yes, there’s still a chance, but the wind is rising as we speak. The first tankers are set to launch by seven-forty A.M., fifteen minutes from now. We’ll hit it from the air until we time out the tankers.”

  “Someone mentioned jumpers?”

  Another finger went up. “Yeah. We’ve got a Type One team staging at West Yellow, and we’re going to have them standing by to go after any spot fires that blow up north of Green Mountain.”

  The meteorologist had looked increasingly uncomfortable since the subject of tankers had come up. He cleared his throat now. “Ah, you all need to understand that if wind speed exceeds forty knots sustained in here, the air tactical group supervisors will probably have to ground the fleet.”

  “Tankers and helos?”

  “Everything.”

  “God help us,” Jim said, half under his breath as he waved them to carry on and turned to go back to his office for a necessary call to Washington. The media had sniffed out the seriousness of the situation and used the story the previous evening. Now, in addition to the secretaries of interior and agriculture, he had to give an hourly update to Deputy Chief of Staff Jules Palmer, who was planted in a chair in the White House Situation Room, ready to relay information to the president on demand.

  “Jules?” he said into the secure, dedicated line, hearing an instant response from the deputy. “Jim De Maio here. If you have the maps I sent you, pull them up and let me walk you through this.”

  “Bottom line, are we in trouble? Are you guys going to need the Guard’s MAFFS-equipped C-130s?”

  Jim hesitated, considering the effectiveness of the Modular Airborne Fire Fighting System of portable tanks, which sprayed retardant out the open back door of the aircraft. To get the MAFFS system required a political call for help and activation of the appropriate Air National Guard or Air Force Reserve units at the state or national level. Due to laws passed to protect the airtanker companies, the civilian fleet had to be tapped out and essentially unavailable before the MAFFS units could be called.

  He sighed. “The 130s aren’t the cavalry. They can’t solve the problems single-handedly, and there’s a question of effectiveness in these winds.”

  “You mean, the 130s with the older tanks?” Palmer asked.

  “Yes. If they don’t have the new AFFS version of those tanks, they’re going to be less effective for us, and they’re going to be grounded even sooner than our geriatric airtanker fleet.”

  “If the winds keep up.”

  “Right. Which is what our forecaster is forecasting.”

  “But, they can help, right?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And,” Palmer continued, “aside from the usual policy of not asking for help too soon so as not to be a political liability, you think we’re going to need them? Yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, Jim. We’ll get that moving. I’ve got the map up now if you’ll walk me through.”

  “One thing more,” he said. “We may need more than the 130s, if…today doesn’t go well.”

  There was a crescendo to the sudden silence on the other end of the line. “You’re not considering what we did in ’88, are you? Calling in the Army and National Guard troops and using the Air Force?”

  “Could happen. We’re at that planning level now, and I’ve decided we’re going to fill out the request later this morning and submit it tonight if we think we’re going to need it. After all, it’ll take at least four days to train people and bring them in, and even then they’ll be only on the safer sections of the line.”

  “In the final analysis, Jim, we didn’t make much of a dent in ’88. We still burned a third of Yellowstone, thanks mostly to our ‘let it burn’ philosophy.”

  “You’re right. But we’ve got to try everything possible.”

  “In World War Two, General Patton tried to get good weather for a pivotal battle by ordering his chaplain to arrange it. We got a friendly pastor or priest around here?”

  “I’ve already thought of that. We’re looking.”

  FOREST SERVICE AIRTANKER OPERATIONS. WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT, MONTANA—SEVEN A.M., DAY TWO

  Daylight was flooding in the windows of the Forest Service Ops by the time Clark pushed through the door.

  He paused to take stock of the frenetic activity within, noting that most of the pilots had already arrived and a glut of them were now surrounding the crew desk with jokes, gestures, impromptu briefings, and yawns at the relatively early hour. The volume of background conversation in the room was already rising on a tide of radio calls between mechanics on the ramp and those pumping the fire retardant into the aircraft. A hint of cigarette smoke from someone flaunting the no-smoking rules joined the mixed aromas of fresh aftershaves and colognes and the worn leather smell of old flight jackets. The tempo of the cacophony was increasing as well, as if an unseen maestro was purposely quickening the piece with each downbeat, whipping the orchestration of the morning launch into a fever pitch of action and determination. The pace was actively boosting the adrenaline levels of all present.

  In the distance somewhere on the ramp, the cough of a powerful R-2800 engine coming to life amid a cloud of blue smoke could be heard, followed by the melodious, throaty sound of the same two thousand horses smoothing out in the practiced hands of an unseen mechanic making some preflight adjustment.

  Clark had moved into the room, actively calculating his desperation for caffeine, when a large hand touched his right shoulder. He turned to find Bill Deason smiling at him.

  “How’re you doing, Clark?”

  “Hi, Bill. I’m okay,” he replied. “Sleepy, confused, marginally functional, but okay. Unless the FAA is asking, in which case I’m officially bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “I hear you. I have to be careful how I use that phrase, though. I called Judy bushy-tailed once and she nearly slugged me.” The well-weathered face crinkled into a large smile, a familiar image that most of the airtanker fraternity considered to be the face of the perfect grandfather. Bill Deason, who had for over a decade been known as Tanker Sixty-one—the tail number of his grounded PB4Y-2—now used the call sign of his newly-issued P-3, Tanker Ten. Bill was the father of four and the grandfather of seven, a pilot who’d begun attacking forest fires with large airplanes four years before Jeff Maze had left crop dusting. The Deason style of flying—in both the lumbering old four-engine PB4Y-2 tanker he loved and the newer P-3—was almost as artistic as it was effective, and if his longtime copilot, Chuck Hines, ever decided to quit, there would be a long line of applicants to take his place.

  “You look a little fuzzy yourself, Bill,” Clark said.

  “Well, it was a short night for all of us.”

  “Misty keep you awake?”

  “Oh, considering everything the poor girl’s been through, she did pretty well. But even the biggest motor homes are a bit snug when you have a guest aboard who can’t sleep.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  Bill shook his head and studied a distant window for a few seconds before meeting Clark’s eyes again.

  “She…was saying some strange things last night.”

  “What about?”

  Deason hesitated, gauging how much to say, and Clark watched him pass an internal decision point and sigh.

  “She was talking about Jeff, of course. That’s what you’d expect. But it wasn’t the usual rants we’ve all heard and loved. These were…things about the Caribbean, and about Jeff’s airplane, and…frankly, Clark, I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  Instinctively Clark glanced around, satisfying himself no one was making a point to listen. He turned back, studying Bill Deason’s genuinely worried expression.

  “She said something like that last night when she was overboosting the band’s microphone at the Coachman.”

  “Judy told me about that.
But Misty said a lot of other stuff later on, when she was with us. You…have any idea why she’d be talking about the Caribbean? You know how Jeff hated the Caribbean.”

  “Not a clue. Did you ask her about it after she sobered up?”

  Bill smiled. “I will, but the sobering’s gonna take a while. She was still in a Jack Daniel’s coma when I left this morning.”

  Clark had been moving slowly toward a less-crowded corner of the room with Bill following. He turned now to look the big pilot in the eye.

  “When we both get back this evening? Maybe the two of us should have a quiet talk with her.”

  “Good,” Bill replied. “I was kind of hoping you’d suggest that.”

  Clark cocked his head slightly.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I tend to look on the bright side of things and figure that Jerry’s going to treat his fleet with loving care during the winter, but truthfully, we seasonal pilots don’t really know where the planes have been each winter. Jerry does, I’m sure, and Jerry’s always looking to turn a buck. And what’s more, we know from experience that some of the operators have some pretty close ties with the CIA, and guess what Misty goes and talks about. Jerry being with the CIA, or dealing with them, or whatever she said.”

  “That’s pretty far out, Bill.”

  “Is it? I don’t know. But I do know that when a DC-6B comes apart in the air, that raises some really tough questions in my mind about where these old girls go in the winter and if they’re being flown, how they’re being flown. And then here comes Misty making some very worrisome comments about where Jeff and his airplane might have been.”

  “But, Bill, the flight time he’d logged seems right.”

  “You looked at the logs?”

  “Well, in part.”

  “So, what’s real, Clark? Can we trust what Jerry says and the times in the logbooks? Or is someone running the airplanes off the books during the winter? Did Jeff go fly one somewhere? Was someone else flying the fleet not using logbooks? I had to hold Chuck Hines back today on all the conspiracy theories.”

  “Your copilot’s a conspiracy theorist?”