Fire Flight

by John J. Nance

  He turned to his right and banked in the same direction, hoping to see the DC-6B following his commands and climbing away.

  Instead he could see the four-engine airliner holding its course, its flaps extended, as it aimed directly for the target line.

  “Tanker Forty-four, did you copy? Knock it off! Recover northward and climb.”

  There was no answer, and Sam continued turning sharply back toward the east, holding his breath as he watched the red fire retardant begin to stream from the belly of the old Douglas dead onto the target line. The four-engine ship finished the drop at last and began climbing, altering course to the right slightly as it approached the plume of smoke. He could see the wings rocking as the crew fought to stay upright, but they were succeeding, and as the DC-6 disappeared into the plume, one of the crew keyed the radio.

  “Well, that was special,” the laconic voice of Dave Barrett—Tanker 44—said. “Not sure I’ve ever seen white caps in my coffee before.”

  “Didn’t you copy my ‘abort’ call, Forty-four?” Sam called, aware his voice was probably too shrill.

  “Yeah, but heck, we were already in the neighborhood, and it takes a lot more to roll a DC-6 than to shake up your Baron,” Barrett added.

  Sam knew Tanker Forty-four all too well. Dave Barrett had been around almost as long as Jeff had, and was almost as uncontrollable at times. He felt his left hand still vibrating lightly on the yoke. The thought of leading anyone else through that nightmarish horizontal tornado was horrific. It had almost killed him twice.

  Barrett’s voice returned to the frequency.

  “Well…that turbulence was just about at my limits, Sam. I’d recommend not sending anyone else through there until the winds calm down. It’s that eddy over the ridge that’s creating the problem. It must be howling over there at forty to fifty knots.”

  Thank God, Sam thought as he hit the transmit button. “I fully concur.”

  He picked up the hand microphone to relay the bad news to the crew on the ground that there would be no more tanker drops. He knew there would be a brief argument, then a call for the helicopters, but they all knew it would be too late. The firefighters on the ground would have to escape to the north now and join the others on the next spot fire, letting this one go.

  He quickly checked the map for the next coordinates before looking up and visually spotting another angry, growing plume of smoke four miles over the next ridge.

  It was not even ten A.M. and they’d already suffered their first major defeat.

  WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT, MONTANA

  Misty Ryan emerged from the compact bathroom of the Deason’s plush, forty-foot-long motor home, scratching her head and looking sheepish as Judy Deason looked up from a book she was reading.

  “Judy, I am so sorry!”

  “Why?” Judy asked. “What about?”

  “I…” She looked around and gestured to the daylight. “I didn’t mean to be unconscious for hours and…and tie you up.”

  “That’s no problem. I wasn’t going anywhere, and you needed the sleep. How do you feel?”

  Misty rubbed her forehead and sat hard on the edge of the divan, tears reforming in her eyes.

  “Surreal, you know? Like it was all a bad dream.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean…the news about Jeff.”

  “I understand.”

  “And that’s aside from this horrid hangover. How much did I drink last night?”

  Judy chuckled. “Well, let me put it this way. The county wasn’t dry until you closed the bar last night.”

  “That bad?”

  “What did we used to call it as teenagers? Wasted?”

  “Yeah, or shit-faced.”

  Judy cleared her throat. “I think I like wasted better.”

  There was a short silence, punctuated by the rumble of another large aircraft passing by as a gust of wind rocked the forty-foot coach.

  Misty’s tears were flowing freely now. “I just can’t believe Jeff’s gone, y’know?” she sobbed.

  “I know. But each season the risks feel the same to me. It’s like being a military wife during wartime, spending your days praying the chaplain doesn’t come driving up to your door in lieu of your husband, and trying to act like there’s no danger.”

  “Yeah,” Misty agreed. “Except I never achieved the wife part.”

  “You said that last night, too.”

  “I did?”

  “On the microphone at the bar.”

  Misty’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

  “Quite a show, actually.”

  “Oh, no! I don’t remember anything, Judy. What else did I say?”

  Judy studied her for several very long moments before answering. “One thing you said, Misty, has me very concerned.”

  “What?”

  “Something about Jeff’s airplane flying south for the winter and doing, I think you said ‘stuff,’ and because of whatever you were referring to, you said he couldn’t keep it glued together. I don’t know what that means.”

  True alarm had replaced the curious, embarrassed look on Misty’s face, and Judy took careful note.

  “I said that?”

  “Yes. You also called Jerry Stein a very bad name, accused him of killing Jeff, and, I think, accused him of being with the CIA, and you said you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about it.”

  Misty tried to laugh to cover her alarm, but it wasn’t working, and she could see that Judy was pressing for real answers.

  “I was…just delirious, I guess.”

  “Why would you think Jerry was connected with the CIA? I mean, Misty, you know Jerry. Is there a less likely candidate in North America?”

  Misty laughed again, the sound even more forced and nervous than before. “I have no idea why I said that. Probably mixing up a movie with real life, you know?”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please!” Misty replied, relieved for anything to break the line of questioning.

  Judy moved to the galley and began grinding coffee beans while Misty rubbed her head and tried to avoid her friend’s eyes. When the coffee was ready, Judy poured them both a cup and came around to sit beside Misty. She handed her a couple of aspirin and started rubbing the back of her neck.

  “I know you’re hurting inside, Misty.”

  Misty nodded. “I had to live without him a lot, as you know, and he was anything but faithful to me, but…there was always the knowledge that he’d come blowing back into my arms like a hurricane. That big goofy smile and all.”

  “You always said he looked like a movie star. Like a cross between Tom Selleck and…who’s the actor with the really suspicious, bad-boy smile?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It was a canary-eating smile. Oh! Dennis Quaid. It was that same ‘I’ve been up to something really bad and you’ll never catch me’ smile.”

  “Yeah, that was Jeff,” Misty agreed.

  “But, you know, Misty, the rest of us girls have still got lovers out there driving those old tubs around the sky. We still sit here and keep our fingers crossed that nothing’s going to go wrong.”

  Misty was nodding.

  “So, if there’s something you know…anything you know…that would threaten our guys, I hope you’ll tell us. Or me.”

  Misty looked trapped again as she raised her head and looked Judy in the eye.

  “There’s nothing, Judy. Really!”

  “You’re sure? Bill’s always said that alcohol removes inhibitions very much like sodium pentethol, the so-called truth serum.”

  “No, really.”

  “When I mentioned what you said to Bill, he got real worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Misty, Bill knows precisely where his airplane was all last winter. But all the rest of the fleet was out of town, and Jeff’s just fell apart in the air. How about the other DC-6s? Is there some reason they shouldn’t be trusted? Did something happen to them? Or was it just Jeff’s
airplane?”

  “I was just babbling, Judy. I don’t even remember saying that stuff.” Misty got to her feet suddenly and swayed in place as she grabbed her head and closed her eyes. “Oh, wow. I’ve got to get myself together. I need to shower and then go work on funeral arrangements, you know?”

  “Bill wants to talk with you when he gets back.”

  “Okay.”

  “You going to walk over to Stein Operations?”

  She nodded.

  “And then you’ll come back here, right?”

  “Sure,” Misty replied, avoiding Judy’s eyes as she pointed to the bathroom. “Okay to use your shower now?”

  “Sure. Your towel’s already in there with shampoo and everything,” Judy said, watching the tall redhead move quickly down the corridor and open the bathroom door.

  Judy looked outside as one of the DC-6Bs broke ground, realizing with a sick feeling in her stomach that she was half expecting it to suddenly nose over and crash. She hated the fact that Bill was flying today.

  Misty knew something, but it was the fact that she was too scared to talk that was chilling.

  Chapter 14

  IN FLIGHT, EAST OF JACKSON HOLE, WYOMING

  The need to get out of the command seat was suddenly overwhelming.

  “I’m going to walk around the cabin for a few minutes,” Clark said to the copilot. “You want anything from the cooler?”

  He watched Rusty evaluate the question against the distance and time remaining to the drop zone.

  “We’re still fifteen minutes to descent, right?” Clark added.

  “Right,” Rusty acknowledged.

  “Okay. I really will be back in fifteen minutes, provided I can leave with your approval.”

  Rusty smiled. “Since when do you need my approval, Clark?”

  “Well, while I’m gone, you get to pay for anything that gets broken.”

  “No problem. I’m broke anyway. And I could use a Diet Coke.”

  Clark nodded and threw off the seat belt, negotiating his way past the center console and back into the empty, cavernous interior of the DC-6B, wondering exactly why he’d felt such a need to get out of the cockpit.

  The noise level in the cabin without his noise-canceling headset on was startling. Much of the insulation Douglas had originally stuffed in the walls when the aircraft had flown passengers had been removed over the years, as had the padded and upholstered walls themselves. Only aging insulation pads were left to line the metal skin of the aircraft, and the stench of thousands of gallons of fire retardant filled the air as if to confirm this was now a hostile environment.

  He moved toward the aft end of the cabin, his mind on Karen and the possibility that her husband had assaulted her. Had the police been involved? At least she was seen walking and functional, but what on earth had happened?

  Why do I feel so damn guilty? Clark wondered, glancing at his watch to see how many of those stated fifteen minutes he had left. After all, she’s a big girl and we were just talking.

  Deep inside he knew. Karen—or the thought of Karen—had been playing in his mind like a concerto ever since he returned to West Yellowstone, the harmonies and colors of the idea becoming a secret retreat of his mind, generating happy if random and impossible daydreams. After all, she was married.

  There was a small compartment built into the sidewall toward the back end of the cabin, beneath a window. He’d paid very little attention to the details of the uninteresting cargo interior before, but now the presence of the compartment seemed to jump out at him. He knelt down and worked the two Zeus fasteners, then lifted the lid to find a jumble of cargo straps and metal pieces dumped inside.

  The aircraft had a floor-restraint system for locking down cargo, consisting of heavy canvas cargo straps with large metal hooks on the ends that fit into receptacles built into the floor. There was a cargo door on the forward left of the airplane that had been installed decades after the last commercial passenger had flown aboard. He started to close the lid, but a piece of folded newsprint caught his eye. Curious, he reached in and pulled out what appeared to be the sports section of a Spanish newspaper, printed—according to the top line—in Cali, Colombia.

  Clark resecured the fasteners and headed forward, absently carrying the newspaper with him.

  “Ah, good. You’re just in time,” Rusty said.

  “For what?”

  “Sammy’s putting us in a holding pattern. So if you want to go jog around back there or sleep awhile, we’ve got time now.”

  “And leave you up here alone to play with the switches?” Clark joked. “I don’t think so.” He handed Rusty the Diet Coke he had grabbed from the cooler. “You ever wonder how many people flew in this old bird, Rusty? All the human stories, the pathos, the emotional anguish as people flew away from loved ones, the drama when they were flying to someone, or something? For instance, did you ever wonder how many people were flown in this airplane in handcuffs on their way to a prison?”

  Rusty was staring at him with an amused expression. “And this would be, what, your Andy Rooney impression?”

  “No, I just…just wonder sometimes, about the rich human history of an old airliner. You know. What if she could talk? Make a great movie.”

  “This old tub? Tanker Eighty-eight?”

  “Hey, don’t call this old lady a tub.”

  “Sorry.”

  “She’d probably cuss you out for that insulting reference.”

  “If she could talk, Clark, she’d be begging us to stop trying to barbeque her belly with these cockamamie fires we keep buzzing.”

  “Not a romantic bone in your body, is there, Rusty?”

  “Nope. I believe in practicality, straightforward communication, and not wasting time.”

  “In other words, you get slapped a lot on dates and no surprise you’re still single.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “We romantics can tell.” Clark gestured to the plumes of smoke that were ahead, filling the sky to the south and southeast. “Not looking good, is it?”

  The copilot shook his head without comment.

  “Check in with Sam and put us in orbit, Rusty.” Clark picked up the newspaper. On the front page was a photo of a soccer match somewhere in South America. Other lengthy tables of names and numbers—presumably scores—adorned various little boxes on the same page.

  Rusty’s voice crackled through his headset.

  “Lead Four-Two, this is Tanker Eighty-eight orbiting southwest at thirteen thousand.”

  Clark heard Sam acknowledge between calls to the other tankers, one of whom was departing after his drop. The only other tanker ahead of them now was Bill Deason’s P-3. Deason, also known as Tanker Ten, was lining up behind the lead plane for his first run at the fire.

  Rusty pulled the power back to slow to 190 as Clark casually scanned the front of the old newspaper.

  He ran his eyes toward the dateline.

  February 10, he read, reexamining the last four digits to make sure he’d read them correctly. Two thousand and three? No. What would a current newspaper from Colombia be doing aboard this…

  Clark felt a substantial chill spread through his bloodstream, and he fought the urge to jump to conclusions. A Colombian newspaper section could have come aboard in a thousand ways from a thousand innocent sources. Maybe it had been insulating material in some package, or perhaps some recent immigrant crawled aboard during the winter when the plane was parked down south.

  Andy had said the DC-6 fleet had been gone all winter, and the inspection shop in Florida confirmed they had left their airfield in October. So where were they in the meantime, and doing what?

  The sports section from Cali offered another explanation Clark was reluctant to consider.

  He reached around behind the seat where the maintenance log was kept and pulled out the metal binder, ignoring Rusty’s puzzled glances as he rifled through the entries from the Fort Lauderdale inspection work and repairs all the way up to last n
ight when Tanker 88 had rolled out of the hangar. There was virtually nothing to indicate the aircraft had ever been serviced, inspected, refueled, or even landed in South America.

  “Here we go, Clark.”

  “Sorry?”

  “He just cleared us in for our first pass. Tanker Ten is on pullout.”

  Clark nodded and replaced the log, stuffing the newspaper at the same time into his brain bag. After all, even if Tanker 88 and all her companions had flown to Colombia, they might not have needed fuel, and there wouldn’t necessarily be an entry in the log.

  “Okay, I’ve got her.”

  “You okay?”

  “You keep asking that, Rusty. Yes, I’m okay.”

  “It’s just that you really look spooked.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Clark adjusted his seat forward a notch and tried to smile. “Well, that’s because I had a life-changing personal revelation back there.”

  “Really?” Rusty asked with complete sincerity.

  “Yep. I discovered that I’m scared of forest fires.”

  WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT, MONTANA

  Jerry Stein called from his house and ordered the main doors of Hangar One opened so he could drive his new Hummer inside. He sailed in under the wing of a DC-6 and squealed to a halt a few feet from the stairs to his office. As planned, Trent Jones was waiting for him as he got out.

  “Where is he?” Jerry asked.

  “Over at Forest Service Operations right now,” Trent said, tilting his head toward the last place the field investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board had been seen. “He asked that I call him when you got here.”

  Jerry brushed past his chief of maintenance with the key in his hand and gestured Trent inside.

  In the plush leather chair behind the desk, Jerry folded his hands over his stomach. “I was going to come out and stand by to fly a mission anyway, so I didn’t mind racing out here, but tell me again precisely what he said.”

  Trent was holding a cloth shopping bag, and Jerry nodded to it.

  “What’s that, by the way?”

  “The logbooks—all of them—on Tanker Eighty-six. The NTSB asked for them.”

  “Are they copied? Every damn page?”