Fire Flight

by John J. Nance

  “Thirty percent of our efforts tomorrow morning will go toward containing the Sheep Mountain fire because it may turn. It’s forecasted to head for Teton Village and Jackson. Most of that can be handled from the ground, however, so no aerial assets are needed. The Breccia fire and Deer Creek fires have merged. We’ll call them the Breccia Complex from here on out, and right now, the majority of the damage is done. We’ve got hand crews working the north flank, so, as with the Sheep Mountain fire, the only aerial assets we’ll need would be light and medium choppers with water buckets for spot-fire suppression. The rest of it, folks—all of our aerial assets—go to a make-or-break goal-line stand right here, at what we’re calling North Fork Ridge. We lead off with smokejumpers who will cut line along the ridge while we’re bombing the living hell out of the south side of the ridge, and the ground crews will try to outflank the fire in this valley and burn out from the northern flank. Our prospects are dicey. We needed the smokejumpers in there this afternoon, but the winds were too high. The fuel load is moderate to heavy. These are steep slopes with lots of brush and large snags. The fire can be expected to roar up and over the ridge by fourteen hundred. As we’ve discussed, if it gets past us here and does jump the ridge, not only will we lose Bryarly in this valley beyond to the north, along with anyone still in there, but it’s a short shot to Yellowstone.”

  “Haven’t they evacuated Bryarly?” one of the pilots asked.

  “There was a bridge there, but one of our well-intentioned vendors did an effective job of demolition on it. He made a nutty attempt to walk a D-8 bulldozer over the rickety thing to get into town. The sign said maximum weight thirty thousand pounds, and the nitwit drove a seventy-three-thousand-pound dozer onto it. We’re still trying to remove the dozer and almost lost the nitwit at the controls, but the only way out of town now is by air or on foot, and the foot part involves negotiating this very steep gorge the bridge once spanned. An evacuation is supposed to get started early using three of the Chinooks staging out of Jackson Hole. The Air National Guard is coming in from Missoula to help if needed.”

  “Are we getting more planes from California, and if so, what type, and when?” Ralph Battaglia asked.

  Burch nodded. “Yes. As soon as possible. We just don’t know if it’s tomorrow morning or what. In fact, as of this afternoon, with the premature departure from Mr. Stein’s employment of a captain and two copilots who were presumably spooked by yesterday’s accident, we’re short on crews as well as airplanes. I mean, we’ve got essentially two more airplanes than we have crews to fly them. You’ll very likely be employed for the entire summer and fall.”

  Several more questions and answers flowed back and forth as Burch skillfully dealt with the group before stopping them with an upraised hand and waiting for the background noise to die down.

  “Okay, I appreciate you taking the time to hear this. I’d like to speak just to the airtanker pilots for a few minutes. The rest of you, thanks. Get some sleep, and we’ll see you in the morning.”

  There was the usual scuffling of chairs and the buzz of conversation as the room began to clear of all but the airtanker flyers. Burch waited until they were essentially alone.

  “Okay, I know you’re aware of all the various things at stake here, but just so we’re sure we all understand the same thing, and how vital your role is, here’s the deal. This is informal and off the record, by the way.”

  He paused and the room grew even quieter.

  “As always with big disasters or near disasters, the country is watching. Now, I’d get in trouble with higher management for saying this, so I didn’t, but our country is jaded, ignorant of forest fires, virtually clueless about aviation, and geographically challenged to the point that many are going to think Grand Teton is one of the Florida Keys. But here’s the point. With the tragic crash yesterday, and Congress looking at whether it should federalize all airtanker activity, all it will take is another aviation accident to pretty much write off this industry. I’m officially neutral because I have to be, but if you still want to be doing this stuff years from now without wearing an Air Force uniform, I suggest you pay attention to safety like never before! No more crashes. No more missing comrades. Please! Hit the targets as best you can, look out for one another, but for God’s sake, follow the rules to the letter and don’t take any inordinate risks. We’ll have enough ordinate risks tomorrow as it is.”

  He glanced at two others standing in the wings.

  “I’ve arranged a reasonably quick weather brief, and we’ve got the NTSB’s man here, Steve Zale, to fill you in on progress regarding Maze’s crash.”

  A meteorologist took over to explain the lull in the winds expected by morning, along with the bad news that they would be back to forty knots by late afternoon; then he turned the meeting over to a middle-aged man in a dark blue jacket with NTSB across the back, who moved to the front of the room from where he’d been standing near the back. Clark looked over at the door, surprised to see Trent Jones standing with Jerry Stein, both with serious, watchful expressions.

  Steve Zale introduced himself.

  “Folks, just a quick word on the crash investigation,” Zale began. “You all know the right wing of Captain Maze’s DC-6 failed. It failed at the attach point. We’re sending a lot of parts back to D.C. for metallurgical analysis, but there’s one thing I can tell you. There’s been a rumor going around about sabotage, and someone has been purposely stirring up the media and relaying false information about the investigation. You can get sabotage out of your thinking, okay? No one sabotaged that airplane, and at no time did I or anyone at the NTSB ever say we were leaning in that direction.”

  He looked around the room. “We’re dealing with metallurgic failure, guys, plain and simple, and it was not caused by human intervention. In fact, more than likely, and from what I’m seeing, there’s a pretty good question of whether one of the causal factors may be the lack of human intervention. In other words,” he paused, glancing quickly at Stein, “the possible lack of appropriate inspections and maintenance over the years has to be a considered factor.”

  Jerry Stein was seething inside, his focus so tight on the NTSB investigator that he missed the blur of motion on his left as Trent Jones pushed through the pilots with a look of rage on his face.

  “I want to talk to you, Zale!” Trent snapped.

  Steve Zale turned toward Stein Aviation’s director of maintenance, his voice low and intense.

  “You have a problem with my addressing the pilots, Mr. Jones?”

  “I sure as hell have a problem with you slandering my maintenance shop and implying we caused that crash.”

  Zale was nose to nose with Trent and unblinking.

  “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “You know absolutely nothing about this community, Zale! How dare you—”

  “I put in twenty-four years with the Forest Service, Mr. Jones, most of it involved with fire fighting. And I’m a pilot. And a licensed A&P mechanic. Care to duel on the basis of pedigree?”

  Trent seemed slightly staggered, but regained his voice.

  “Okay, so maybe I’m wrong about your background, but what right do you have to crash one of our meetings in your NTSB role?”

  “I happen to be standing, do I not, on a floor owned by the United States Forest Service, speaking to a room full of contract pilots hired by, and answerable to, the United States government. Am I right?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, you little—”

  “Shut up, Trent!” Jerry said, his voice low and urgent, stopping him just prior to the oncoming epithet. Jerry’s hand came down hard on Trent’s shoulder, yanking him back slightly. “Mr. Zale, I’ve got to add my protest to Trent’s, though in more measured terms. You as much as slandered us just now.”

  “That would be a matter of opinion, Mr. Stein, as well as a matter that triggers the question of whether the shoe fits.”

  “What?” Trent asked, acid dripping from his tone.r />
  Jerry shot Trent another angry glance and pushed him back as he stepped between Steve Zale and the mechanic and answered over his shoulder.

  “He’s saying we shouldn’t feel slandered unless we’re guilty of doing something wrong. Right, Mr. Zale?”

  “That’s correct. And believe me, gentlemen, if I or the board were ready to spotlight a failure in maintenance by your company, I wouldn’t beat around the bush, I’d say it straight out. Fact: There is extreme fatigue evident in the structure. Fact: What I’ve seen so far at that attach point would have been very difficult to ignore in any adequate inspection.”

  “Mr. Zale, I don’t think you have any idea how much abuse these old birds take,” Jerry said.

  “I know what corrosion looks like, Mr. Stein. And I know what slow propagated cracking looks like. I know what stop-drill holes look like, I know what corrosion control looks like, and I know a lot about inspection techniques. Don’t try to snow me. You’ve got the whole NTSB looking at you over my shoulder.”

  Jerry inclined his head toward the door.

  “May we talk privately?”

  Zale nodded as he turned to the pilots.

  “Thanks for the chance to speak with you,” he said, glancing back at Trent, whose face was almost purple from the effort to restrain himself.

  Jerry and Steve Zale pushed through a door into an interior hallway and let the door close behind them.

  “Look,” Jerry began, “I respect your position, and, now that I know about your background, I respect your experience. I understand you’re trying to do the job of a dozen people by yourself, and I also understand you may be incensed by what you think you’ve found. But you’re playing with my reputation and livelihood when you suggest that some massive failure to maintain one of my aircraft has caused a crash and the deaths of two good pilots.”

  “I call the facts as I find them, sir, and only the facts. That’s all I said. I’m sorry if that offends your—”

  “Wait! Dammit, listen to me,” Jerry said, his hand up.

  Zale moved back a half step, as if expecting Jerry to take a swing at him.

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’re screwing around with the morale and confidence of a room full of finely tuned, high-strung pilots who are essentially gearing up for combat. You just suggested to them that maybe they can’t trust any aircraft maintained by me, and that’s virtually everything they’re flying.”

  “I call it like I find it.”

  “Yeah, well, you also live on planet Earth, and we share the same realities, and here’s one for you. If someone pulls out of a dive a little too slow tomorrow morning and crashes because he’s afraid the wings aren’t strong enough, thanks to your little confidence-eroding speech tonight, are you going to take responsibility?”

  “That’s a ridiculous analogy.”

  “Zale, you’re not only wrong, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! I’ve run this outfit for decades, and I know exactly what it takes to keep these airplanes flying. Having a smart-mouthed, arrogant federal jerk in here trying to scare my pilots into mediocrity is very dangerous. You go do your investigation and write up your facts, but stay the hell away from my people.”

  “You can’t intimidate an NTSB investigator, Mr. Stein.”

  Jerry stood silently as his internal pressure-relief valve failed to squelch the explosion that had been brewing.

  “Oh, I don’t have to intimidate you, Zale. Your chairman’s going to do it for me, as soon as I have a little chat with him. I’d start thinking of alternate employment if I were you.”

  Steve Zale started to turn away, but Jerry caught his arm.

  “You think I’m bluffing?”

  Steve carefully pried his hand away before looking him in the eye.

  “You know something, Mr. Stein? I honestly couldn’t care less.”

  The remainder of the group had begun to leave the Ops area when Ralph Battaglia caught Ed Burch on the way out the door.

  “Mr. Burch, excuse me. I need a clarification of what you were saying back in there about Jeff Maze?”

  “Sure. And you are?”

  Battaglia introduced himself and stood with his hands on his hips, and Ed Burch responded with hands thrust deep in the pockets of his ill-fitting uniform pants.

  “Are you implying that Jeff Maze was taking a risk flying straight and level? I’ll admit Jeff was a cowboy at times, but he was also the best damn pilot I’ve ever met.”

  Battaglia’s tone was hard and hostile.

  “Absolutely not,” Ed Burch replied. “I wasn’t implying that Jeff Maze was doing anything wrong, not that he hadn’t been a hot dog in the past, as you just acknowledged. I’m just saying what I’m saying: Please do your best not to litter the parks with shredded aerospace aluminum.”

  “We are doing our best, thank you, and I think your tone is patronizing and offensive.”

  Burch sighed heavily and leaned toward the pilot. “I’m sorry you took it that way. Look, remember where the priorities are in terms of political acceptability, okay? I’m trying to help you guys see the bigger picture, not insult you. This program hangs by a thread as we stand here. Politically.”

  “Hey, you know what, Mr. Burch?” Battaglia replied. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about politics, okay?”

  “Well, you’d better wake up if you want to be dropping pink stuff on fires for a paycheck much longer. We’ve got to be sensitive to everything from safety to basic environmental issues.”

  The copilot snorted. “Environment, huh? I wondered when this discussion would somehow get around to the preservation of useless species. We’ve got to worry so the bunny huggers won’t get their knickers in a twist, right?”

  “We’re all environmentalists, Mr. Battaglia, but that’s only part of the public equation.” He studied the copilot’s face. “I’ll admit their sensitivities are often as misplaced as those folks who build houses in the middle of the forest and refuse to clear the brush and fuel around them, yet get irate when we can’t immediately save them from wildfires.”

  “The environmental groups couldn’t care less how many of us die fighting these fires,” Battaglia snapped.

  “That’s simply not—”

  “To the average hysterical environmentalist, okay, our broken bodies on the forest floor simply constitute unacceptable pollution of the pristine nature of the ecosphere.”

  “You’re very bitter, aren’t you?” Burch asked him.

  “Damn right. I’m merely giving voice to the fact that in their wild-eyed view we humans are a fluke of the universe who have no right to be here. Forests are for bears. Barbecued or otherwise.”

  Burch nodded, studied his shoes for a few seconds, and looked Ralph Battaglia in the eye.

  “Let me put it this way. You work under contract for the U.S. government through the Forest Service, and we serve the entire plurality of the people of the United States. That includes homeowners encroaching on wildlands as well as environmentalists of all stripes. They’re not your enemy, Mr. Battaglia. And frankly, neither am I.”

  Chapter 22

  WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT—EIGHT TWENTY-FIVE P.M.

  “So what do you think, Clark?” Bill Deason asked as he unwrapped a cigar and searched for his lighter.

  The Forest Service building and the Operations room were fifty feet behind them as they stood in the waning light watching as orange and diffused reds filled the western sky in alternating light and dark streaks over an adjacent mountain range. The deep blue of the sky overhead was already revealing a tantalizing sample of the starfield beyond Earth’s gaseous envelope, as if the process of sunset was a slow curtain pull in preparation for a stellar nightly show too many never thought to catch.

  The winds had diminished across West Yellowstone, relaxing into a stiff, pleasant breeze of fifteen knots and sixty-eight degrees, carrying the perfume of the surrounding forests and fields and an occasional hint of wood smoke from various fireplaces in town
.

  “The night is attended by metallic ghosts,” Bill said rather absently, drawing a quick and puzzled look from Clark, “and they be searching for their masters.”

  “What?”

  Bill laughed and shook his head apologetically. “I’m light-years from being a poet, but evenings like this inspire even the roughest attempts at verse. And our ramp is overflowing with aerospace fossils.”

  “Ah, yes…” Clark agreed.

  Bill finished snipping the end from his varietal cigar and, working against the fifteen-knot wind, fussed with igniting the tip with his propane lighter.

  “God can inspire poems in the night,” Bill said between establishing puffs.

  “That’s a beautiful line, Bill.”

  “Not mine. Comes from a book published down in Austin and written by a wonderful, indefatigable Texas poet named Peggy Lynch. I think she said ‘songs,’ though, rather than ‘poems,’ but it has the same ring.”

  Clark pushed his hands deep in the pockets of his leather flight jacket against the gathering chill of the evening.

  “You asked what I thought?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s a jumble of worries. Did you notice that little hallway confrontation between Jerry and the NTSB guy?”

  Bill nodded as he took a long puff on his cigar and smiled at Clark.

  “My manners are slipping, Clark. Would you like one of these cigars? I have several.”

  “No, thanks, Bill.”

  “Sorry to interrupt. You were saying…”

  “Well, I’ve dumped everything we know into the FBI’s hands, for all the good that will do. But we’re still standing here asking the same question. Is it safe to fly our airplanes?”

  Bill nodded, his eyes on the emerging starfield overhead and Venus, which was sparkling like a diamond in a spotlight. “It doesn’t help to have the sabotage theory quashed, although I couldn’t quite figure out who would want to sabotage us or why, you know? It didn’t seem logical, even if someone was angry with you over that article.”