Wild Fire

by M. L. Buchman

  Gordon eased down on the collective and twisted the throttle to the fuel cutoff position. The grinding sound slowed but grew rapidly worse—his engine wasn’t just dead, it was shredding itself. He slammed a foot on the right pedal as the nose torqued to the left.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” At least he still had electrical power to the radios. “Hobby drone strike, straight into my engine. Going down.”

  The radio fired up with questions, but Gordon was in the death zone and didn’t have time to listen. A lift-failure emergency in a helicopter below fifty feet or over four hundred was generally survivable. The range in between those two altitudes cut life expectancy a lot more than he wanted to think about at the moment. He was currently in heavy smoke, descending down through the one-fifty mark.

  It was little comfort knowing that the FAA would slap the drone owner’s wrist if they could find him. Of course, if this went as badly as Gordon was expecting, MHA would go after the asshole for a million-dollar helo and the cost of one funeral.

  “God damn it! And I was in such a good mood.” There, that sounded more like Vin Diesel than Austin Powers. Truly sad—he was going to have to die to get it right. Though he couldn’t place what movie the line was from.

  The smoke wrapped around him and visibility left altogether. He fought for best auto-rotate speed, but at the rate he was falling, there wasn’t a whole lot of time to get there.

  He’d started flying fifteen years ago on his family’s ranch, spent the last three years with MHA, and this was his first real-life crash landing. All the practice in the world didn’t count for shit.

  His palms were sweating against the slick plastic of the controls. The cabin was filling with smoke, but he couldn’t take his hands off the controls to close the vent to the outside.

  With his right shoulder, he nudged up the release lever on the pilot-side door. It swung open two inches and stabilized just like it was supposed to. The additional airflow helped the smoke flow through the cabin faster, but it still burnt his eyes and his throat. As a firefighter, he supposed that it was no surprise that death smelled like hot wood smoke.

  His visibility was under twenty feet, and the smoke was taking on a distinctly orange glow. At sixty miles an hour, that gave him absolutely no lead time for maneuvering.

  He wrestled east for the water.

  The first treetop that slapped against his windshield was brilliant orange with flame. Lodgepole pine.

  The next one, Douglas fir, snagged his left skid, jerking him sharply to the side before he was past it. If the one that slammed into his right-side pilot’s window, white fir, made him scream, he didn’t have time to realize it.

  The next one, too buried in flames to recognize, ripped the door off entirely.

  Gordon’s instincts did what they could, with the controls now gone useless. One tree after another battered his helo: Ponderosa, western juniper—he ricocheted off the side of a massive Doug fir harder than being tossed by a bucking bronc.

  The ends of rotor blades snapped off.

  Then more of them.

  The other skid snagged and twisted him the other direction, which saved him from the next flaming tree coming in through the missing door and killing him.

  He realized that he was falling, treetop to treetop, down the steep bank toward the water.

  His broken helicopter smashed through the last of the flaming line in a slow tumble thirty feet above the water.

  With one final effort, he stomped on the right pedal and shoved the cyclic left.

  No rotors. No effect.

  That’s when he remembered where the movie line was from. It wasn’t Vin Diesel at all. It was John Goodman playing the hapless Al Yackey in the firefighting movie Always.

  “No offense, John,” he spoke his final words aloud to his dead helicopter. “But I’d rather die as Vin Diesel.”

  He plunged into the water upside down.

  Five minutes earlier, Ripley Vaughan flew into sight of the firefight and eased her Erickson Aircrane to a hover.

  “Wow!” “That’s a mess!” Brad and Janet White, her married copilot and crew chief, did one of their synchro-speaking things.

  They were right. It was.

  The Black, the area already burned by the wildfire, ranged across five hundred acres. No cleanup had been done, there were spot fires dotted all over the Black, and the fire’s flanks were eating sideways into the trees in addition to the main head of the fire driving toward a community. It could be the textbook definition of zero percent contained.

  Ripley could see the hard slash of a smokejumper defense line across the rugged hills, cleared of trees and brush. It looked so small against the towering wall of fire bearing down on them, but then it always did from altitude. And there was a heavy airshow going on. The battle of this wildfire was about to be engaged big time.

  They needed help.

  But without a contract, she wouldn’t be insured or paid if she fought on this fire…unless.

  “Are those aircraft painted black?”

  Brad pulled out a small pair of binoculars. “Yep! With flames and all.”

  That meant it was Mount Hood Aviation, their new outfit.

  Ripley watched the airshow for another thirty seconds and could see the smooth coordination of the attack effort. She’d been flying her big Aircrane helicopter to fire for a couple of years, but had never imagined she’d get the chance to fly for Mount Hood Aviation. They had the best reputation in the business. Their for-hire smokejumping team was right on par with the Forest Service’s Missoula, Montana Zulies, but nobody had the renown of their helicopter team.

  Back at Erickson’s Medford airfield in southern Oregon, Randy had called her into his office.

  “I’ve got a rest-of-season contract request here.”

  Ripley hadn’t particularly cared where she went, as long as it kept her flying.

  “For some reason, it came through with your name on it. Something going on here I don’t know about?” He sounded some kinda pissed about it. Upsetting a chief pilot with his years of experience was never a good idea—especially not when he signed her paychecks. Randy’s cheerful demeanor and the easy smile that normally showed through his white beard were completely missing. Now she could see a flash of that kick-ass retired Army Chief Warrant that was typically hidden away. Word was that he’d graduated top of his Army flight class and hadn’t slowed down for an instant during his years with the 2/10 Air Cav, not that the stories ever came from him.

  “Unless it’s for dancing,” Ripley eyed the paperwork Randy was waving at her, “I can’t imagine why it would be for me.”

  With her crew being named Brad and Janet—and Janet looking like a young Susan Sarandon, it was inevitable that their crew would learn “The Time Warp” dance from The Rocky Horror Picture Show…and then get known for it. But she hadn’t been shopping for someplace else to be; she liked flying for Erickson more than she had liked anything else since she’d left the Navy.

  Randy had tossed over the paperwork and Ripley had glanced down at it. She didn’t spot her name anywhere. It was a contract for “your best pilot” from Mount Hood Aviation.

  His scowl changed to his usual cheery smile. “Man’s gotta have some fun. A couple pilots here are as good as you, but I don’t have any that are better. You want to fly with MHA for what’s left of the season, it’s yours. You’ve earned it. But…” and he’d aimed a finger out toward the landing apron where her helicopter baked under the Medford late-summer heat. That former-military voice came out again, “You better bring my bird back in one piece. Yourself too, while you’re at it.”

  She’d promised she would and then signed it on the spot. It was only later that she thought to ask Brad and Janet, but they were game as always.

  The three of them with their Aircrane were supposed to be transiting to MHA’s base today but now had stumbled on their new outfit in a full-on firefight.

  “Janet, let’s scoop up some water. Brad, find me this
fire’s Air Attack frequency because I can’t fly into a restricted Fire Traffic Area without permission.”

  There was a lake down below that she could see the other helos were using. It was just long enough that she could use the sea snorkel instead of the pond snorkel. The latter would require hovering and pumping. The sea snorkel was designed to let her fill her tanks on the fly. She could lower the snorkel’s long strut to drag the tip below the surface and use the force of her own flying speed to fill the tanks. It was much quicker.

  She flew down over the south end of Rock Creek Reservoir.

  “Snorkel in five,” she called out. Ripley could run the controls from her left side command seat, but since she had her crew chief aboard for the transit, Ripley let her have something to do. Her real duties would be on the ground once they arrived, but it was a chance for Janet to get a little control time in her log book.

  “In five,” Janet called back. She sat in the observer’s seat directly behind Ripley, facing backward. That seat was positioned so that a pilot could control the helo during finicky winching jobs, like when they were assembling transmission towers. Not really needed for firefighting, but it gave her crew chief somewhere to sit and be a part of the firefight.

  Ripley flew down until her big helo’s wheels were just ten feet above the water. Once they slowed to thirty knots, Janet lowered the sea snorkel’s strut into the water. Their speed alone would cause the water to shoot into the two submerged openings on the pipe, each the size of her palm. The water would blow upward like a thirty-five-mile-an-hour firehose. In forty seconds and just over half a mile, they could load up twenty-five hundred gallons of water, a dozen large hot tubs’ worth, and be heading for the fire.

  She flew along the line of the burning shore as it curved around from east to north. Rock Creek entered at the northern tip of the reservoir, providing her with an excellent gap in the trees for her climb out.

  Brad found the frequency.

  MHA’s communications blasted into Ripley’s headset.

  “Did anyone see where he went down?” The voice was nearly frantic.

  “All aircraft,” a powerful male voice called out over the airwaves. “Climb and pull back. There was a civilian drone over the fire. It’s already taken out one of our birds, we don’t want to lose another. We need to evacuate. Keep an eye out for Gordon, but continue retreat.”

  Ripley had been on a number of fires where all of the air attack—helicopters, fixed-wing tankers, and command aircraft—had to pull back because someone had spotted a stupid civilian drone. There wasn’t a firefighter aloft who hadn’t thought about the dangers. But…

  Ripley pressed the button on the back of the cyclic control with the tip of her index finger and transmitted. “If it already hit someone, then it’s out of the sky. The chances of two simultaneous idiots on the same fire seems pretty low.”

  “Identify!” The ICA snapped out the command.

  “This is Erickson Aircrane Diana—Oh shit!”

  Ripley saw the body floating directly in her path. It was too late to avoid by climbing or raising the sea snorkel’s strut.

  Gordon had been floating on his back, watching the sky. It was amazing how pretty the sky was when you’d suddenly been given a reprieve from certain death. Even the fire still raging along the shore was a wonder of smoke and light as it swirled aloft.

  He wanted to feel sad about the loss of his helo, but it was hard. His MD 530 had seen him through hell and given its own life to save his. He’d managed to release his seat harness and swim free before the helo hit the bottom of the reservoir. That first breath of air had been so clear and so sharp that he’d never forget it, not for as long as he lived.

  A low thrumming echoed through the water, a heavy bass beat that only a helicopter could create, a big one like a Firehawk.

  He opened his eyes and lifted his head to see if they’d come for him.

  From less than a hundred feet away, he looked straight into the face of a beautiful helicopter pilot.

  If there were moments he was never going to forget, the next three seconds were clogged with them.

  The pilot sat almost fully exposed by the curved windshield of the helicopter. Gorgeous. Her straight black hair fell past her shoulders. Her skin was the color of mid-roast coffee with just that perfect amount of cream. Her dark glasses and pilot’s helmet with mic boom added to the image. Hot professional female pilot.

  The next impression was how huge the approaching helicopter was—and because it was so close, it seemed twice its normal size. Instead of the vicious sleekness of a Black Hawk, it had a bulbous nose and was brilliant orange like the Muppet Beaker, who always looked as alarmed as Gordon was starting to feel.

  The last impression, more memorable than anything else—except perhaps that knockout pilot now looking almost directly down at him—was the long white boom that the Aircrane was slicing through the water.

  Straight toward him!

  There wasn’t time to react. Hell, there wasn’t even time to blink.

  Gordon braced himself to be chopped in two.

  There wasn’t time to even swing aside.

  Ripley did the only thing she could think of. She rammed the cyclic forward and heaved up on the collective, dumping every bit of nearly ten thousand horsepower into the massive rotor. The result was like doing a forward wheelie on a motorcycle by slamming on just the front brake.

  Her helicopter nosed down hard and lifted its behind high in the air. Hopefully lifting the snorkel up and out of the water with it.

  Brad squawked in surprise as he was slammed forward against his safety harness.

  Ripley held the attitude for as long as she dared, then yanked back on the cyclic, pulling the joystick between her knees all the way into her lap. The nose of the helo splashed against the lake water. It wasn’t rated for water landings—meaning it would sink like a stone if she tried—but that wasn’t what she was worried about.

  Her main rotor was seventy feet across and reached well ahead of the helicopter. If it even touched the water, the blades were going to shatter. They’d crash into the water and utterly destroy forty million dollars’ worth of helicopter and probably kill them all as well—a surefire way to upset Randy back at Erickson.

  The Aircrane answered her brutal control maneuvers and she managed to tip the blades back up while they were still inches from the water. The downdraft blew a wall of spray across her windshield, completely blinding her until Brad hit the wipers. Pulling up, then plunging the rear boom deep back into the water. She could feel the drag, but yanking up the collective turned out to be enough to compensate—just barely.

  “Did I miss him?”

  “Miss who?” Brad managed to squeak out.

  It had all happened in slow motion for Gordon.

  The big white boom heading straight for him, slicing a bow wake to either side.

  Then, as the helicopter passed directly over him, it nosed down. The boom lifted from the water. At the bottom, the broad white wedge of a yard-across hydrofoil wing rose out of the water as well. It sailed over his chest with inches to spare, inundating him with spilled water and tumbling him with the wake it had created before rising out of the water.

  When he had stopped floundering about and could see again, the helicopter was splashing its nose into the reservoir and the massive flying wedge of the snorkel’s boom drove back into the water not a dozen yards past him.

  It was only after the huge Aircrane helicopter recovered enough to not crash into the water that he tried to breathe again.

  That nearly choked him, as if he needed another near-death experience today, when he inhaled all of the water that must have gotten into his mouth as it hung open in shock.

  He was dizzy and barely still afloat before he managed to get his lungs clear enough to think.

  By the time he did, the world was a wall of noise. The massive helicopter was hovering directly over him, once again beating him with downdraft and spray. This time he ha
d the common sense to keep his mouth closed. The twin turboshaft engines were screaming with a brain-piercing shriek just a few meters over his head. The rear wheels were actually submerged into the lake to either side of him.

  The construction-orange helo, that he could now see in intimate but more casual detail, was an Erickson Aircrane—the tractor trailer combination of the skies. Its “tractor” looked like some normal, large helicopter that had been sawed off right behind the cockpit. Behind that, the open-space “trailer” beneath which he floated, was defined by a thin spine that supported the two engines trying to deafen him, a massive six-bladed rotor trying to blow him back under the water, and two arching legs to support the rear wheels. In the big open space between legs and spine hung the twenty-foot long, ten-foot high, angular water tank used for firefighting.

  A rear access door to the cockpit swung open and a brunette was waving him forward. He managed to swim over until he could hang onto the ladder.

  “He’s alive,” the woman called out toward the pilot.

  “You sure?” Gordon asked because he couldn’t tell.

  “I’m sure. Now crawl on up here.”

  Since he was certified as being alive, he did. The metal rungs were little more than thick rebar welded to the back of the cockpit’s hull, but being once more inside a helicopter was worth the effort.

  At least he was fairly sure it was…it took all he had to climb those few rungs and drag himself through the door. He lay panting on the floor.

  “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “that was a hell of a thing.”

  “What kind of an idiot are you to be floating in the middle of a lake during a firefight?” The pilot was facing forward but sounded some kind of pissed.

  Clearly no sense of humor to pick up on his Galaxy Quest joke. Too bad. Gorgeous pilots in massive helicopters were supposed to have a great sense of humor as well.

  He decided that lack was okay with him as long as the helicopter kept climbing farther away from the water. The brunette who’d helped him aboard waved toward the only open bit of deck, which he was already sprawled on. The cockpit was tall, but otherwise not much bigger than his MD—his former MD, now sunk at the bottom of the lake.