Mark stood up from leaning on the rail, raised his coffee mug in a salute, and walked away.
“So I’ve still…” he tapered off because there was suddenly no one listening to him. Still got a contract? Doing what? Going for a ride. But why was the question.
Gordon was still trying to puzzle out what was going on when he noticed something was wrong with the sunrise. He’d seen so many from this vantage point that he knew something was wrong, even if his brain couldn’t identify what.
The grass airstrip was empty, as was the sky. Across the field, the line of MHA’s wildland firefighting helicopters and airplanes were all lined up quietly—the Aircrane all out of proportion with the other aircraft, but that wasn’t the issue.
Diana Prince. Ripley Vaughan. If Henderson was sending him up to learn the Firehawk, maybe he’d be around to—
“To get your imagination way ahead of reality as usual, Gordon.” Like some fantasy image of falling out of the sky and landing in the lap of a pretty lady had anything to do with reality for the likes of one Gordon Finchley. Even though it had actually happened, he’d gone out of his way last night to scare her off but good.
But, for just a moment, he’d needed. Desperately. It had flooded over him. He’d needed…someone. To help him celebrate being alive. To bury his fears in. To…
Yeah, he’d put signed, sealed, and do not deliver on that one. They hadn’t exchanged a word between the kiss and saying, “ ’Nite,” at her door. That was all he’d said, because he was just that suave of a guy. Which was one word more than she’d said to him.
Shit!
He rose to stand at the rail and kept checking the field to avoid seeing if she was crossing from bunkhouse to dining hall behind him. A glance back anyway. The bunk house, parachute loft, equipment shed, and dining hall—the four main buildings of the MHA headquarters—were just coming awake. A few early risers were already headed to breakfast across the driveway that ran from the tower and out between the buildings, but none of them were dark-skinned beauties. He should go grab breakfast and stake out a corner. She’d have to put in an appearance at some point.
But he didn’t move. Something was itching at him still.
He turned back to the flight line. Behind the aircraft, the towering heights of the Douglas fir trees were swaying lightly in the westerly breeze, guarding the airfield in staid silence. The only evidence of life anywhere on the field were the three mechanics, Denise, Brenna, and Janet, working down the line of aircraft making sure that they were ready for whatever was coming. Actually, they were at the far end of the line working on one of the service trucks—another pulled up close.
“Hey, Gordon.”
“TJ. Didn’t hear you coming up. Thought you’d still be sleeping, Old Man,” Gordon teased the base’s manager and radioman. He noted with disgust that TJ had a half-empty mug of Betsy’s coffee.
“Worth waking to watch the morning,” something they often did together. Gordon liked the idea that he and TJ could keep doing that in the future.
“Sure is,” TJ made a loud show of slurping his coffee. “I see we’ve got a new helo on my field. That’s one ugly-ass bird.”
“Don’t let Ripley hear you say that. She’ll make you kowtow three times to Hera’s statue for giving offense.”
“She a looker, huh?”
“You’re old enough to be her father, TJ. Maybe her grandfather, so forget about it.” He’d been one of the founding smokejumpers for Mount Hood a long time back. He’d been retired to the base after a hard fire and a busted ankle that had left him with a lifelong limp.
“You’re never past looking, son.”
“She’s old enough to fly just fine.” Somehow he didn’t like the idea of anyone looking at Ripley. Jealousy wasn’t his style—especially not with a woman he wasn’t even dating. But still he felt it.
“So?” TJ leaned on the rail beside him. “Give.”
Gordon couldn’t suppress his grin. “No, TJ, the pilot isn’t a ‘looker.’ We’re talking way better than that. Serious eye candy.”
TJ turned to look at him and snorted out a laugh.
Ripley considered dumping the mug of coffee she’d brought for Gordon over his head. He’d looked so damn lonely up there in the tower that she’d tracked down the kitchen and grabbed two mugs.
The older man was looking at her over Gordon’s shoulder, his eyes bright with merriment. She did hold two mugs. Maybe she should dump one on each of them.
“Shit!” Gordon’s curse was abrupt and sharp. “TJ, what’s wrong with the sunrise?”
“Huh?” TJ looked to the east.
Ripley wondered how something could be wrong with a sunrise.
“There,” Gordon was pointing to the treetops across the field. “Dark where it should be light. Almost a third of the line. Usually the sun hits the high treetops all together this time of year.”
“Cloud?” TJ asked.
But Ripley could see that wasn’t the cause, the sky was achingly blue.
“The land is rough to the east, but it isn’t high. Something is blocking the light, something we can’t see.”
Gordon spun and squeaked in surprise. Five-ten of turbocharged male actually squeaked in surprise at seeing her there. He had to be turbocharged, because he’d certainly fired up her body and her imagination last night. She was really sad that he would be leaving today and was even regretting a little that she hadn’t stayed in the hall long enough to find out which room was his.
“Vanessa!” Gordon practically shouted in Ripley’s face.
“No. I’m Ripley.”
Gordon pointed over her shoulder and shouted again.
Ripley turned to look at the same time Vanessa turned on the grass below.
“Get aloft. I need eyes to the east.”
“I was going to get breakfast. I can bring some to you.”
“Aloft! Fast!” Gordon shouted and Vanessa bolted after only a moment’s hesitation.
Damn it! She even ran beautifully. And fast. Gorgeous athletic woman. Were she and Gordon really just friends? How did something like that happen? There were guys she liked, just liked, but there was always that little sizzle there even if it would never be acted on.
It was an agonizing three minutes for Vanessa to reach her helo and fire it up. At some point Gordon took the coffee from Ripley’s hand and mumbled a thanks.
This was a totally different man from the one she’d met yesterday. He wasn’t the shaken firefighter covering his nerves with humor, nor that embarrassed beta male pounding his forehead on a restaurant table. This was the one who had delivered a searing kiss last night that she’d been unable to account for in the seemingly mild man. If she was Wonder Woman, maybe he was Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Amazing.
“Come on. Come on. Come on,” he egged Vanessa to hurry from across the field.
“Vanessa headed aloft,” she called on TJ’s radio as her skids eased off the ground.
The cranking helo had acted like Prospero’s call, beckoning a ship to beach upon his remote isle. Pilots wandered out of the dining hall with their coffee. Some of the smokejumpers—most still in their fouled Nomex gear, testifying to quite how late they’d come off the line last night—raced out of the bunkhouse, then stumbled to a halt and looked up at the tower and its silent alarm.
The MD 530 cleared the treetops and slid to a hover there for five long heartbeats before the radio squawked to life.
“TJ, please tell me there is a Prescribed Fire today.”
“No. I repeat, no planned burn.”
Five more heartbeats.
“Ten acres involved,” Vanessa’s voice was suddenly firefighter crisp on the radio. “Smoke will be visible at camp in minutes. The westerly winds have been sending the smoke east. The fire, it is already in the crown. I estimate fifteen minutes until the flames reach the camp.”
TJ spun and reached inside the tower cab. He slapped down a hand and the alarm just over her head blasted to life, making her jump and spill her coffee, w
hich had thankfully cooled as she’d stood and waited.
Gordon set his coffee mug on the rail, then rushed to the side of the tower facing the camp.
“Get aloft! We need everything aloft!” The crowd broke and ran.
He turned to look at her for one long second. Asking some question? Trying to tell her something? Too little time either way. Gordon raced down the stairs.
She planted her mug on the railing beside his and was just a step behind him.
Chapter Four
The screaming fire alarm chased them toward the barracks. Gordon moved in front of Ripley to make way against the tide of firefighters streaming out of the bunkhouse. Neither of them were wearing their Nomex flightsuits. In fact, Ripley was wearing an eye-popping fire shirt that had done almost as much for awakening Gordon’s pulse rate as the fire had.
Most big forest fires had a t-shirt made for them. It wasn’t what her t-shirt said that stood out, so to speak. It was the way the brilliant red material emphasized the parts that did stand out. Her curves were neither slender nor generous, but they were damned fine ones. It also had a woman’s V-neck, a rarity for fire shirts, which were mostly cut for guys, and revealed a splendid expanse of her perfect skin. A statement made all the stronger by her shorts. Damn but the woman had legs.
Of course in the category of not blowing it, calling her “serious eye candy” had been a big step in the wrong direction.
He wove a path through the thinning crowd, taking the opportunity of body-checking Mickey into a wall for the hell of it, and she followed in his wake to their doors. Mickey’s second grunt as Ripley must have done the same only made him like her all the more.
Thirty seconds later he had his flightsuit on and was back in the hall with his PG bag. Unlike a smokejumper, who might live out of his personal gear bag for a couple of days, his had one change of clothes and he’d shoved in his laptop, no time for more. He grabbed his helmet and bolted.
Ripley was back in the hall at the same moment he was. The contrast from tight t-shirt and splendidly short shorts to powerful woman in a Nomex flightsuit made his mouth go dry—especially because he now knew what she was wearing under that flightsuit. This wasn’t Ripley. In a moment, she had changed into Wonder Woman.
“Where the hell is your golden lasso, lady?”
She grinned as she slapped the duffle she had slung over one shoulder. “Why? You looking to get all tied up?”
Gordon grinned over at her as they sprinted side by side down the now-empty hallway. “Is that an offer?”
“Just remember, no man can tell a lie while bound by Wonder Woman’s magic lasso.”
“Okay, rain check then.”
“Buck-buck-bu-caw!” She repeated Janet’s chicken call from yesterday.
“Around a woman like you? Damn straight!” Ripley’s laugh broke loose as they raced into the sunlight and broke into a dead run across the field toward their respective birds.
Ripley made a whirling motion over her head.
Gordon saw Brad in Diana Prince’s cockpit nod his head. In moments the high whine of the auxiliary power unit on the Aircrane screamed to life.
“Go get ’em, Ripley!”
“Give me an M41A Pulse Rifle and I’ve got it covered.”
“Deal! I’ll get you one as soon as they’re invented.”
She offered her laugh of acknowledgement that he’d understood the reference before veering off toward her door. Ellen Ripley, the Sigourney Weaver heroine of all of the Alien movies, had forged into her second movie battle bearing one of those with an over-under flamethrower and grenade launcher. It was easy to imagine Ripley Vaughan toting one just like it.
Gordon slammed up to Firehawk Oh-three and snapped his gear onto the rear cargo net at the back of the cabin. Vern already had the rotor turning.
“You don’t look like Emily,” Vern greeted him as he opened the copilot’s door.
“Ain’t nobody on the planet looks as good as her. Not even her, because she’s just that damn good looking.” Emily Beale was the ultimate definition of the cool blonde.
“That’s because we’re all unique,” Emily Beale was standing about a foot behind him. Her chill gaze said exactly what she thought of him. “At least we women are.”
“Shit!” Gordon jolted. “What is it with you women sneaking up on me today?”
Emily didn’t say a word, simply reached past him to take her helmet off the copilot seat. She waved him inward.
Vern grinned at him as he climbed in. “So who the hell are you?”
“Your new copilot,” wished the heat would get out of his face already.
“No shit? You ever flown in a Firehawk, Gordon?”
“Henderson’s orders and nope. Never.”
“Oh great!” Vern shoved a checklist into his hands. “Step 9. Read.”
Gordon read aloud as he buckled in. He winced when Emily slammed the big cargo bay door shut before she sprinted off toward Mickey’s helo. Better him than me. He glanced toward the big, ugly Aircrane for a moment. Maybe now there was a pilot on base who looked as good as Emily Beale. Totally different—as Emily had just reminded him—but amazing nonetheless.
Ripley donned her helmet and helped finish the startup procedures, then eased aloft moments ahead of Gordon in Firehawk Oh-three.
When she cleared the treetops, Vanessa was nowhere to be seen. Probably off somewhere charming some water into her tanks. As Ripley was the next one aloft, she called in a report.
“Confirm fire is one mile out and climbing the face of the ridge here. Flames strong in the crown. Ten acres are now closer to fifteen. Concur fire arrival at airfield in fifteen minutes minus. Strong on the minus.”
The base was in absolute mayhem; very efficient mayhem. She saw Janet climbing into a truck and getting it moving off the field. Mark Henderson’s Beech King Air command plane ripped down the runway, scattering the smokejumpers running toward their planes from the parachute loft where they’d grabbed their gear off the speed racks. A forklift raced across the field close behind them, transporting a pallet of gear for the jump plane.
“We’re dry,” Brad reminded her.
“Right.” No time to get her firefighting tank loaded from one of the base’s pressure systems. “Find me some water.”
“Janet said to head southwest,” Brad didn’t even hesitate. Her team was on it.
As Ripley climbed up over the flames, she saw that the fifteen minutes was definitely minus, more like ten minutes plus.
Vern did a half dozen adjustments too fast for Gordon to follow on an unfamiliar aircraft, then jerked them aloft still only two-thirds through the checklist.
“Hey!”
“Look behind us,” Vern kept climbing under the Aircrane.
Gordon took a moment to turn. The forest to the west was no longer dark. Far back in the core, deep in the undergrowth, there was an evil red glow.
Fire!
“Oh shit!”
“That’s your cue.”
“Roger that.” Gordon keyed the mic, “All personnel! Active fire in the trees west. Clear the base and get the hell out of there. Repeat: Evacuate the base immediately!”
Vern shot them ahead—climbing over the other two Firehawks still spinning up their rotors—pouring on speed to the south toward the lake and a load of water.
TJ was racing out of the tower. The second smokejumper plane had its big engines cranking to life with brief plumes of black smoke—the first one was already rolling down the runway. Helos were climbing out in a haphazard fashion barely within the margins of safety.
“Carly, talk to me,” Henderson called over the command frequency to the FBAN. Carly was called the Fire Witch because she was the best Fire Behavior Analyst in the business. She flew in Firehawk Oh-one with Robin Harrow.
“I’m barely airborne yet. Could you just calm down for… Oh shit!”
Gordon glanced at Vern. “Why doesn’t that sound good?”
Vern was just shaking his head. �
�Don’t think I’ve ever heard her swear before.” Vern exchanged a little speed for altitude so that they could see over the treetops and the ridgeline to the west.
“Oh,” Gordon suddenly felt a strange calmness wash over him. “That explains it.” This was no little burn; it was already a fire with an attitude. The fire’s head stretched twice the width of the runway’s length and was slow-climbing the ridge—straight toward them. The smoke was a dangerous wall, thick with black ash, now blocking any hint of the low sun.
The fire had caught in a drought-riddled stand of timber in Mt. Hood’s rain shadow. Probably a ground smolder started by the lightning that had swept through a couple nights ago. It must have built heat over time until it exploded forth with no real warning. The ridge face was now a roaring inferno—an area the size of a dozen football fields was filled with two-hundred-foot Douglas fir and larch looking more like flaming torches than trees.
The big retardant truck raced out the base’s road, close behind the fuel truck.
“Badger Lake,” he and Vern said in unison. Vern climbed them up over Mickey in his Twin 212 and banked hard for the south.
“It’s called Badger Lake,” Brad informed her.
“Great. I’ve never actually seen a badger in the wild. Let’s hang out here for a bit and see if we can spot one.” Ripley figured that she needed something to laugh about this morning. “Let’s go with the sea snorkel. I have control.”
“Roger,” Brad was peering ahead. “No bodies in the water, this time.”
“Better not be. Gordon lands in there again, I just might cut him in two.” Eye candy indeed! His searing kiss, which had cost her much of a night’s sleep, had been because she was eye candy? He was definitely going to pay for that one.
Filling her tank took most of the length of the lake because of how close the trees pushed in along all the shores. She carved her way back aloft. Hard. While she’d been making her run, several other helos had hovered in and dipped their hoses. Two minutes to the lake, thirty seconds to tank, two minutes back. Not a lot of runs to try and save the base.
Wild Fire Page 7
