Wild Fire

by M. L. Buchman

  This was Ripley’s first chance to observe the whole crew. She’d met about half of them last night at the pub, but now everyone was here except the smokejumpers. The ratio of women working for MHA was even higher than she’d thought. Four pilots, two mechanics, and several more ground personnel.

  “You,” Robin Harrow strode up to Mark Henderson and fisted him in the gut—her hard punch only elicited a laugh—“are an asshole.” Robin made Ripley think of a G.I. Jane action figure. The rough chop of her fluffy, white-blond hair looked like it had been done with the K-BAR military knife she wore strapped to her thigh. She didn’t walk, she tromped. Fist on hips, she glared up at Henderson.

  Mark merely grinned down at her from behind his mirrored shades.

  “Fifty-three seconds of stone dead silence,” she snapped out. No question about her military background, not if she was willing to face Henderson head-on. “What kind of an ICA are you?”

  “One just waiting for someone to step up to the line,” he turned to Gordon, who had just walked over from checking on Vern. “Took you less than a minute, Gordon. Not too shabby.”

  Ripley nodded to herself. It had been a test, in the middle of a messy and very personal fire. And once again, Gordon had proved himself to be more than most others saw.

  “You’re the one who’s the goddamn ICA!” Robin’s fury exploded when she too connected that fact.

  “And you’re the lead pilot of Firehawk Oh-one,” Henderson’s voice had taken on a hard, military snap. “That means something. So act like it. ICA commands the attack; the Oh-one pilot leads the team. Your team was in shock. Next time do something about it.”

  Robin blinked only once, then nodded to show that she’d heard and learned the lesson.

  “You’re still an asshole,” she snarled it out.

  “Granted,” Mark agreed easily.

  And that was it, they were done. Apparently Robin was wholly unflappable.

  Ripley would have made some joke and then totally crumbled inside.

  Then Mark turned back to face Gordon, who stood between herself and Vanessa. “Nice job on the radio, you three. Hell of a hard moment and you all found a way through. Helped the others too.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Gordon mumbled out for all three of them. Ripley exchanged a look with Vanessa and by mutual agreement they both kept their silence, but damn, a compliment like that from Mark felt amazing.

  Henderson was as formidable in a good mood as he was in a bad one.

  A silence descended over the group once more and had them turning to the south to stare up toward their former camp on the flanks of the towering Mount Hood. It rose eleven thousand feet and they were nearly at sea level here. It looked shining and serene. She could barely pick out the small smudge of the fire’s smoky remnants.

  Down safely, they were apparently at a loss for what to do next.

  “Well, so the morning sucked.” Ripley offered in her cheeriest tone. “What’s on the schedule for this afternoon?”

  Nervous laughter swept through the group.

  The pilots all looked toward Mark and then, after finding no satisfaction there, toward Robin who started to look worried despite her having just faced down Mark.

  “Oh,” Gordon said casually, “I’ve got that covered.” And he waved toward a small flock of minivans that were rolling up to them.

  The shapely redheaded waitress from last night at The Doghouse jumped out of the lead vehicle and rushed over. She slid up between Gordon and Vanessa and hugged them both tightly against her. Both hugged her back, but she kept a hand around Gordon’s waist.

  “Oh. My. God!” The redhead effused. “I can’t believe you guys were burned out. How did that happen? That’s just so wrong. Was it arson? No. That’s right. I heard the fire examiner on the scanner. Lightning strike. Mother Nature must have it so in for you guys. Is everyone okay? Gerald has the grill fired up. This one’s on us. Come on!” And she was dragging Gordon by the hand toward the first van without waiting for an answer to anything.

  “What is it with this guy and women?”

  “Oh, Gordon. He is just such a sweetheart,” Vanessa answered.

  Ripley had meant that question for herself, but Vanessa had been standing close enough to hear. Then Ripley turned to face the tall Italian woman. Her accent said mostly raised in the US by Italian immigrant parents. There was an easy, if soft, joy about her that Ripley suspected came straight from those parents. Ripley had been born and raised in Oklahoma by a couple of her favorite lunatics on the planet. It felt like the beginning of a bond.

  “Really. He is.” Vanessa must have read the skepticism on Ripley’s face. Vanessa climbed onto the rear bench seat of the second van and slid over to the window. At a loss for what else to do, Ripley slid in beside her.

  Ripley’s first assessment was confirmed: group dynamics here were incomprehensible to the outsider. Maybe to the insider as well.

  Jeannie, the Aussie brunette with a fire-red streak down the back, and a big man with a big camera around his neck took the front bench.

  Mark climbed in shotgun in their van, Emily had taken shotgun in the other one.

  “So, what’s with Gordon and the redhead?” Ripley hadn’t really meant to ask that.

  “Amy is just like that,” Vanessa answered. “Especially with Gordon—”

  “For reasons that none of the rest of us can understand,” the big man turned to smile back at them, “I mean why not me? I’m way better looking.” Then he grunted as Jeannie elbowed him in the gut.

  “Hey!” He complained. “It’s true. Cute women can’t help themselves around me,” then he leaned over to kiss Jeannie. This had to be Cal Jackson, Mr. Cover of National Geographic, the number one wildfire photographer in the business. She’d heard he was flying with MHA but hadn’t heard he’d married in.

  “Amy, she is happily married to Gerald the cook,” Vanessa explained.

  “Which still doesn’t explain why you’re not with him,” Ripley continued talking to Vanessa.

  Cal twisted around to look at Vanessa. “You’re not a couple?”

  “No.”

  “Duh,” was Jeannie’s comment as the van rolled out of the airport. They drove out through orchards of apple and peach trees.

  “No,” Cal protested. “I’d know if you and Gordon broke up.”

  “Did he ever tell you that we were together in the first place?” Vanessa teased him, which caused raised eyebrows from Jeannie and Cal. Even Mark glanced back from the front seat in surprise as Vanessa continued, “Wait, he could not have done this, because all of you were in Alaska on another fire while he and I were in the Washington Cascade Mountains earlier in the season. And still no one has explained why you were so slow to return from that fire. What made that so?”

  Ripley noticed the expressions shift on Jeannie’s and Cal’s faces to one of careful silence. They both glanced forward at Mark, who turned around to the front as if he hadn’t heard a thing. Ripley had no idea how to read their reactions.

  “Some big secret,” Vanessa leaned close and whispered softly.

  “Oh,” Ripley whispered back, not knowing what else to say. For a distraction, she watched out the window. The orchards gave way to suburbia, but the town was small enough that it only lasted a half-dozen blocks before they were winding through the tree-lined streets of the town.

  “It must be my Oklahoma upbringing, but I’ll never get used to how green Oregon is.”

  “Oklahoma always seemed so stark to me,” Vanessa answered. “I was born in Dolceacqua, Italy, and we move to Seattle while I am eight. My little sister Graziella is still there—Seattle, not Italy—working as a restaurant hostess. I’m the adventurous sister; she’s the pretty one.”

  That had Ripley twisting around to look at her in surprise.

  “Oh, I know. But seriously, she is. She has married this amazing Mexican who cooks Italian like it is nobody’s business. He is from Idaho. My parents are still upset that I am not married but my
little sister is.”

  Ripley had had friends for years who she knew less about than she already knew about Vanessa. A quick glance back from Jeannie and Cal marked how unusual this was for Vanessa. Was she seeking Ripley’s approval for some reason? If she was trying to draw out Ripley, she was doing a lousy job of it.

  Vanessa looked a little surprised and flustered at all she’d just revealed, so Ripley decided to help her out.

  “An Idaho Mexican who cooks Italian has married your prettier sister in Seattle. Moral of the story: Welcome to America.” Ripley couldn’t think of what else to say.

  “Yes,” Vanessa shrugged with no hint of how bizarre a summary that had been. Then did her best to hide her sudden nerves with one of her model-worthy smiles.

  Ripley briefly rested a hand on her arm in sympathy and Vanessa’s smile turned more natural. Ripley actually felt a little sorry for Gordon that it hadn’t worked out with Vanessa; she appeared to be as nice and sincere as she was beautiful.

  And a part of herself that Ripley didn’t recognize at all was secretly glad that it hadn’t—Gordon was still available.

  The vans pulled up in front of The Doghouse, which looked no more structurally sound than it had the day before.

  “I must tell you the truth.”

  Gordon could hear Vanessa chatting easily with Ripley as he walked across The Doghouse’s gravel parking lot toward them.

  He was actually quite surprised that Ripley wasn’t overshadowed by Vanessa. Ripley’s beauty wasn’t slap-in-your-face (or other body region) intense like Vanessa’s. There was an impossibly engaging freshness to Vanessa, like a colt inspecting the meadow in wonder on its first day past the corral.

  Ripley was more like the grand bay mare, steady and stunning.

  “I will rather eat a good burger any day,” Vanessa continued. “Better than one of my brother-in-law Manuel’s fancy meals. My parents say that it is far too American of me.” Her shrug was both eloquent and elegant.

  Gordon fell in beside them, wanting to hear what Ripley’s preference would be. She’d barely opened her mouth when Henderson’s phone rang.

  “MHA. Henderson.”

  His grunted “uh-huhs” stopped all conversation, but didn’t tell Gordon anything. They also were enough to stop everyone’s progress toward The Doghouse.

  Except Ripley. She kept moving until Gordon rested a hand on her arm. She stopped and studied him, again that owlish inspection from his face to his hand and back.

  What was so surprising about it was that she didn’t appear bothered by it. She was making it funny.

  He could feel the slender strength of her arm through the Nomex flightsuit. Could remember how it had felt to hold her, even for a moment.

  Then she glanced over at Vanessa. There was one of those quiet moments that sometimes happened between women. A long silence that wasn’t merely silence, like they had telepathy or something. Then they exchanged nods.

  Gordon wondered what the hell.

  Another of Henderson’s “uh-huhs” punctuated it even more clearly.

  Ripley turned back to him and looked him up and down as if searching for a flaw. Well, he had plenty of those, starting with how long he’d been touching her arm. He pulled his hand back.

  “You—” she began.

  “Shit!” Henderson stuffed his phone in his pocket. His eyes were unreadable behind his mirrored shades, but his scowl was deep.

  For twenty seconds he stared off into the middle distance and Gordon simply waited along with everyone else.

  “Harrow!” Henderson snapped it out, even though she was less than ten feet away.

  “Henderson!” She snapped it right back, then frowned—not earning the smile she’d obviously been going for. “Okay, hit me.”

  “Tell Amy and Gerald we have one hour, max.”

  Robin nodded, then understanding she was dismissed, headed inside.

  “You three, with me.” And he turned off and strode across the parking lot.

  “Shit!” Gordon already knew what had just happened.

  “What?” Vanessa and Ripley asked in near Brad-and-Janet-like unison.

  “I hate it when I’m right. Why did he even let me get my hopes up?”

  “What hopes?” Vanessa asked, but he could see that Ripley wasn’t surprised.

  “Wildland firefighter is a gypsy life,” Ripley shrugged as if losing so much today wasn’t already enough. She shoved her sunglasses upward into her hair.

  “Right about what?” Vanessa asked again.

  Gordon just hunched his shoulders against the oncoming disaster and followed after Henderson to the far corner of the parking lot.

  Another van rolled up, this time Brenna, Brad, and Janet climbed out with a few others.

  Henderson turned, “You, Ripley, do you speak for your people?”

  “Contractually, yes.”

  He nodded, then pointed at Brenna. Somehow the impact of his gesture had her turning to look over at him. He waved her over, letting the others continue inside.

  “Aw crap! A mechanic too?” Gordon couldn’t believe it. Firing him made sense. Letting go of Ripley and Vanessa maybe a little, but not their second mechanic. “That’s wrong, Mark, you can’t cut her. Sure, the losses today were hard, but you’ll need someone to cover for Denise soon. She’s not going to get less pregnant.”

  Vanessa went wide-eyed as she put the pieces together, but Mark remained silent.

  Gordon kicked at the gravel while Brenna crossed the parking lot to join them.

  “Hey gang. Looks like a funeral over here. Whose is it?”

  “I am thinking it is ours,” Vanessa told her softly—sad acceptance clear in her voice.

  Brenna looked shocked and took a hold of Vanessa’s hand for mutual support.

  Face it like a man! his father had said to him more times than Gordon could remember. It was his answer to everything, especially one of his brutal harangues. Gordon had never measured up to his father’s standards and his father made sure that everyone within earshot knew it.

  Mount Hood Aviation was the only place he’d ever fit in. Well, this once, he would face it like a man. Gordon looked up and faced Mark squarely. He was going to lose Vanessa, Brenna, and Ripley all in the next moment. The last hurt deeply though he knew her so little. Of them all, only Ripley was acting as if it was no more than she’d expected.

  “Bring it on, Mark. Enough dancing about.”

  Mark offered a grim smile and a nod. “That was the owner of Mount Hood Aviation.”

  Gordon didn’t bother responding.

  “I want to remind you four that your work for MHA is covered by a non-disclosure agreement.”

  “What’s to hide so much that you need an NDA?” Ripley asked.

  “Did you sign it?”

  “In the packet back at Erickson. I assume Randy sent in a copy.”

  Again Henderson did that nod thing of his. “Just wanted to remind you all of that. The rest of the team—”

  “Will miss us,” Gordon couldn’t stomach it any longer. It felt as if his father was once more preparing to tell him he wasn’t good enough. His father liked the long, pompous setup as much as, apparently, Mark did. “We’re all fired. Fine! We done here?”

  Mark just grinned at him.

  Not once in his life had Gordon ever punched a man. Never even raised his fist in anger since he was a seven-year-old boy. His father had thrashed him but good for that transgression.

  Gordon unleashed a strike at Henderson’s face, mirrored shades and all.

  Henderson didn’t even blink. He brushed it aside, somehow grabbed Gordon’s wrist, and with a twist had Gordon groveling on the sharp gravel of the parking lot. Pain shrieked up his shoulder and shouted out his throat.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” Mark let go and helped him back up. “Didn’t expect that from you and my old training kicked in.”

  Gordon rubbed at his shoulder and winced against the aftershocks of pain. Henderson had moved so damn fast.r />
  “You okay?” Ripley touched his shoulder gently.

  “Fine!” Not even close. “We done?” He looked back at Henderson.

  “Your choice. You can walk if you want. MHA will pick up your contract next year if you’re still interested. Or, you can stop assuming shit and listen.”

  Gordon rubbed at his shoulder again, accidentally running his hand over Ripley’s where it rested there. She didn’t pull away. He squeezed it briefly against his shoulder and then wished he hadn’t when a fresh round of pain roared out of the stressed joint.

  “We’re listening,” Ripley said softly. “But it was a reasonable assumption. You already told Gordon you wouldn’t be replacing his MD anytime soon. That gives you too many pilots. Add to that the major financial hit today of your base burning. Time to cut costs: a pilot who lost his helicopter, a second mechanic. No great surprise you’d cut my and Vanessa’s contracts as well. It’s okay, I’m used to not belonging anywhere.”

  Gordon almost took Mark’s offer to turn and walk away. But something about the sadness in Ripley’s voice held him in place. She hadn’t struck him as a sad person, but now he was seeing through her protective shield to a deeper layer, and he didn’t like what he saw. Women as amazing as her weren’t supposed to sound as if they hurt so badly inside.

  He stayed where he was and nodded for Mark to continue.

  “It’s late in the season here,” Mark remained unreadable after Ripley’s statement, but at least the smugness was gone. “The fires are tapering off and the other outfits can handle whatever is coming. Our southern clients are already on fire and begging for our help, so the US Forest Service has released us.”

  “What southern clients?” Ripley asked.

  But Gordon knew that the rest of the team had wintered the last few years in different places. Honduras, Australia, he’d once overheard Cal say something to Jeannie about Indonesia—but nobody talked much about any of them. Maybe…he didn’t want to get his hopes up again…but just maybe.

  “The question at this point is simple,” Mark answered without answering the question. “You’re either all the way in. Or you’re out. We pay you an end-of-season bonus, subcontract you to Columbia Helicopters for as long as they need you, and we’ll see you in the spring.”