Wildfire at Dawn Page 2

  “George,” Steve lit up and reached out to grab the man’s hand. “Man did your bird ever save our asses on the Tillamook Burn. We logged almost three hundred flight hours on the drones alone, never mind choppers and air tankers. I’ve got to get you some of the recordings.”

  In moments they’d crowded two more chairs around the small table and Amy had delivered fresh ice teas without even being asked. George, Steve, and Carly were rapidly lost in techy esoterica that had Akbar’s eyes glazing over—too much flying, not enough fire.

  In the shuffle as Steve and Carly joined the table, Akbar managed to shift his allegiance—and the angle of his chair—from the chopper pilot’s table to the brunette’s. He wanted to send a gloating look toward Tim, but figured the brunette would catch it and boot his ass.

  “That was a pretty good save. Go ahead and do it,” she whispered to him. “But make your gloat a good one, because one is all you get.”

  He timed his look at Tim as the brunette pretended brief attention to her BLT sandwich. Tim closed his eyes as if muttering a curse.

  “You get him?”

  “Got him good. Thanks.” Whoever she was, she didn’t miss much.

  “So, are you going to ask my name, or just gawk at me like a love-struck bull calf?”

  “Well,” Akbar settled in to enjoy himself as Amy delivered a double-burger with cheese, bacon, and a plate with a double order of onion rings. “I could be easily talked into just gawking if that works for you.”

  Her mom had a great laugh. So he turned to her.

  “Maybe she secretly likes being gawked at. What do you think?”

  “I think, young man, that you’re right on the narrow edge of receiving a sharp poke in the ribs. So don’t stop now. I’m Jane, Jane Jenson.”

  “Dad is George. Mom is Jane.” He turned back to the brunette. “Does that make you, Judy? Little brother Elroy in space school? Let me guess, you don’t have a dog, but the cat was named Astro.” He’d been ready for it; the nameless woman’s sharp poke bounced off his tightened gut muscles.

  “She’s my only daughter, but you’re dead on about what she named the cat.” Jane then prompted him, “Ask her middle name.”

  “Don’t!” the brunette warned.

  Akbar fought the smile, he really did, but it wasn’t working. Jane was funny and obviously enjoyed torturing her daughter. George was on about something that could easily be space age and he, Carly, and Steve were paying no attention to the rest of the table. So Jane and George Jenson and named her daughter something Judy, not quite cruel enough to make her the butt of every The Jetsons joke on the planet, but not wholly above it either.

  The brunette groaned, then stuck her tongue out at her mother. “Laura. My name is Laura.”

  “Don’t feel too bad. I’m Johnny Akbar Jepps, but everyone calls me Akbar the Great.”

  She narrowed her eyes in disbelief.

  “I know. I guess they love me,” he indicated the table of Tim and the fliers. “Can’t help themselves. The joke is on them though, my middle name means ‘Great.’ What parent names their kid Johnny the Great Jepps? I mean, was that the best they could do?”

  “Akbar the Great?” Laura Judy Jenson was proving that she had a great smile. “So they’re calling you ‘Great the Great’.”

  “Yeah.” He hit the tone of chagrin just right, as if he hated it so much but didn’t want to disappoint them, and her smile bloomed even further. Damn! was all he could think. For that smile, he’d work a hell of a lot harder than he just had. Her cheeks brightened, the right one dimpled as the smile slid slightly sideways. The eyes that he’d thought were simple brown went golden-honey brown. Her head tipped slightly to the dimple side, which sent her beyond charming and right over into breathtaking.

  Akbar felt as if he’d jumped out of the plane and tumbled into freefall. He wondered how much this one would hurt when he landed.

  # # #

  Two-Tall went off with a lithe little blond more Akbar’s size than Tim’s; she didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Vern and Mickey wandered off to try the Full Sail Brewery down by the water. Laura had left with her parents and Steve and Carly. Akbar shifted his plate to rejoin Jeannie, the first smokies were just starting to drift in and would find them soon enough. A group of prime tourists jumped on the table the Jensons had just vacated, but he ignored them.

  Jeannie ate one of his onion rings, then another as he worked on his burger.

  “C’mon, Akbar. Don’t tell me that Judy Jetson got to you.” Clearly she’d been listening to the conversation occurring right behind her.

  “Jenson,” he corrected her.

  “Holy shit!”

  He looked up at her which he knew was a mistake as soon as he did it.

  “Whoa,” Jeannie’s offered a low whistle. “She did. I thought no one got under your guard.”

  He ate an onion ring while she sipped her pint of Belgian Red and studied him.

  “Washout? No, I can see that didn’t happen. Did you get her number?”

  He shrugged. He hadn’t.

  “Did she get yours?”

  “Goddamn Spanish Inquisition,” Akbar muttered. Jeannie was tenacious, the same way she flew, and wasn’t going to let this one go anytime soon so he answered. “I gave it to her.”

  “Did she leave it on the table?”

  He felt some glimmer of hope. No, she hadn’t. Laura had taken the paper napkin bearing his phone number.

  Chapter 2

  Akbar and Two-Tall went for a run the next morning. It had dawned bright and clear and the last of the fire-fight stiffness had to be worked out. Tim had been back before ten last night.

  The MHA base was surround by miles and miles of trails. The Douglas fir trees climbed up a hundred feet or more. No old growth in the area, but it had been a long time since the timber here had been harvested. To either side the undergrowth was thick with salal and huckleberry. Old trees that had fallen were disappearing under moss and saplings were taking root in their rotting progenitors. The trails were wide enough for two to run abreast with footing far less tricky than when fighting a blaze in the trackless wilderness.

  Akbar had been too tired to harass Tim last night, but after a couple miles he was awake and loose enough.

  “Washout?” he asked.

  “New Tom Cruise movie in town she wanted to see,” Tim sounded really disgusted. “I mean the guy’s old. What’s he got? Maybe I’m losing my touch. You?”

  Akbar hadn’t received a message from Laura, but he had some hope yet. Though it would be pretty lame to admit that. “Nah. Brush off, but made good company for lunch.”

  “Zero for two,” Tim noted as they jumped over a small stream and started on the last stretch back toward camp. “We be losing our touch, man. Got to get it back.”

  They were about a kilometer out, only the long climb back up to the top of the ridge when they exchanged glances. Without a word, they started to sprint up the trail. The race was on.

  At a half kilometer to go, an eerie siren sounded over the woods. It didn’t pulse and then recede; it kept climbing. Akbar glanced at his watch. It was neither Wednesday nor noon. This wasn’t the weekly test.

  They shifted from a teasing back and forth run to a flat-out sprint.

  MHA had been called to a fire.

  Two-Tall beat him to the mowed edge of the grass strip runway by a foot, literally—one massive sneaker’s worth. It didn’t seem particularly fair.

  # # #

  Mark Henderson, the Incident Commander Air, was up in his usual position on the first level of the fire tower that also served as the MHA air field’s control tower. It was a two-story structure with a glassed-in hut at the top. A wrap-around balcony circled the upper level of the tower. The heavy wooden stairs had a broad landing halfway up and facing the field. It made a natural podium and the teams were gathering around it.

  Akbar assessed the crowd when they arrived. They were supposed to have another couple days dark after fight
ing the Burn, but Mother Nature didn’t always cooperate. It was early enough in the day that most of the smokies were already present.

  “Hey TJ,” he came to a stop behind the man who’d only just stepped out of the lead jump spot and made Akbar his replacement. “You know, with you out, my team’s average age dropped by like a hundred years.”

  TJ slapped his arm in greeting. “Not one of you damn punks over thirty, are you guys even old enough to know a fire when you see one?” Then he hurried up the stairs to check in with the controllers.

  Ox was thirty-five and Chas was forty, but that wasn’t the point. Of his two dozen smokies, not a one had under five years in the fire. There’d only been two women so far, but Krista was his number three. It was a good team. The chopper and support teams were of all sorts of ages and had a good spread of women, but being a smokie was tough.

  The one thing they had in common, other than a hatred of wildfire, was almost everyone wore fire t-shirts—about half of them were from the Burn. The word Tillamook, half on fire and half burned char, angled down across their chests. “I fought the Burn!” in water-blue letters that dripped down and had doused the fire on the middle of “Tillamook.” Akbar had considered framing his, it was one of the best shirts he’d seen in a long time.

  TJ now stood beside Mark up on the mid-stair platform listening to his portable radio. He’d jumped over to being the ICG—Incident Commander Ground, opening the number one smokie slot for Akbar. He still missed jumping second to the old cuss, but being on the same two-man stick with Tim made up for a lot of that.

  People were still pouring into camp; a number of them lived in cabins nearby. A text would have splashed out across all of their phones.

  Henderson casually flashed out three fingers then moved his hands as if tightening the straps on a jump harness. Three more minutes before the briefing started and they would need the smokies geared up. He, Tim, and a number of the smokies bolted into the bunkhouse and pulled on their cotton underwear and Nomex jump suit, including leather boots laced over the pants so that the fire had no chance to sneak up a pant leg.

  He slapped the various pockets of his jump suit. A line of rope filled the pouch along the outside of his right calf. Med kit to the left. Foil fire shelter on his hip. The chutes and hand equipment would be aboard the jump plane. He tugged his high collar into place that would protect his neck during the jump and pulled his helmet with its wire mesh face mask from the hook. They grabbed their personal gear bags—which were always stocked with water, energy bars, and dried MREs, Meals Ready to Eat—then raced back out to the tower.

  Akbar did a quick scan. The entire first load of smokies was already present and geared up even though this was supposed to be a dark day on the schedule. He made sure he got eye contact with each of the dozen men who were all ready to climb aboard MHA’s DC-3 and get gone. They were committed and Akbar wanted each man to know that he was proud of them being prepped and that he was damn proud to be jumping with them. Krista was also suited up and about half of her second load of jumpers were suited. He gave her a sharp nod as well. She’d be ready.

  “Here we go,” Henderson called out and everyone quieted. “We’re off to the Siskiyou National Forest.”

  There was a universal groan that rippled through the crowd, now numbering over forty between jumpers, pilots, and ground teams. MHA boasted two jump planes, four small choppers plus the heavy-duty brand-new Firehawk, and one of the best crews in the business. Mount Hood Aviation had been in the wildfire business for over thirty years and even with all of that collective experience, the Biscuit Fire—named for Biscuit Creek near the start of the half-million acre fire that had ripped the heart out of the Siskiyou Mountains—had been particularly challenging.

  It had hit three years before Akbar joined his first crew, and still he’d heard stories about it like it was yesterday.

  “TJ tells me,” Mark’s voice boomed over the crowd and everyone shut up to listen. He softened his voice only a little and still it carried far and easily. “Back in July 2002 there were hundreds of small, lightning-strike fires down there, all started in a three-day period. But it was a hot and dry season and firefighters were spread thin, so there was insufficient personnel available to fight them properly. That delay was a disaster and the fires joined and roared out of control. It took from July to December before we were able to kill it off. Well, that’s not going to happen this time.”

  “Thank god!” a number of the older crew muttered.

  “So,” Mark always kept firm control on his briefings. A former Major in the military—the Special Ops kind—he was fair with the teams and ruthless with the fire. An attitude he and Akbar shared. “I know you all could use another couple days off after fighting the Burn, but we need to kick this one in the ass before it gets away from us. We have fifty acres involved and no one on site. A civilian pilot called this one in.”

  Mark looked around until he tracked down Akbar in the crowd; only took a moment, find the tallest person in the crowd and then find Akbar next to him. They didn’t even have to say anything. Akbar nodded his team was good to go and Henderson acknowledged it.

  “First jump plane is airborne in ten minutes, unless you can do it in five. Second plane is ten minutes back. This fire includes all choppers. We’ll be based out of…”

  It wasn’t like Henderson to stretch out something, especially during a briefing. But he did.

  “…a field only TJ and Chutes are old enough to remember.” That got the laugh and lifted the mood. Akbar could feel the residual exhaustion slide further into the past and realized that even though the man was relatively new to smoke and fire, Akbar still had a lot to learn from him.

  TJ made a raspberry noise, but then jumped right in. “Folks, we’re going to central nowhere. Shut down in 1981, the Siskiyou Smokejumper Base is only ten miles from this blaze. Retardant tanker trucks are already en route. And any rumors about high times there? Forget about it. Nothing but trees and mountains.”

  “And fire,” Akbar called out.

  “And fire,” Mark repeated. “Saddle up. You now have eight minutes to get the first flight aloft.”

  The crowd broke up into a well-organized mêlée.

  Chutes McGee, one of the original MHA smokies, was now the paracargo master. He kept the plane fully stocked. Parachutes, chainsaws, Pulaski hand axes, any other gear they’d need was stacked down one side of the plane behind heavy cargo nets so that they wouldn’t shift in flight.

  They were airborne in six minutes.

  Akbar worked his way down the plane. They were an hour out, so he took his time. The smokies were sitting sideways on hard, fold-down seats all along one side of the plane, pulling on the chutes then leaning back against the curved hull of the plane trying to appear relaxed. Only the most seasoned guys would be able to sleep—sure enough, four of them were catnapping with arms crossed over their reserve chutes because who knew the next time they’d get to sleep.

  He personally checked every person’s gear, using it as an excuse to check in with them. They’d all slept, no one was hung over. Chas had taken a bad fall during the Burn, spraining an ankle and a wrist. But the doc had signed off on his jump card, so he was good to go. Akbar redid the assignments so that Chas was paired with Gustav who was called Ox for a reason; his strength would give Chas a slightly easier time of it until he was back to a hundred percent.

  After he got back to his seat, he settled in to do what the ones who weren’t sleeping were doing. From the plane’s grab bag, he’d dug out a second breakfast of protein and high carbs, then began hydrating as much as he could before the jump.

  # # #

  After she got back from her morning trail run and had showered, Laura headed down to the front desk. Bess handed her the day’s signup sheet. Six tourists for a trail ride. All had listed themselves as moderate to experienced riders. Downgrade that to “I’ve ridden a horse before” through “I have a fifty-fifty chance of getting a horse to go where I
want, despite the nice berry bush we’re passing.”

  Then she focused on the names. Grayson Clyde Masterson. One of the ones who’d declared himself as experienced.

  “I thought he was checking out?” she pointed at the name for Bess.

  She shook her graying curls, “No such luck, Laura. He saw you were leading the trail ride and decided to stay at the last minute. Actually said his meetings at the conference went so well, he was taking the week off and thought this would be an ideal place to spend it.”

  She didn’t manage to suppress her groan, “Aren’t we full up?”

  “Cancellation. Sorry, but I’m not turning down money.”

  “Neither am I,” Laura agreed. Grayson might be an arrogant clod who thought he was god’s gift to women, but he tipped very well. So well that it was a little creepy. Didn’t matter; no one was buying their way into her bed and she was saving up for a sorrel she’d had her eye on since the spring. The mare would make a fine breeder and Kenny had promised to hold onto her for Laura at least until the fall.

  She flipped through the pages, tomorrow’s nature walk was full—and yes Mr. Jerk was one of the people—but no one had signed up for the next day’s trail ride yet. So she switched it with the next sheet down and handed it back to Bess. Bess looked down at the new order of events then smiled at Laura and winked. An ice and snow class up on one of Mt. Hood’s glaciers. If he wanted to sign up for that, fine.

  “I’ll fix the activity board.” Bess tapped at her computer keys for a few moments.The “Join Us For These Fun Activities” slideshow display screen behind the front desk shifted from close-ups of birds and scenic nature trails to dramatic views from above the Mount Hood timberline, some showing a crowd waving to the camera—each clothed in parka, snow pants, and a climbing harness.

  Go ahead, Grayson. Sign up for that one. I dare you.