Flash of Fire Page 4

  Forty? Shit! Robin had kind of assumed she’d been the only one to apply. She sure hadn’t seen anyone else around and had been hired right in the middle of the interview flight. Which meant QBB knew exactly what she was looking for, even if Robin had no idea why she was it.

  Queen Beale had her take runs at flaming barrels with tanks full of water dipped from narrow streams. They’d flown tortuous routes among the crags and peaks of Mount Hood, right up past the tree line, to where the air was thin enough to drastically change performance profiles, and down into forested valleys so thick with fir trees that there was no sign of the land beneath.

  She’d been sliding up to hover close beside a cliff when Beale’s voice had shifted. Suddenly there were no longer instructions of “Do this! Go there!” It all became “When you’re flying in this situation, you’ll find…”

  Robin had only needed to glance at Emily to be given the nod, “Yes, you passed. Now let’s work on skills.” And they had done nothing else for the last three days. Robin was good, but the amount Queen Beale knew about helicopters and fire was astonishing.

  “Bruce, Vanessa, and Gordon are good pilots,” QBB told her as they started across the runway. “They’re coming up nicely, but they’re on the Leavenworth fires, so you won’t have to think about them yet. Jeannie, Vern, and Mickey, the three that you’ll be traveling to Alaska with, are all exceptional. Jeannie has a degree in fire management and years of fire, Vern’s years of flying Coast Guard makes him our best pilot, but Mickey is your fire specialist. He has more years flying to fire than the others combined. He’s the best fire pilot I’ve got. You’ve met Carly and Steve?”

  She had, barely, and offered a cautious nod. She was pretty sure Carly was the one who’d gone up to meet with the other leaders on the radio tower platform, but maybe not.

  Emily slowed down her pace midfield with a curse and a hand on her belly. “This one kicks even worse than Tessa did. Carly flies left seat on Firehawk One. She is the top specialist there is on fire behavior. Her recommendations are gold; doesn’t mean you have to follow them, but you’ll want a good reason not to. Steve flies a spotting drone, typically from the backseat of my bird.”

  “Why do you people have a drone?”

  Queen Bitch Beale’s smile was chilly, enough to make Robin’s blood freeze in her veins despite the warm spring morning.

  “We have a couple drones and they are very useful.” She backed up her words with a look that left no doubt Robin had damned well better take ownership of the team right fucking now.

  “Got it!” Don’t need to beat me with a stick. Soldiers know the importance of teamwork. And even though she was six months out, Robin knew she had a lot of soldier still in her “We have a drone.”

  “ScanEagle with infrared heat imaging for fires,” Beale continued without acknowledgment. “Steve has a few other tricks up his sleeve as well. He’ll mostly feed to Carly and she to you, but be ready for it.”

  They reached the Firehawk that had been Beale’s but would now be hers for a season. It was in the middle of the line of aircraft parked along the far side of the narrow grass runway. Place of first choice. Yet another sign among the hundred Robin had seen that said, pregnant or not, QBB ruled. Robin liked that in a woman.

  “I can see you discounting Mickey’s smaller helicopter. Don’t. He has more hours in it aloft against fire than you have in your entire National Guard service.”

  Robin nodded. Partly because that was interesting information about Mickey and partly because the Queen’s attitude was one hundred percent that of a commanding officer, which made Robin’s nod a self-preservation instinct. Of course, if Robin had run into a few more officers like this one, she might still be in the Guard.

  “You’ll be carrying the launch trailer for Steve’s drone to Alaska with your Firehawk.”

  Her Firehawk. Just that simply Queen Beale was handing over the reins. It felt…weird.

  “He’ll make sure you have the information you need. Information’s going to come at you fast and hard over a fire.”

  “I’m used to that.” Robin patted the nose of Firehawk One. Hers?

  “Not like this. Trust me.” And Emily Beale smiled for perhaps the first time.

  It was a powerful, engaging smile that made Robin feel as if she’d just crossed over some line. Unworthy to trusted? Outsider to insider? Most likely heathen outcast to razor-thin tolerance until her initial screwup, then outta there!

  “In the Guard, when you were on a fire,” Beale continued, “you heard from one source, Incident Commander—Air, which is Mark for us. But you’re seated in the Number One bird for Mount Hood Aviation now. I almost gave it to Jeannie and pushed you into the Number Two slot, but your commanders convinced me to keep you front and center.”

  “My…” She trailed off. Of course MHA had called her former commanders. What was surprising was that they’d given her good reviews.

  “They said you were an exceptional pilot and a royal pain in the ass.”

  “I expected the second part of that.” Robin did her best to hide her shock at the first part, because while she’d done her best to prove it, they had sure acted like they didn’t notice.

  Then the Queen Bitch Emily Beale held out a hand that was warm from resting against her rounded belly.

  Robin shook it tentatively, unsure of the message.

  “Welcome to the club. My last commander was always saying the same two things about me.” Again that radiant smile that was even more of a surprise the second time.

  “Did he give you a good recommendation when you needed it?”

  Emily looked amused, an expression that Robin had never expected on her face. “I don’t know about that, but he did give me a wedding band and two children. I have yet to decide if the second child is a blessing or a curse.” Though the way she kept a hand resting lightly on her belly, there was little question of her true feelings.

  QBB had married her commanding officer, Mark Henderson. Which would explain why someone so military was out in the civilian world. Though it was clear this woman had plenty of backbone. If the military had been so important to her, why did she leave the service to marry her commander? What’s more, why didn’t he stay in anyway? Something in her story didn’t make sense.

  Three airplanes along the line fired to life with a distracting roar of large engines and the sharp buzz of accelerating propellers beating the air: the two smokejumper delivery planes and the Incident Commander’s Beech King Air.

  Emily turned to watch the Beech King Air but kept talking to Robin. “I can’t wait to see how he flies that observing plane with two kids in the cabin. We’re going to have to find a nanny willing to travel at high elevations.” Then Emily’s face shifted in a way Robin couldn’t quite interpret and she turned away from the plane, now resting a hand on the nose of her Firehawk as if saying good-bye.

  “Get aloft.” Emily didn’t look up but kept her focus on the helicopter or something beyond it. “Be safe. Listen to Mark from above and Carly from beside you. Vern doesn’t speak much more than Denise, our quiet mechanic. Jeannie is an exceptional wildland firefighter, reads the flames almost as well as Carly. Vern is a masterful pilot. If you need someone to explain how they do what they do, listen to Mickey. In addition to being very skilled, he’s highly observant and knows how to turn it into words.”

  And without another word or gesture, Emily Beale was gone.

  Robin was left standing beside Firehawk One trying to remember who she was supposed to watch for what.

  She looked down the line.

  Firehawk Two was another husband-and-wife team; the woman must be Jeannie. The pilot sported an Australian accent and a fire-red streak in her dark brown hair. Her hubby was a world-class fire photographer. Hell, Cal Jackson was the wildfire photographer; didn’t need to be on the outside to know that either. Over the years, he’d take
n enough photos of the National Guard helos flying to fire to satisfy anyone. There were even a pair of shots—Colorado two years ago and California three years back—that Robin was fairly sure were her bird high up and making a drop. One had hit Time magazine the other the LA Times. Seriously cool.

  Firehawk Three had a long, tall drink of water for a pilot, Vern. He was married to a tiny blond who barely reached his shoulder. Robin had been eyeing him for a little summer fun, but the blond was the chief mechanic. Denise, maybe? And you never ever pissed off your helicopter mechanic. Robin had never actually tried the married guy thing anyway, but Vern almost made it look tempting to try.

  But having met Mickey Hamilton, maybe she’d no longer need to.

  Parked beyond Firehawk Three, Mickey noticed her attention and shot her a cheery wave. She started to wave back just as Jeannie wound her Firehawk’s Auxiliary Power Unit to life to start her engine; the APU had a high-pitched whine that sliced into Robin’s ears.

  Crap! She was behind again.

  A redheaded woman from the kitchen pulled up close by in a battered golf cart and began wrestling a large cooler into the cargo bay of Firehawk Two. “Sandwiches, snacks, soda, cold water. Y’all are going to need it when you land because I won’t be set up yet.”

  Robin nodded, but the woman was too busy unloading the rest of her supplies into the back of the Hawk to notice.

  She shook her head to clear it and began working her way around Firehawk One, doing the Preflight Check to prepare the helo.

  Her Firehawk.

  Nope. Still no reaction. The reality simply hadn’t sunk in. No real surprise either—only her first day.

  She was last in the whole line to climb aboard her helo. She scanned the Preflight Checklist to be sure she’d remembered it all. Yes! She’d gotten everything. Robin flipped to Before Starting Engines and checked the collective position lock, the seat belt harnesses setting, and strapped in, then the parking brake. She began throwing circuit breakers from memory. After that, she chewed through the Cockpit Equipment Checklist, ignoring the fact that everyone else’s rotors were already churning air when she glanced down the line.

  At least this time, being last wasn’t her fault, at least not entirely. Emily had escorted her across the field and given her far more advice than she’d wanted.

  But Robin had also stopped to meet Mickey and, while hard to regret, he had slowed her down.

  Just roll with it. Nothing else to do.

  The engines both fired off cleanly and the high whine of the APU had given way to the throaty roar of the twin turboshafts by the time Carly Thomas, the fire behavior analyst, hurried across the field toward her. The woman slipped into the copilot’s seat.

  “Do you fly?” Robin asked in the least-irritated voice she could muster. It was a lot of work to start a Blackhawk on your own. She’d seen Denise helping Vern and Cal helping Jeannie. Though she hadn’t spotted anyone with Mickey on his Twin 212.

  The fuel flow was good and the temperature was rising right along with Robin’s.

  “I have my basic rotorcraft ticket finally,” Carly admitted. “But not much more. Emily always handled everything. I’m really in this seat because it gives me the very best view of the fire. I only got my ticket in case of emergencies, so please don’t have one. We’re picking up Steve’s gear on the far side of the bunkhouse.” Carly slipped it all out in one breath. She was a softer version of the Queen Bi—no, that didn’t fit anymore.

  Emily Beale was the Queen…Bee. How hard had that been for her to relinquish her helicopter just now? And…

  Robin laughed aloud as she shut off the APU and finished the Engine Run-Up list.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. Soon the high-pitched whine of the Firehawk’s twin turboshaft engines overwhelmed the cockpit. They both pulled on headsets.

  As soon as the intercom was live, Carly repeated her question.

  Robin could only shake her head again in wonder. “I just realized the seat I landed in.”

  “Emily’s.” There was both reverence and doubt in Carly’s tone, and it didn’t take a genius to determine which part was allocated to Robin.

  She understood now.

  Emily clearly ruled the hive that was MHA’s helicopter pilots, no matter that her husband was the outfit’s boss. And now that Robin was in Emily’s seat, she was going to have to figure out what to do about that. She’d led plenty of multi-aircraft flights in the Guard, so it shouldn’t be a real problem.

  Robin looked up and down the row. The other six helicopters were ranged to either side of hers. They all appeared finished with their preparations—rotors were turning above all of the birds. They each shot a thumbs-up to show they were ready. There had been none of the arrogant swagger that most National Guard pilots displayed, used to cow those around them, but neither was there the disorder she’d always observed among civilians. MHA pilots were organized and well practiced and had displayed no overt signs of ego.

  Mickey had shown plenty of interest and enough ego to think she’d simply swoon over him. But he had carried none of it to the line that she’d seen.

  Robin thought through the hundreds of pilots she’d served with at the AANG. Those who were the very best rarely bothered with ego. They were a cut above and knew it. They didn’t need to flaunt it. Was all MHA at that level? Was Mickey Hamilton? If so, the summer was looking even better if possible.

  That had been one of the big challenges for Robin in the AANG. When you deployed into a war, your crew and your flight turned into a cohesive team so interdependent that an injury felt personal and a loss of personnel was a guilt trip from hell for not being the one to go down instead.

  Then, back stateside, weekend warriors were always trying to one-up each other, and the tight camaraderie that she’d so depended on in theater slowly dissolved. It ultimately shattered under the departure of those who had served overseas and the arrival of those who didn’t have a damned clue.

  MHA was the first time she’d seen a civilian team that felt like a team, rather than a clusterfuck of colliding egos.

  The three planes had finished their run-up and taxied to the far end of the grass runway. The Sherpa and DC-3, their bellies full of smokejumpers, roared by the line of helicopters and wallowed aloft. The King Air followed close on its tail with Mark Henderson at the controls.

  Directly across the narrow runway from her Firehawk, Robin could see Emily Beale standing at the base of the radio tower, holding her daughter’s hand and waving at the twin-engine plane taking her husband aloft.

  Now Robin understood the look she’d seen on Emily’s face the moment she’d turned away from issuing her final instructions to Robin. It was the look of a woman left behind.

  She wouldn’t be for long. Robin was willing to bet good money that Emily would set records for returning to the flight line after she delivered, but still, the sadness struck at her heart.

  Well, Robin was the one here now, and she was going to make the most of it while she could.

  Over the radio, Robin cleared with a gruff guy named TJ in the field’s small tower and was first aloft. He sounded like someone else sorry to be left behind.

  Vern in Firehawk Three cleared aloft next to fetch his wife-mechanic’s trailer. He’d be carrying it on a long line. Everyone else still sat on the ground while he and Robin picked up their gear.

  She could feel Mickey’s eyes tracking her across the field.

  Robin was rarely self-conscious about her flying skills. When QB Beale had been critiquing them had been an exception.

  With Mickey tracking her from the cockpit of this Twin 212, she was aware of the tiniest variations from an ideal flight path. She was flying a couple hundred feet across a field, for crying out loud.

  She did her best to shake off the feeling, but it followed her anyway.

  * * *


  Mickey had eyes for nothing else as Firehawk One lifted from the line and shuffled across the field to pick up Steve’s drone equipment. He’d watched Emily do the same thing every time there was a fire that couldn’t be fought from right here at the base camp.

  Robin made the flight completely differently. She flew like she moved, with power and grace.

  And he still wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

  Emily Beale always flew the most perfect, most efficient path. You could feel her control and confidence in the slightest maneuver, which in turn instilled it throughout the team.

  Robin flew well enough…but it was still somehow wrong.

  He tried not to fault her for not being Emily Beale, but it was hard.

  The Leavenworth flight called for clearance and headed aloft.

  “Good luck, guys,” Mickey sent over the radio.

  They rocked side to side as a wave good-bye and headed northeast. Bruce in the lead with his Twin 212 and the Number Two mechanic beside him. Vanessa and Gordon side by side in his wake in the little MD500s.

  “Best of luck, buddy.” Mickey didn’t hit the transmit switch as he sent a good thought aloft with Gordon.

  Then he turned his attention back to Robin in Firehawk One.

  It might feel wrong to have her in the air, but that wasn’t her fault; she was just the unknown.

  But on the ground, there wasn’t a single thing wrong with her.

  His twin T400 engines were at full roar, his two-bladed rotor was pounding the air. He was so ready for this fire season to kick off.

  Yeah, he’d get over Robin being in Firehawk One fast enough.

  * * *

  Robin hovered to the farside of the runway, around the back side of the scattered buildings, and landed lightly. Steve, the handsome drone pilot with the bad limp, slid several cases—each two yards long and a half yard square—into her Firehawk’s cargo bay. They must be the drones themselves. She picked up the hook on his drone’s launcher, about the size of a small fishing boat trailer, and he climbed aboard.