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  “It would have been the right call on the head, but it was a waste of water on dousing the flank. Try one point of coverage for each ten feet of flame height above the treetops. Make it a Four on the next run; we could have used the extra hundred feet of line.”

  “She’s uncanny,” Janet observed after they did that next run. That wasn’t a formula Ripley had ever heard before and it wasn’t bad.

  “You’ve got no idea!” Gordon assured them. “I think she came out of the psy-corp; you know, the mind readers that the military swears they don’t have.”

  Ripley kept listening and wondered if he wasn’t more rather than less accurate. Emily often seemed to know what the pilot was thinking long before the pilot did.

  When it was time to refuel, Gordon guided them back to Mount Hood Aviation’s base.

  The grass runway was perched at four thousand feet up the side of the dormant volcano. Mount Hood towered eleven thousand feet in the air and was glacier-capped. The base itself wasn’t much to talk about. The east side of the north-south strip was a solid mass of classic Oregon forest—Douglas fir, larch, and spruce crowded shoulder-to-shoulder and much of it towering a hundred feet or more. Much of the Doug fir cracked two hundred. Unlike the area they were firefighting in, twenty miles away and three thousand feet lower, this was old forest.

  The road down the mountain lay to the west. There was a parking lot crowded with typical firefighter vehicles: a few very hot sports cars, several beater vehicles, and a lot of battered pickups. There were a trio of big buildings that had definitely seen better days, and a two-story wooden, fire lookout-style tower overlooking the field.

  “Land over by the fuel and service trucks,” Gordon said. They were parked close by the base of the tower.

  “Place doesn’t look like much,” Ripley noted the green tinge growing on the north side of buildings as she settled Diana Prince down onto the field.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “It isn’t any better inside. It was a boys’ camp for decades. Then abandoned for a while.”

  “That must be when it got its homey feel.”

  “Exactly,” she could hear the smile in Gordon’s voice. “Mount Hood Aviation turned it into a smokejumper base several decades back, and the helos about a decade ago. Until Mark and Emily came along, they were known for their smokies and Carly, the best fire behavior analyst anywhere.”

  “Now you’re known for being the top heli-aviation firefighting team running.” Rough camps didn’t faze her. Helispots were as often as not in some farmer’s field or carved into a meadow; easy accommodations were often scarce near wildfires.

  Gordon didn’t even bother acknowledging. He must take it for granted. Arrogance or just acknowledgement of fact? Ripley couldn’t tell.

  A slender Asian woman walked up to the cockpit’s aft-facing door as the fuel driver clipped on the grounding wire and began fueling the bird.

  Ripley clambered out of her seat and almost tripped over Gordon.

  “Sorry,” he opened the rear door and climbed down to make way for her. His one-piece flightsuit made of tan, fire-resistant Nomex fit him well. He wasn’t powerfully built, but there wasn’t a wasted ounce anywhere on him either. The butt of his flightsuit was the only part that hadn’t dried out. She resisted the moment.

  Janet didn’t. “Crapped your pants something awful, flyboy.”

  Gordon slapped a hand against his backside, then pulled it away and shook it. “Wetter on the inside.”

  Ripley kept her smile to herself, as well as any comments about how nicely it clung to him.

  When she climbed down beside him, she was surprised that he was only a few inches taller than she was. He had seemed bigger somehow after surviving what he did and doing it so well. Standing beside her, he was more of a…comfortable size.

  “Hi, I’m Brenna,” the Asian woman held out her hand. She had a strong handshake and enough energy in her lean frame to make Ripley wonder how she held it in—it practically vibrated off her. “Need anything special, air filters okay and so on?” She shouted over the high whine of the turboshafts, still loud despite Brad throttling them all the way down to idle.

  “I have my own crew chief,” she waved Janet down to the field grass. “She takes care of my aircraft.”

  “Perfect!” Brenna wasn’t the least put off. “Frankly, Denise and I are Airframe and Powerplant certified, but we only just got our Erickson training last week. Denise has it down, of course, because she’s totally awesome, but it’s something I wouldn’t want to depend on just me right out of the chute—you know what I mean. Hi,” she shook Janet’s hand as she reached the ground but never gave her a chance to speak, “you need anything, I’m your gal. Denise is six months pregnant and wants me fully up to speed on your aircraft before she has to stand down.” And with that she was gone around the front the helicopter.

  Ripley didn’t need to signal Janet to follow Brenna.

  “She any good?” Ripley asked Gordon.

  “If she hadn’t been, Denise would have beaten her into shape faster than a dented skin panel.” He patted a metal panel of her helicopter’s hull to make his point. “And there aren’t any mechanics out there as good as Denise.”

  Again, that sound of utter worship. Either all of the women in Mount Hood Aviation were close relatives of Supergirl, or Gordon thought all women were fantastic. If it was the second, then it made Gordon sound like a charming, if naive goof. If it was the first, maybe Ripley should hightail it back to Medford before she had the chance of being found out.

  “Well,” Ripley waved toward the old camp buildings, which did have a comfortable, lived-in feel despite their age. “Here you are, safe and sound.”

  “I’d like to keep riding along, if you don’t mind. Don’t have anything else to do and I hate to miss a fire. Also, I’m used to flying solo and it’s interesting to watch the different dynamics of a full crew.”

  Brenna zipped by with Janet in tow. The two women were both talking a mile a minute, and Ripley understood maybe one word in four. She knew a lot about the helicopters she flew, but mechanic-ese was a language of its own, far stranger than the Elizabethan English of Shakespeare or the merry musicals of Gilbert and Sullivan—which she’d heard since birth, and probably before. It was a vote of confidence on Brenna’s skills that she spoke it so fluently.

  And Gordon talked “pilot” just as clearly. Ripley could judge his skills by what he did and didn’t say. For being non-military (for that much was obvious), his skill level was probably about the same as hers. He was a good match for her.

  And what the hell are you thinking, Rip? A good match for what? For…two pilots flying in the same outfit. That’s what. He’d rallied after a near-death experience, which she knew was damn hard to do. That was very easy to respect as well.

  Gordon stood at ease, awaiting her decision. He acted as if he’d be fine with whatever she said. Just happy to be here, ma’am. His accent definitely had some cowboy in it. Not her own Oklahoma, more Colorado or maybe even Wyoming. She was half tempted to leave him on the ground to see how he reacted. Sounded kind of bitch manipulative, which answered that question for her.

  The next time Janet zipped by, Ripley told her to rig the extra jump seat.

  Maybe Gordon should have stayed behind. At first he’d thought Ripley was distracting in profile. Standing next to her on the ground had revealed much more to admire. Even the heavy flightsuit couldn’t mask her fine figure. She was neither delicate like Vanessa nor powerful like Robin. She wasn’t Denise-short or Emily-tall. She was like the best of each, right in the green on the engine readout.

  He didn’t even know her last name yet! If he was looking to get all stupid about a woman, he’d long since learned that the best answer for him was distance. A lot of it.

  Instead, he was now sitting in the jump seat, tight in between Diana Prince’s pilot’s and copilot’s seats and just a foot aft. It offered him a magnificent view forward. An easy glance over his shoulde
r and he could watch Janet and the water drop through the predominately clear rear wall of the Aircrane’s odd, chopped-off cockpit.

  It also gave him an over-the-shoulder view of Ripley from a foot away. She flew much the way it had made him feel to stand beside her. “Careful” and “steady” emanated from her. The Aircrane never felt as if it was hurrying under her control, but on drop after drop he came to appreciate her near perfect efficiency. No wasted motion. No wasted energy. The rocksteady flight of the whole operation—even the Firehawks looked flighty compared to the Aircrane’s staid presence.

  “Why is Emily speaking less to me than to others?” Ripley asked as they were once again skimming water off the lake. “Is it because I’m the newbie?”

  “No,” Gordon thought about it. “She doesn’t play favorites with anyone. In fact, we’ve checked among ourselves and we’re each and every one fairly convinced that she has it in for us personally. Maybe you’re just that good. Did you ever consider that?”

  Ripley didn’t answer and it was hard to read her expression when all he could see around the edge of her helmet was the outer half inch of nose, cheek, and chin, and a fall of luxuriant black hair that he kept wanting to touch.

  “Nope,” she finally said after lifting off the end of the lake and swinging back toward the fire. “Not buying it. Come up with another reason.”

  “Because she’s preparing you to be inducted into the International League of Oddly Amazing Damsel Fire Pilots. Which is LOAD-FiPs for short.”

  “So you’re calling me odd.” Then she started working on the radio with the smokie team holding the outside line. They had a D-9 dozer cutting a new firebreak line, and he could see that it had strayed a little too close to the flames. Ripley swung the Diana Prince in to cool down the area.

  No, he’d been calling her amazing, but couldn’t quite bring himself to say it directly. It was obvious why Emily wasn’t critiquing her. She fit her craft perfectly. Emily had spent hours and hours with each pilot, improving their skills. At first he’d thought she was going to throw him out of the outfit for being hopeless, but she hadn’t. Instead she’d kept after him, not until he was merely a better pilot, but rather until his skills matched his aircraft and he was getting the maximum potential out of the MD 530.

  Ripley was already doing that.

  She was a woman designed to sweep all others away because she was so perfectly…what? Herself. He didn’t even know her, but somehow he knew it was true. It was a remarkably attractive trait, beyond the dark eyes and barely lighter skin.

  Again he looked at that exposed half inch of her profile. It amused him that his own dad would whip his behind but good for even looking at a black woman. And she probably had a big handsome boyfriend like Mark Henderson who would wipe the skies with him for even looking.

  So, he forced his attention back to the fire.

  “Well, sports fans,” Gordon spoke up over the intercom to distract himself. “In the right corner, we have the home team. Six hundred and fifty acres of the sweetest blaze you can imagine. It started as a little campfire minding its own business, but then it saw its chance this morning to become a big contender. In the fire world, that kind of opportunity only comes along once in a lifetime, and this sparky little flame made its bid for immortality in the annals of fire history despite growing up in such a remote area.”

  He heard a giggle, but it didn’t sound like Ripley.

  He glanced back and Janet was giggling.

  Brad picked up the theme, “The visiting team started the game two hundred acres already engulfed…”

  “…before the home team was even called,” Janet picked up. “But despite their late start, bets are heavy in favor of the visiting squad.”

  “The smokies and helos of Mount Hood Aviation have an unbroken win-loss record,” Gordon put in. “Going back—”

  “Until,” Janet cut him off, “someone dumped a helicopter in the lake.”

  “It was hot,” Gordon declared in his own defense and pointed out a log in the water to make sure Ripley saw it and wouldn’t clip it with her snorkel’s boom. “I needed a swim.”

  Ripley nodded and stayed well clear of both the log and the conversation.

  “One for the home team,” Brad declared.

  “But…” Gordon drew it out to get back control of his story. “The fire wasn’t ready for the ringer that MHA had warming up in the bull pen.”

  “Is this boxing or baseball?” Ripley’s tone was as dry as the forest.

  “Football,” Brad announced.

  “Badminton,” Janet declared.

  “Firefighting MHA style,” Gordon shut them down. “And that’s exactly why Emily isn’t messing with you. Bringing in a ringer, you’ve got to let them do what they do best.”

  “Oorah!” Brad declared.

  “You were never a Marine,” Ripley corrected him.

  And to distract himself from just how fine this particular ringer was, Gordon continued the play-by-play of his mangled sports commentary as they chased the fire back and forth over the hillside.

  It was late afternoon by the time the fire was dead enough to turn over to the engine crews. The smokejumpers stayed behind to help complete the containment. They’d only lost one structure…and it was so selective that it would be hard to prove that it wasn’t intentional on MHA’s part.

  A single spark found its way to the outermost garage of the nearby community. It had lodged in a large woodpile stacked under the garage’s eaves, always a bad idea, and two loads of water dumped by Vanessa’s MD 530 hadn’t been able to save it. The kicker was that the garage had belonged to the drone pilot. He’d been busy riding to jail for punching the policeman when he was informed that there would be a $1.3 million dollar bill for a new MD 530 helicopter. That was on top of the $27,500 FAA fine for violating the TFR by flying a drone into the Temporary Flight Restrictions airspace of a wildfire. Now he needed a new garage and pickup as well.

  “Where should I put it?” It took Gordon a moment to understand Ripley was asking him. They had reached the base while his mind had wandered off.

  “Well, my spot isn’t being used.”

  “So nice of you to trash a helicopter to open it up for me.”

  “Least I could do to welcome the newest lady to the team.”

  Ripley laughed easily. “You’re just that kind of a thoughtful guy.”

  Gordon shrugged and then realized she wouldn’t be able to see that. “I suppose so.” Or he’d at least like her to think so. “See the big oak just north of midfield? Park there with your rotor toward the tree.”

  She slid easily into place, and took up a huge amount of space.

  When Vanessa came in moments later, she had to shuffle a couple dozen meters farther downfield than usual as the Aircrane’s rotor was over three times bigger than his MD’s had been.

  Gordon glanced side to side from the strange perspective. He sat a story in the air. In his MD, he had sat down into the bird, not climbed up into it like the Aircrane. Now, in one direction he looked down on the top of Vanessa’s slowing rotor disk and Mickey’s Twin 212 wasn’t that much bigger.

  In the other direction, the three Firehawks were dropping down to the field. Even with the taller landing gear necessary to accommodate the underslung belly tanks, he still looked down at them, his head still a little higher than their rotor disks. At the far end of the lineup, the two smokejumper delivery planes had been parked hours ago. Now they looked normal instead of oversized.

  Mark was, as always, the last out of the sky. He landed the Beech King Air twin-engine spotter plane without even a bump. Again Gordon was looking down at him.

  It was an uncomfortable perspective.

  “Thanks for the ride, Captain Vaughan,” he’d spotted her name on the log book that Brad was filling out. “But I’ll stick with my little MD in the future.”

  “Is my Diana Prince too much machine for you?”

  No, he thought. But pilot Wonder Woman definitely w
as. He was thinking any number of inappropriate thoughts about the pretty pilot with the coffee-colored skin. “Let’s just say that it’s a very different view of the fire. I’m more of a spot fire kind of guy. I leave the main fire to you and the Firehawks.”

  “Chicken!” Brad declared as Janet made “Buck-buck-bu-caw!” noises.

  “You’re always welcome back, Gordon,” Ripley Vaughan turned and smiled at him, “whenever you want to try a grown-up helicopter again.” Gordon could only manage a nod because she had one hell of a nice smile.

  “Uh, thanks.” It was lame, but it was all he could think to say. Mr. Hopeless-around-women Finchley was coming to the fore and he finally took his own advice to get some distance before he could screw things up.

  Even though there wasn’t anything going on to screw up, he reminded himself.

  He slipped out of the jump seat, folded it aside, and headed out of the helo fast.

  When he stepped to the ground, it was like a hard jolt. This had been his parking spot for three fire seasons. Now…it wasn’t. He had no helicopter. MHA didn’t have an open seat anywhere else either. No copilot slots either. When Robin had joined the team at the start of the season, she’d taken over Emily’s seat aboard Firehawk Oh-one. Now even Emily Beale was flying copilot for others.

  Everyone on the field had a purpose: pilots, mechanics, even the cooks. Which left Gordon nowhere.

  He didn’t want to leave here. These were his friends. This was family! He was totally fu—

  “Gordon!” Vanessa raced over from her parked and shutdown MD. She didn’t pause until she had her arms around him.

  He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. Thank god for a friend. With her holding him tightly, all of the day’s fears exploded to life.

  Falling out of the sky.

  Plunging through fire to crash into the lake.

  The sea snorkel slicing straight toward him.

  And now the fear that, with no ride, he’d end up having to look elsewhere for a new contract. That there’d be no place for him here at Mount Hood Aviation. What would he do without these people?