Chapter 8 Smoke Signals #2
"There's a small spring fifty yards south," I tell them, marking it on their field map. "The ridge above is unstable after last winter's freeze-thaw cycle. Don't climb higher without radio confirmation first."
Williams nods, laying out solar charging equipment. "How often do the winds shift here?"
"Afternoon thermals pick up around two. Expect sixty-degree directional changes until sunset." I scan the horizon, reading familiar weather patterns in the cloud formations. "Storm system moving in from the northwest. Probably hit by tomorrow evening."
"You can tell that just by looking?" Williams sounds impressed.
"The mountains talk if you know how to listen." My father’s words spill out from me; his mantra lives with me.
I check my watch, calculating our next leg. "That cloud formation over the western peak only appears when a low-pressure system is building behind it."
Mac finishes the communications check, nodding his satisfaction. "You're set. Check in every two hours. Report any movement immediately, but do not engage. Clear?"
"Crystal, Cap," Martinez confirms, already settling into observation position.
As we descend toward the next drop point, Mac keeps pace beside me. "That was good. They respect your expertise."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. "They'd better. Their lives might depend on it."
"You really can read the weather patterns that accurately?" There's genuine curiosity in his question.
"My father taught me." I duck under a low-hanging branch. "He used to say the mountains never lie, but they don't always speak plainly. You have to learn their language."
"Your father sounds like a wise man."
"He was." The past tense slips out before I can catch it.
Mac notices—of course he does—but doesn't push. Instead, he asks, "Were you always going to follow in his footsteps?"
"I never planned to." I navigate around a fallen log. "I was studying environmental science at CSU when he died. Heart attack on Widow's Peak. By the time another hiker found him, it was too late."
"I'm sorry."
"It was seven years ago." I keep my voice neutral, as if discussing a stranger instead of the man who taught me everything I know about these mountains. "Sheriff Donovan asked if I'd take over as safety coordinator temporarily. Temporary turned permanent."
"You're good at it." His observation carries no flattery, just a simple acknowledgment.
"I was better before." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
Mac's expression softens with understanding. "Before Sarah."
I nod once, not trusting my voice.
"What happened to her? After the accident."
"Multiple surgeries to minimize the scarring." I focus on a distant peak, memories rising unbidden. "Last I heard, she recovered, but is wheelchair bound for life. The family moved to Arizona afterward."
"Away from the mountains."
"Away from me." The truth of it still stings. "Can't blame them."
Mac is quiet for several paces, then says something unexpected. "You blame yourself enough for everyone."
The observation hits too close to home. I pick up the pace, putting distance between us as we approach the next ridgeline.
By midday, we've positioned four of the six teams. Each location I've chosen offers strategic advantages—natural cover, clear sightlines, proximity to water, and multiple escape routes. With each successful placement, the knot of anxiety in my chest loosens incrementally.
Maybe I can do this. Maybe the weight of responsibility won't crush me this time.
The fifth position proves more challenging. The original location I marked on the map has changed since my last visit—a recent rockslide altered the approach, making it too exposed for safety.
"We need an alternative," I tell Mac, studying the terrain. "There's a hunter's blind about half a mile north, but it won't give the same coverage of the southern approach."
Mac consults his GPS, frowning at the readings. "What about that ridgeline?" He points to a rocky outcropping just visible through the trees.
"Too exposed." I shake my head. "First place lightning would strike in a storm."
"Underground options?"
"There's an old mine shaft entrance nearby, but—"
"No." His refusal comes sharp and immediate, startling me with its intensity. "No underground positions."
Burke and Nguyen exchange glances but say nothing.
"It's stable," I counter, confused by his vehemence. "I've mapped it myself."
"No underground." Mac's voice carries an edge I've never heard before—something raw and final that brooks no argument. "Find another option."
The sudden shift in his demeanor raises questions, but his expression warns against asking them now. Instead, I scan the terrain, recalculating.
"There's a natural depression beyond that copse of aspens." I point to a barely visible dip in the landscape. "Good cover, decent sightlines. We'd need to clear some brush for optimal visibility, but it could work."
Mac studies the location, then nods curtly. "Show us."
As Burke and Nguyen follow me toward the new position, I catch Mac taking a deep breath, one hand pressed briefly against his sternum before dropping away. The gesture seems unconscious, almost like he's steadying himself.
The new position proves workable with minimal adjustments. As Burke and Nguyen set up their equipment, Mac performs a perimeter check, his earlier tension still evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.
When we leave them to continue to our final drop point, Mac maintains an uncharacteristic silence. I match his quiet, sensing whatever triggered his reaction isn't something he wants to discuss in the field.
The radio crackles to life, Parker's voice breaking through static. "Alpha Leader, this is Base. Come in."
Scout's ears perk forward at the radio static, her body tensing with the same alertness she shows before storms. She's always been sensitive to changes in atmospheric pressure, and her reaction tells me something significant is happening before Parker's words confirm it.
Mac unclips his radio. "Alpha Leader. Go ahead, Base."
"New hotspot reported near Lookout Point. Tourist called it in. Appears to be fresh, within the last hour."
My stomach drops. Lookout Point is crawling with day-hikers this time of year.
"Size?" Mac's voice turns clipped, professional.
"Small, currently contained to a fallen log and surrounding brush. Fire team en route, but we're detecting unusual ignition patterns. May be connected to our arsonist."
Mac's eyes meet mine, the unspoken question clear. Lookout Point is at least four miles from the pattern established by the previous fires—a significant deviation.
"Civilian presence?" he asks, already calculating.
"Heavy. Weekend hikers, a tourist group from the lodge. Sheriff's coordinating evacuation."
"Acknowledged. Diverting to Lookout Point. Have Rodriguez and Williams maintain their position; all other teams proceed as planned. Alpha Leader out." Mac clips the radio back to his belt, decision made. "Change of plans."