Chapter 15 Call to Arms
Call to Arms
The Haven's grand ballroom has never served a purpose more distant from its design.
Where crystal chandeliers usually illuminate elegant gatherings, they now cast harsh light over maps spread across banquet tables pushed together in a makeshift command center.
The air tastes of smoke that clings to everyone's clothing, mixing with fear and determination in equal measure.
My throat burns with each breath, a constant reminder of the disaster pressing against our town's borders.
Scout lies beneath the main table, her chin resting across my boots as I address the assembled crowd. She's been my shadow since we emerged from the tunnels, refusing to leave my side even in this crowded, chaotic space.
Her brown eyes track every movement in the room, ears swiveling toward radio chatter and urgent conversations. The stress radiating from every person here affects her too—I can feel the tension in her body where she presses against my legs, offering comfort while drawing it in return.
Every chair is filled. Every face is grim.
Somewhere out there, Mac fights alongside his team on the front lines, facing the engineered inferno head-on. The knowledge sits in my chest like a weight, worry threading through every decision I make here in relative safety.
I stand at the head of the main table, trying to channel the authority Mac displayed before he left for the front lines.
Maps ready, pulse still racing from our tunnel rescue and the passionate goodbye that followed.
The memory of his hands on my skin, his promise to find me when this is over, grounds me even as my nerves sing with tension about where he is now, what he's facing out there with Parker and his team.
"The situation is critical." I don't waste time with preambles; I echo Mac's direct approach.
My voice carries through the room, steadier than I expect despite everything we've faced.
"We're facing a fire unlike anything these mountains have seen in recorded history.
Captain Sullivan and his hotshot crew are fighting the main blaze on the front lines, while we coordinate civilian evacuation and volunteer firefighting efforts. "
Lucas Reid, The Haven's owner, leans forward. The polished businessman looks haggard, expensive shirt wrinkled, usually perfect hair disheveled.
"What resources do we have for civilian operations?" he asks.
"Local fire services. Volunteer firefighters. Search and rescue teams." I gesture toward the assembled crowd, drawing strength from their determined faces. "And everyone in this room who knows these mountains."
Murmurs ripple through the assembled crowd—a cross-section of Angel's Peak's residents summoned for this emergency council. I spot familiar faces etched with worry throughout the ballroom.
Eleanor Morgan, her silver braids coiled regally atop her head, sits with her spine straight despite her age, her sharp eyes already calculating logistics.
Beside her, Hunter Morgan leans forward intently, flour still dusting his forearms from whatever he abandoned in his restaurant kitchen to be here.
Drs. Cole Blake and Tess Carrington cluster near the medical supply station, their trained eyes scanning the crowd for potential volunteers with relevant skills.
Jackson Hart, mountain rescue specialist and wilderness guide, studies the fire projection maps with the intensity of someone who's pulled bodies from burning mountains.
Caleb Donovan stands by the window with arms crossed, his forest ranger uniform wrinkled from hours on the fireline, watching smoke columns rise in the distance.
Lucas Reid paces near the windows, his usual corporate polish replaced by genuine concern as he calculates what resources The Haven can contribute.
Near the back, I spot Riley Bennett, the journalist who returned to cover Angel's Peak's revival, her notepad forgotten as she absorbs the gravity of our situation.
Ruth Fletcher, owner of The PickAxe bar, stands with her weathered hands clasped, having closed her establishment to be here. Beside her, Marianne Cox from Mountain Metalworks nods grimly—both women representing the artisan community that's helped transform our town.
Even Dominic Mercer from Silverleaf Vineyards has come down from his mountain vineyard, soil still under his fingernails from whatever harvest work he abandoned. His dog Merlot sits alert beside him, both of them radiating the same coiled tension.
The diversity of faces—business owners, artists, medical professionals, emergency responders, and longtime residents—reflects everything Angel's Peak has become. All of them now united by a single purpose: saving their home.
The chandelier light catches the dust motes floating through the air, tiny particles of ash that infiltrated even this sealed space. My skin feels gritty with it, the taste bitter on my tongue.
"What are you asking of us?" Eleanor's voice cuts through the whispers, direct as ever. Her hands rest steady on her walking stick, but I catch the slight tremor in her fingers—the only sign of the fear she won't let show.
I meet her gaze steadily, drawing on every ounce of authority Mac trusted me with. "Everything. Your knowledge. Your skills. Your hands." I gesture toward the map, the paper crinkling under the weight of our collective attention.
"This fire was deliberately engineered to cause maximum destruction. Captain Sullivan believes the ultimate target is the old Silver Creek mining complex, but the path there runs straight through Angel's Peak."
My stomach clenches at my own words. Someone wants my mountains to burn, wants my town reduced to ash for reasons I can't yet fathom.
Noah Morgan stands, the movement drawing all eyes. His chair scrapes against the polished floor—a sound too loud in the sudden quiet. As fire chief, his authority here is crucial in Mac's absence.
"For those who don't know, Captain Sullivan's team are elite firefighters specifically trained for wilderness blazes." Noah's respect for Mac is evident in his tone, but his voice carries the weight of someone who's seen what untrained volunteers can do in crisis situations.
"Jo coordinated a successful civilian rescue earlier today. If she says we need everyone, we need everyone."
"What's the strategy?" Jackson Hart's question comes sharp and precise, the voice of someone accustomed to life-or-death decisions in unforgiving terrain.
I step forward, feeling the weight of thirty pairs of eyes. The maps beneath my fingers feel familiar, comforting—years of work distilled into lines and symbols that could save or damn us all.
"The fire is using natural features to accelerate." I indicate the map's topography, my finger tracing the paths I've walked countless times. "Canyons acting as chimneys, ridgelines creating wind tunnels. We can't match its power, so we need to break its momentum."
Scout rises from her position under the table, moving to stand beside me as I trace routes on the map. Her presence draws a few glances from the assembled volunteers—several of whom know her reputation as a search and rescue dog.
When Jackson Hart nods approvingly at her, I realize they're not just seeing my expertise, but our partnership. The team that's already proven itself in today's rescue operations.
I trace a curved line across the map, the pencil marks showing elevation changes that most people couldn't read. But these people can. These are my neighbors, people who've spent their lives learning the mountain's moods.
"We create a containment line here, along this natural firebreak. The ridge drops nearly vertical on the north side—approximately two hundred feet of bare rock the fire can't easily jump."
"What about the access points?" Noah asks, already seeing the weakness. His pen hovers over his notepad, ready to capture every detail.
"Three valleys interrupt the ridge." I tap each location, feeling the weight of what I'm asking.
These gaps are natural funnels, places where wind and flame will converge with devastating force.
"These are our critical defense points. If we can hold these three gaps, we force the fire to climb the rock face, which will slow its advance significantly. "
"Captain Sullivan's team is handling the northern position—the most dangerous.
" I continue, my voice catching slightly as I think of Mac facing that hell. "Caleb and Jackson, I figure you’re the best to lead volunteer crews. Noah will get your crews set and lead the volunteers. I’ll coordinate the civilian evacuation. "
Noah studies the map intently, his weathered finger tracing distances. Jackson and Caleb join him. I can almost see them calculating personnel, equipment, the terrible mathematics of men against wildfire.
"That's nearly seven miles of containment line," Noah pulls at his chin. "We don't have enough personnel to cover it effectively."
"That's why we're here." I let my gaze sweep the room, meeting each face individually.
The chandelier light catches the determination in their eyes —the absolute conviction that makes people believe in the impossible.
"We need every able-bodied person who knows these mountains.
Guides, hunters, rangers—anyone who can safely navigate the terrain and follow directions under pressure. "
Jackson Hart, all lean muscle and contained energy, speaks up. "Mountain Rescue can contribute ten experienced guides, all with wildfire training."
"The lodge staff are at your disposal." Lucas Reid's offer comes as a surprise, given his usual corporate detachment. "We know the trails."
"I'll coordinate supply lines and base camp operations." Eleanor Morgan rises, commanding attention despite her diminutive stature. Her walking stick taps once against the floor—a sound like a gavel calling court to order. "The community center can serve as a staging area."