Chapter 2
Colton
Colton “Sky King” Davis had flown air tankers for fifteen years. He’d never heard an engine make this sound, and he didn’t like it.
Ahead of him, Joe Pointer’s King Air carved through the hazy smoke, scouting the terrain like he had on a hundred fire runs with Colton. Pointer had spent two decades flying Bird Dog missions for air tankers, and Colton trusted his instincts as much as his own instruments.
“Tanker One-Eight-Zero, your drop is at two o’clock. I’ll smoke the target,” radioed Pointer, in his unflappable calm. “Winds out of the southwest at ten, gusting at fifteen. Clean approach. Make it happen, Cap’n.”
“Copy, Bird Dog. Beginning approach.”
The Dash 8-400AT air tanker normally hummed with reliable power, both turboprops singing in perfect harmony.
But here at two thousand feet above the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest with twenty-five hundred gallons of fire retardant, the number two engine coughed a dry, rhythmic knock that vibrated through the floorboards.
Fuel pressure surged, then sagged. The turbine temperature needle crept toward the red, and the engine’s smooth whine broke into a grinding stutter that vibrated Colton’s teeth.
“Come on, Rosie, knock it the hell off,” he muttered, as if the tanker might lose the attitude and listen like a human. Talking to airplanes was a habit he’d never bothered to break. He’d named his tanker after his mother.
Colton scanned his instruments. The engine coughed, then squealed, shooting ice through his veins.
Pointer’s voice cut into his headset. “Tanker One-Eight-Zero, your number two is trailing heavy black smoke. Abort the drop. Repeat, abort the drop!”
“I’m on it.” Colton hauled back on the yoke, abandoning the run. He keyed the mic. “Air Attack, Tanker One-Eight-Zero. Engine failure on number two. Feathering now.”
“Copy, Tanker One-Eight-Zero. Position?”
“Five miles northwest of the Copper Creek Fire, altitude two thousand and losing.” He thumbed the feather button.
Number two’s blades rotated edge-on to the slipstream, sliding through the wind instead of fighting it.
The drag bled off. He fed throttle to number one and trimmed the rudder to counter the yaw.
The plane lurched sideways as the number two sputtered, yawing hard into the dead engine.
“Way to bite the dust, Rosie. Shit!” hissed Colton. The controls fought him like a panicked animal as the tanker yawed toward the dead engine. With a full load of Phos-Chek, the tanker flew like a brick on one wing.
Harvey, his reliable mechanic, had completed the maintenance check that morning and promised the engines sounded smooth as purring kittens.
Now, one sounded more like a drunk toad than a kitten.
“Tanker One-Eight-Zero, I’m on your six,” Ace McGillicutty cut in on the radio from Tanker One-Seven-Five. “I see smoke from your number two. You need to set her down, buddy.”
Colton peered at the terrain below. Trees, trees, and more trees.
“Why the hell does Montana have all these mother-flipping trees?” he growled.
Finally, a meadow opened ahead, about a thousand yards long. A cargo box sat near the tree line, with gear laid out beside it. Must be the smokejumpers the Twin Otter had dropped earlier.
“Dumping my load and setting her down in a meadow,” replied Colton. The meadow fell short of a normal landing distance.
Pointer’s King Air swept over the meadow in a low pass. “I see your landing zone, One-Eight-Zero. You have a thousand yards, uneven terrain with trees on all sides. Smokejumper gear is on the ground. You have people down there.”
“Right. I see them.” He had his hands full getting this aircraft to the ground in one piece.
“I’ll orbit overhead and relay your position,” said Pointer. “Air Attack, it’s Bird Dog. Tanker One-Eight-Zero is making an emergency landing. Coordinates to follow.” He rattled off the numbers while Colton wrestled his crippled tanker toward the meadow.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.” Colton’s grip locked on the yoke. Was this fuel contamination? The same fuel truck had topped off his plane and Ace’s that morning.
“Ace, check your fuel pressure,” he barked into the radio.
Ace’s transmission cut to static, then his voice came back high and tight. “Pressure’s all over the place. Both engines are—”
Pointer cut in. “Tanker One-Seven-Five, you’re trailing heavy smoke from both engines. Better set her down, Ace.”
The distinctive sound of catastrophic engine failure tore through the radio. Colton’s stomach bottomed out.
“Ace! Dump your load! Now!”
Through his side window, Colton glimpsed Ace’s tanker trailing black smoke, nose dipping, while slurry streamed from the tanker in a steep descent.
Pointer circled in a tight orbit above, relaying coordinates to Air Attack, who flew above all of it. His steady drawl held chaos together while two tanker pilots fought to survive.
“Tanker One-Eight-Zero, focus on your landing,” radioed Pointer. “I have a visual on One-Seven-Five. Rescue is en route. Get your bird down safe, Colt.”
“What do you think I’m tryin’ to do?” he muttered.
The meadow rushed up too fast, too steep. “TERRAIN, TERRAIN. PULL UP, PULL UP,” droned the onboard computer.
Colton tugged on the yoke, bleeding off speed as the stall warning horn blared and the tanker shuddered. The hydraulics died along with the engine’s failure, and the ground rushed at him, fast and unforgiving.
“Come on, Rosie, you can do this!” he urged the tanker.
The landing gear slammed down, bounced, and hit again. The plane slewed sideways, and for one alarming moment, the tail threatened to trade places with the nose. No way would Colton allow that to happen. The landing gear might snap, maybe shear off a wing, or cartwheel him into ruptured fuel tanks.
Colton stood on the rudder pedals, fighting to keep the nose straight.
His hand dropped to the power levers and hauled them back, instinct firing even though he was deadstick, no thrust left to reverse.
He slammed his feet on the brakes with all his strength.
The anti-skid system knocked around beneath his feet.
A hundred yards. Fifty. Twenty. The plane shuddered to a stop with ten yards to spare.
Colton breathed relief for half a second when the thunderous crash of Ace’s tanker registered from beyond the tree line.
“Ace!” He ripped off his harness, grasped the fire extinguisher behind his seat, and bolted from the cockpit. Adrenaline turned his legs to jelly, and they buckled when he hit the ground. He pushed himself to his feet and ran like hell toward his buddy’s plane.
Smoke reached above the trees three hundred yards away. Not the white smoke of a fire, but black, oily smoke. Aviation fuel.
Colton crashed through the underbrush, branches tearing at his Nomex flight suit as he stumbled over the uneven ground.
Had the motherfucking fuel been contaminated? Accident? Sabotage?
Didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered: his best friend.
He burst from the trees to the smoking, twisted remains of Tanker One-Seven-Five, smoldering ahead of him. The plane had clipped the trees and sheared off one wing. The fuselage had crumpled, only partially intact. Flames licked at the remaining wing, fuel leaking from ruptured tanks.
“Shitdamn!” Colton had to get him out of there. “Ace!”
He sprinted toward the cockpit and skidded to a stop.
A tall blonde woman in tan smokejumper gear fought the jammed cockpit door, while a petite fellow jumper wrestled the co-pilot’s door on the opposite side.
Colton caught up with the smokejumper, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes locked as they both strained to pull the door open.
“On three,” she instructed. “One, two, three!”
They both heaved. The door shrieked but didn’t budge.
“Fire’s spreading,” called out the smaller, dark-haired jumper. “We have to get him out before this whole thing goes up.”
Colton seized a rock and smashed the door mechanism. The woman jammed a thick branch into the frame as a lever. On three, they leaned into it with everything they had, and the door gave way with a grinding pop.
Ace slumped over the controls, blood running from a gash above his eye. Unconscious but breathing.
“I’ve got him,” said Colton, reaching for the harness release.
“Too heavy for one person,” said the woman, climbing into the cockpit. “You grab hold of one end and I’ll get the other. Lift when I say.”
He didn’t argue. This woman knew her stuff.
They worked in tandem; she supported Ace’s head and shoulders while Colton freed his legs from the rudder pedals.
Perspiration dotted Colton’s face as an image of a previous crash hit him.
Another fire, another twisted cockpit. The one that still haunted him.
“Now!” ordered the woman.
They hauled Ace out, the heat from the burning wing searing the hair on Colton’s arms. He shouldn’t have rolled up his sleeves in this heat.
Colton took hold of Ace’s upper body as the smokejumpers each grabbed a leg. Together they hurried him from the plane, half jogging as they carried him toward safety.
They made it fifty yards when the fuel tanks exploded. The concussive blast slammed into their backs, and debris whistled overhead, clipping the branches above them.
Colton covered Ace’s upper body with his as the heat wave flashed over them. He turned his head to see the smaller smokejumper shielding the rest of Ace from the waist down.
“We need to get farther away.” The light-haired woman checked Ace’s pulse. “Kylie, get the medical kit from our gear.”
The dark-haired jumper sprinted toward the meadow for the cargo box.
“You landed in our jump spot,” said the taller woman as she examined Ace’s injuries. “Observed your engine smoking on the way down. Glad you got down safely.”
“We don’t normally go crashin’ into mountain meadows,” answered Colton.
A half smile crossed her face. “It added excitement to our day, for sure.”
Kylie returned with the kit and a backboard. “I radioed the IC, and he’s sending a helicopter. ETA in twenty minutes.”
Colton helped the two jumpers strap Ace to the backboard Kylie had retrieved from their cargo box. The taller woman moved with the surefooted speed of someone trained in backcountry trauma.
“Are you a paramedic?” he asked.
“I have an EMT certification.” She unzipped Ace’s flight suit to loosen his clothing. “Two tankers failing the same morning. That’s no coincidence.”
“Has to be contaminated fuel,” Colton said through gritted teeth as they worked to make his buddy comfortable. “Both planes were filled by the same fuel truck this morning.”
She stilled. “Bad fuel from the Bowman Airfield tanks?”
Colton blew out a heavy sigh. “That’s the million-dollar question.”
“Jeez, our Twin Otter refueled there this morning. I’ll have to tell Rooster, our jump boss.”
Ace groaned, his lids fluttering open. “Did I . . . did I stick the landing?”
“Like a lawn dart, buddy.” Relief flooded through Colton. If Ace cracked jokes, his brain was intact.
“I see an angel,” mumbled Ace, his dilated pupils drifting to Kylie. “A pretty one. Am I dead? Are you dead?” he asked Colton, dazed.
“Not yet,” replied Kylie. “You’ll wish you were when your concussion headache kicks in.”
“Had to put my bird down here, too,” said Colton. “One of my engines acted up. Only I didn’t crash like you did.”
“Glad you didn’t die. Glad I didn’t die, too,” muttered Ace, his head wobbling. “Dammit, I’ll be grounded now.”
The distant thrum of helicopter rotors grew louder. Colton and the taller jumper straightened simultaneously, finding themselves inches apart for a fleeting moment.
“Uh, thank you for getting to Ace first.” He took a step back, stumbling over his words.
“It’s what we all do, right?” she said matter-of-factly. “Next time you decide to drop in, call ahead. We’ll clear a better landing zone.”
“Next time, I’ll try to emergency-land more conveniently.” Colton gave her a wide smile, and she returned one of her own.
She extended a gloved hand. “Deanna Brooks. Smokejumper out of McCall.”
“Colton Davis. Tanker pilot out of Helena. My informal call sign is Sky King.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Sky King, from that 1950s TV show? My dad watched it as a kid,” she said, laughing. “He said experienced pilots gained their skills through hands-on flying, not by staring at computer screens.”
“Your dad sounds like a smart man,” said Colton.
“Past tense.” Deanna looked away. “He crashed his Cessna and didn’t make it.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He understood why she’d rushed toward Ace’s plane. Something they had in common. He resisted the urge to dig further.
The handheld radio clipped to his flight suit squawked. “Tanker One-Eight-Zero, this is Air Attack. Status report?”
He thumbed the mic. “Tanker One-Eight-Zero is grounded but intact. Tanker One-Seven-Five is a loss. Thanks for sending the helo. We’re about to board.” He weighed the next part. “Going to need the NTSB. I suspect fuel contamination on both aircraft.”
“Copy that. Report to Air Ops at the fire base soon as you can. We’ll send mechanics to check out your tanker.”
Kylie raised a hand to shade her eyes. “Smoke columns east of us. What now, boss?”
Deanna scrutinized the distant flames as the wind carried the scent of scorched pine off the ridge. “We still have a fire to fight.”
“Without air support, you’ll have your hands full,” said Colton.
“Then you better find us another tanker.” A hint of a smile lifted the corner of Deanna’s mouth as the evacuation helicopter landed a short distance away.
Rotor wash tore Deanna’s bun loose and her hair caught the afternoon sun, glinting it gold. Colton forced his focus back to Ace on the field litter as paramedics slid him onto their gurney.
Deanna angled closer to Colton to talk over the rotors. “Are you hitching a ride?”
He nodded. “Got to report to Air Ops. Mechanics are on their way. No need to stick around.”
“We’ll keep an eye on it until then,” she shouted with a thumbs-up.
“Thanks. Appreciate you helpin’ with Ace,” he shouted back. “Stay safe out here.”
She dipped a nod, and Colton ducked under the spinning rotors and boarded.
“Hey, Sky King.” Ace’s voice reached him over the rotor noise. “You owe me a beer. Many, many beers. I followed you into mechanical failure.”
“Other way around, buddy. You owe me for havin’ those hot smokejumpers on hand to save your sorry ass.” Colton swung into a seat and buckled in.
The chopper lifted. Through a side window, Colton waved, and Deanna and Kylie waved back.
As an aerial firefighter, he knew it was only a matter of time before he crossed paths again with the jumpers.
He’d bet his life on it.