Chapter 4
Colton
The Precision Aviation hangar in Helena smelled of jet fuel and scorched metal. NTSB investigator Susan Marsh had set up her field office at a desk near the open bay door, and her meticulous attention to detail made Colton both grateful and impatient as he sat across from her.
Mechanics had patched the engine and flushed the fuel system enough to limp his bird out of the meadow. Precision wanted their own people to give his embattled tanker a full inspection.
Morning sun shone through the open hangar doors, highlighting the scorched rivets and streaks of hydraulic fluid as Marsh lifted documents from a briefcase.
“Someone spiked the fuel truck.” Marsh held up a vial containing a fuel sample. “They put sugar in the tank, enough to crystallize in the heat of the combustion chambers. Your engines basically caramelized from the inside out.”
The hangar stilled except for a wrench clanging on concrete and a compressor cycling on.
“How much?” Colton stared at the innocent-looking sample. A simple thing. A near-fatal one.
“About ten pounds. They dissolved it in water first, then mixed it into the fuel. Someone knew what they were doing.” Marsh made another note on her tablet. “This wasn’t vandalism or a prank. It was intended to bring down an aircraft.”
“Or intended to kill me and Ace.” He paused. “Both planes?”
“Yes, the same truck serviced both your plane and Ace’s. We’ve impounded it, but whoever did this left no prints on the fuel cap. And there’s no security footage of that part of the tarmac.”
Meant to bring an aircraft down?
The image surfaced unbidden: Ace pinned in the cockpit yesterday, blood at his temple, the burning wing twenty feet from his head.
The fuel tanks had blown ninety seconds after they’d carried him clear.
If Deanna’s jump squad hadn’t been in that meadow, Ace would have burned alive in a wreck someone engineered on purpose.
Colton dragged a hand through his hair. “I need to get airborne as soon as possible. Fires don’t wait for investigations.”
“That’s between you and your Air Attack supervisor.” Marsh closed her tablet.
“The Copper Creek Fire is threatening the small town of Anaconda.” He spoke more abruptly than he intended. “We’re down one tanker as it is. If I don’t fly, people lose homes. Maybe lives.”
Marsh gestured toward Rosie. “This aircraft is grounded until we go through it thoroughly. I talked to your supervisor about contracting a different fuel supplier. But, Mr. Davis, whoever did this is still out there.”
“The job doesn’t stop because somebody wants it to. Precision has already procured a replacement tanker from Canada. You probably saw it on your way in.”
“I did. Looks brand new,” she said, rising from her seat.
“Thanks for tracking this down.” He stood to go, the pit in his stomach growing larger by the second.
“Double and triple check your aircraft before you leave the ground,” she cautioned.
“If you have more questions, you have my number,” said Colton.
“Don’t let your guard down!” she called after him as he strode out of the hangar toward the new plane.
He raised his hand in acknowledgment.
AN HOUR LATER, COLTON had the replacement Dash 8-400AT trimmed for cruise altitude. He hadn’t had the luxury of sitting on the ground for long to get acquainted with it. Besides, he could fly this air tanker with his eyes closed.
He wasn’t ready to give another airplane his mother’s name.
“All right, I can’t call you Rosie,” he said to the tanker. “That’s One-Eight-Zero’s handle. Think I’ll call you Dash, because why not?” He congratulated himself on the world’s laziest call sign.
“Now, be a good girl.” He gripped the yoke tighter than usual, ears tuned to every engine sound. Below him, the forest spread in a patchwork of green and black, split by an angry red seam where the fire chewed toward Anaconda.
Radio traffic streamed into his headset, layered and constant. He coordinated with the Air Attack team, including the jump ship Twin Otter pilot and rotor aircraft slinging water from nearby reservoirs. A load of smokejumpers prepared to deploy on the blow-up.
High above the fire, the eye-in-the-sky Air Attack turboprop flew its casual orbit, an Aero Commander 690 with the air tactical supervisor coordinating all aerial firefighting aircraft.
He stacked tankers and helicopters into specific slots like a conductor directing an orchestra.
Colton kept his Dash in the slot that was assigned to him.
Air Attack had been airborne for hours and would be for hours more.
The Twin Otter carrying Deanna’s jump team held position off his left wing, well clear of his airspace. A break in the timber opened below him, and Colton contacted the Twin Otter pilot.
“This is Tanker One-Eight-Two. New call sign because I’m in a new bird. I’ll drop my load after Bird Dog marks the target. Then you’re free to drop your jumpers.”
“Copy, Tanker One-Eight-Two,” replied the Twin Otter pilot.
Below, the head of the fire advanced, a wall of flame devouring lodgepole pine and Douglas fir, crowning hard as the afternoon burning period hit its peak.
Pointer’s Bird Dog ran the line first, trailing a low-level ribbon of white marker smoke, crisp and bright against the fire’s dirty gray, showing Colton exactly where to drop his load.
Colton descended and released the load, bracketing the fire’s advance.
Each pass demanded complete focus of the wind speed, fire behavior, terrain, and a constant ear cocked for any sound the engine shouldn’t make.
Tanker pilots have to be multitasking geniuses. Either that, or too dumb to know any better. Adrenaline junkies with a checklist.
He climbed back up and circled wide while the Otter made its pass.
Two jumpers exited, parachutes blooming white in the smoke-darkened sky as they carved a tight path toward their jump spot.
Leaping out of a perfectly good airplane next to a raging wall of fire took a rare kind of courage.
Either that, or a special brand of crazy.
He’d stick to flying over the flames, not falling into them.
The rest of Deanna’s jump squad landed safely nearby, so Colton circled, allowing them time to get situated.
“Tanker One-Eight-Zero—I mean One-Eight-Two—this is Brooks with Jump Squad 19. Sorry, old habits die hard. Requesting coordination before you drop your load.”
Her voice in his headset was a breath of fresh air. “Copy, Brooks. What do you need on my end?” He was happy to help her jump squad. Delighted, even.
Deanna’s voice came back. “If you’d be so kind as to cripple the head, that’ll buy us time to get a fireline in.”
He loved this job. “Copy that. On my way.” He keyed the aviation frequency. “Hear that, Bird Dog?”
“Sure did,” replied the Bird Dog pilot, Joe Pointer. “Follow on my six.”
Colton waited for the spotter plane to lead him to the target, then he made his drop.
Deanna transmitted, “Tanker One-Eight-Two, that was a thing of beauty. Thanks for the assist.”
“Glad to be of service,” he replied. “Heading back to reload.”
“Copy that. Later, Sky King.” Her voice came through the radio, clipped and all business. Yet, underneath, he sensed a current that wasn’t business, especially when she invoked his nickname. He’d mention his coffee invitation again the next time he saw her.
Radio traffic reported that Deanna’s jump crew had taken advantage of the window to build a containment line, and their resulting backburn had robbed the flames of fuel. Her jump squad was good at what they did. Impressive.
When Colton landed back at Bowman Airfield, Ace met him on the tarmac in a golf cart, looking like he’d gone ten rounds with a woodchipper and lost.
“You look like hell. What are you doin’ here?” Colton climbed down from the cockpit, heat shimmering off the tarmac, warping distant aircraft into wavering ghosts. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”
“Discharged myself. Signed all the waivers.” Ace shrugged. “Can’t stand lying around losing money.”
“You can barely stand, period.”
“That’s what this cart is for.” Ace tapped the steering wheel. “Besides, someone has to keep an eye on things down here. Make sure no one’s messing with our fuel.”
Some pilots were reckless and short-lived. Ace McGillicutty might be many things: cocky, irreverent, and impulsive, but he was passionate about flying. He was also one of the best pilots Colton had worked with. If he said he’d keep an eye on things, he would.
“How’s the pain?”
“Manageable. They flew me to Helena, and the doc fixed me up. When they cleared me, I drove down in my pickup.” Ace motioned to his loaded Dodge Ram parked outside the chain-link fence. “Marsh told me about the sugar. Who the hell would do such a thing?”
“When I find out, they’ll wish they’d never been born.” Colton raked his fingers through his hair. “Counting on Marsh’s people to track them down.”
He tugged off his Nomex gloves and tucked them under his arm, his gaze drifting to the jagged skyline of the Anaconda Range, the mountains everyone here called the Pintlers. A gust swept down from the peaks, carrying the acrid smell of smoke across the field.
Ace winced as he repositioned himself in the cart. “Your jumper saved my ass yesterday. So did the one I want to ask out to thank her properly.”
“She isn’t my jumper.” Colton bent over the post-flight log a ground crew member handed him. “So, you want to date a smokejumper, huh?”
His buddy gave him an impish grin. “Yeah, you should try it. I hear she has a friend.” He waited for a reaction.
Colton didn’t give him one. Instead, he scribbled on the flight log.
Ace leaned his forearms on the steering wheel. “You like her.”
Colton flipped a page on the log and shrugged. “She’s good at her job.” And then some. Ace had fired up his engines for a takeoff that had nothing to do with flying.
“Deanna is hot, Colt. You’d have to be blind not to notice.” Ace waggled his eyebrows. “I saw how she checked you out. I had a concussion, but I’m not blind.”