Chapter 5
Deanna
The early morning briefing in the school gymnasium was standing room only. The fire had sprung to life, jumping containment lines and threatening a subdivision of vacation homes on the forest’s edge.
“Brooks,” called out Incident Commander Westlake.
All heads swiveled toward her. “Your jump boss named you as the JIC again today. You’ll coordinate with Air Attack for strategic tanker drops on the eastern flank.
Your aerial coordinator is . . .” He checked his list. “Colton Davis, Tanker One-Eight-Two, since you’ll be working in his sector. ”
Though her expression revealed nothing, her pulse quickened at the prospect of working with him again. Stares followed her across the room, some curious, some skeptical. Being JIC demanded a level of trust, especially on a fire this size.
“Understood. How many jumpers do we have?” she asked.
“Two more came in this morning, so six total, including yourself. Sumner, Hudson, Thompson, Duffy, and McPhee. More are on the way.”
“Our objective is to protect the Elk Ridge subdivision,” Westlake continued, pointing to the map.
“Twenty-three structures in the fire’s path.
We need anchor points here, here, and here.
” He tapped three locations. “Brooks, coordinate your jump spots with Davis so he can run drops if you need them. Questions?”
“Weather?” someone asked.
“Wind from the west, same as yesterday, fifteen to twenty knots, gusting higher this afternoon,” said Westlake. “Temperature expected to hit ninety-five with relative humidity at twelve percent. Fire will be active.”
As the briefing broke up, Colton appeared next to her at the beverage counter. He reached for the pot at the same time she did, their fingers brushing the handle.
“Ladies first,” he said.
She made a face. “This coffee tastes like someone brewed it in a fire boot.”
“Welcome to the government edition. Add enough creamer and it’s almost drinkable.” He lifted a fistful of powdered creamer packets. “I have a system. Four packets minimum. Five if the pot’s sat on the burner since midnight.”
She took three. “Does the system have a name?”
“The Davis Dilution Protocol. Fifteen years in the making.” He poured her a cup first, then filled his own. “Looks like we’ll be working together again today.”
“Yes, it does. Still trying to get used to the new Dash call sign. Keep wanting to say One-Eight-Zero.”
“Yeah, I’ve slipped up on that a time or two myself.” He dumped the packets into his cup and stirred with a tiny red straw.
She waited until he finished his stirring frenzy, then tapped her cup to his in a mock toast, the Styrofoam making a scratchy thud. “Talk to you when you’re up there. Keep your plane in the air and not in a meadow.”
“Only if you stick your landing.” His voice carried that flat, easy Montana cadence with the hard corners worn off, the ends of his words gone soft. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he sipped his coffee.
A cluster of Lolo Hotshots cut sidelong glances her way, and Deanna tossed her full cup in the trash. She shouldered her daypack and moved to the double doors, whispers trailing behind her like lingering smoke. She didn’t have to hear what was said. She knew.
Once outside, Kylie fell into step beside her. “Did you see all that? The nerve of them.”
“Hard to miss,” mumbled Deanna, shaking her head.
“Screw them. They don’t know you.”
“They think they do.” Deanna walked faster. “Come on, we need to get ready. I’ll do my job here and go home to Idaho, where I belong.”
“And miss out on all these good-looking Montana guys?”
“I’m not here to score, remember?” She waited, then blew out her breath. “Sorry, Ky. Didn’t mean to take your head off.”
She hadn’t talked about the tanker pilot with his crooked smile, and how the lines around his eyes deepened, as if he’d earned every second of his life. Not after sharing her resolution with Kylie to stop chasing the opposite sex.
“No worries,” said Kylie, brushing it off. “Hey, have you heard about the missing chainsaws, fuel cans, and radios? Someone’s been taking stuff from the supply cache without checking out the equipment. The IC is livid about it.”
Deanna glanced at her. “No, haven’t heard that.”
Kylie shook her head. “We only have so much equipment on this fire. Come on, let’s get suited up.”
The jump loft filled the bus garage, with chutes racked next door in the gymnasium.
Deanna, Kylie, and the other jumpers had organized their ready room on one side, gear bins lined up along the wall.
Two of the team had hauled lockers from a back corner, one for each jumper’s Kevlar suit. Not their usual setup, but it would do.
Deanna and Kylie weaved around other jumpers getting ready, hustling to their lockers on the end. She stepped into her padded Kevlar jumpsuit, clipped on her reserve chute and personal gear bag, then eased the helmet with its mesh mask over her head.
As they suited up, Kylie’s brow knit. “Hey, girl, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Deanna inspected her reserve chute for the third time, keeping her voice low. “Focusing on our jump. I knew what I signed up for when I closed the old book and opened a new one. Doesn’t mean I deserve forgiveness from those I’ve pissed off.”
Kylie tugged her harness tight and gave Deanna a sideways glance. “You need a program like AA, only for your specific brand of self-reproach.”
“What, like Man-Eaters Anonymous?” Deanna snorted, examining her leg straps.
Kylie pointed at her. “That’s it! Perfect. You need a recovery plan.”
“Ha!” Deanna laughed despite herself. “Step One: Admit you’ve been a raging disaster in every relationship you’ve ever touched.”
“Now you’re cooking with gas.” Kylie grinned, holding her voice down. “Save the rest for when we’re not about to jump into a fire.”
McPhee and Thompson entered the ready room area, both seasoned jumpers from the Redmond base in Oregon. They nodded an acknowledgment to Deanna, but the look they exchanged said plenty.
Don’t be paranoid. Not everyone thinks you’re a man-eater.
Kylie finished her gear check and lifted her reserve chute handle for Deanna to inspect. They’d done it for each other on every jump since rookie school.
“It’s go time.” Deanna turned to her team. “Listen up. You heard today’s firefighting objectives in the briefing. We cut the line fast, and don’t take unnecessary risks. This fire is fickle. Don’t trust predicted behavior.”
As they pulled up to the airfield in the Forest Service transport van, Deanna’s radio kicked on. “Jump Squad 19, this is your local aerial coordinator Tanker One-Eight-Two. Do you copy?” Colton’s easy-going voice rolled through her like a pleasant breeze.
Everyone climbed out of the van except Deanna. “Copy, this is Brooks.” A fleeting thought . . . she wouldn’t mind him being more than her local aerial coordinator.
“Weather’s building from the west,” reported Colton, all business. “Increased fire activity along the ridgeline. Relay to your spotter to choose your jump spots accordingly. Elk Ridge subdivision is still the priority, twenty-three structures.”
“Copy that. We’ll be airborne in the next ten. Thanks for the update.” A dizzying thrill tickled her at the sound of his voice. Coordinating with him already made her day.
Oh, my God! I’m crushing on a tanker pilot? No! I can’t do this!
The Twin Otter waited on the tarmac, props turning over.
Once airborne, the scope of the fire opened beneath them.
The smoke column shot up fifteen thousand feet, creating its own weather system.
Below, the forest had turned into a war zone, patches of black interspersed with active flame fronts driving toward the cluster of homes on the lower eastern ridge.
The spotter gave the signal. “Get in the door!”
Deanna positioned herself at the open door, kneeling on one knee. The smell of smoke and burning pine rushed in. She locked onto her jump target. No matter how many times she jumped, the open door tightened the same knot in her gut. The spotter’s hand came down on her shoulder. “Go!”
Deanna hurled herself out of the plane. The wind hit immediately, throwing her off course.
She fought it, steering hard left, drawing on years of jump experience.
The ground rushed up fast, but she flared at the last second, touching down soft in the center of the clearing.
Kylie followed seconds later with a smooth landing.
McPhee and Hudson landed safely, though Duffy came within a wingspan of a snag, yanking his toggle at the last second with a yelp that carried across the meadow.
“Meant to do that!” he called out, gathering his canopy.
Thompson landed ten yards away, rolled once, and stood up like he’d stepped off a bus. “Kid, if you meant to do that, I meant to win the lottery.”
Duffy’s constant fidgeting with the reserve handle screamed rookie. He reminded Deanna of a golden retriever in a room full of alley cats, alert to everything. Thompson moved with the unhurried gait of a man who’d jumped more fires than everyone combined and intended to jump a hundred more.
Heat from the approaching fire poured sweat down Deanna’s back, despite the early hour. They cut fireline like their lives depended on it, which they did, creating a defensive barrier between the fire and the structures beyond.
During a water break, the familiar drone of a Dash 8-400AT engine sounded overhead. Deanna tugged her radio from her chest holster and keyed it. “Tanker One-Eight-Two, this is the JIC from Jump Squad 19. From your perspective, what’s the fire doing?”
“I have a visual on you. Spot fires ahead of the main front. You’ve got an hour before the leading edge reaches you. I’m dropping half a load of slurry on the ridgetop, so the fire doesn’t travel down the other side to the vacation homes on the lake.”
“Copy that, Colt—” She caught herself. “Uh, copy that, One-Eight-Two. Sounds good.” She kicked herself for the slip.
Stay professional, you moron.