Alaska Spark, page 15
part #1 of Blazing Hearts Wildfire Series
Ryan readied his gear for the short hike. “I’ll light a backfire. You work the west flank and saw fuels to the river. Pace yourself. We’ll be here a while.”
“Don’t let lightning spike your brain. See you in a few.” Gunnar slung his chainsaw to his shoulder and hiked downhill into the smoke.
Ryan grabbed his gear and took off. He pulled out his radio. “Boone, do you copy? Gunns is on the west flank. You guys grab the east one.” He enjoyed incident commanding fires, controlling the chaos, and bending it to his will.
Boone’s responded. “The winds are fickle in this storm. Not only is the fire less than a quarter of a mile from Bettles, but she’s running toward your position.”
“I’ll check it out,” responded Ryan, picking his way through deadfall as he hiked uphill for a clear view. He reached a hilltop to find the smoke had turned dark and dirty and it had changed direction. He and Gunns were now in the path of the running flame front, just as Boone said.
A firebrand came at him and he jumped aside. It hit the ground and ignited, shooting flames upward. His chest tightened. The last thing he needed was to become the flaming skull of Ghost Rider.
He keyed his radio. “Gunns, you copy?”
Gunnar’s voice came back at him. “Better haul ass. She’s running!”
Ryan clicked his radio. “Air attack, what’s your position? Hit this runaway head.”
“One minute out,” responded Max, the retardant ship pilot.
“Gunns, incoming mud drop.”
Radio silence.
“Gunns?” Still no response. “Damn it.” Ryan headed down the steep slope, where ‘Treeminator’ shrieked through a towering, white spruce—Gunnar’s nickname for his beloved 3-foot Stihl chainsaw.
Gunnar angled Treeminator deep in the base. Rawwwwrrrr…the spruce fell with a whump. He puffed out his chest with a pleased expression. “Slowing this mother down.”
Ryan grinned. “You’re crazy. You know that?”
Gunnar killed the saw motor and they dragged themselves uphill in the thick smoke, airborne debris bouncing off their hardhats. Some landed on Ryan’s shoulder and he swept them off as they humped uphill.
A plane droned overhead, swooped low, and banked left.
“Spotter plane. Here comes the drop. Up to the ridge, go.” Ryan sprinted upward.
The thunderous sound of the DC-10 roared up the draw.
“Where’s our helo scoopers, boys? Dip the river and drop some water behind us. Air attack, ground ops, you copy?” Ryan broke into a run, Gunnar alongside.
“Two drinks incoming,” snapped his radio.
Max cut loose the red-orange glop, pelting the ground like golf-ball sized hail.
“Get down!” yelled Gunnar.
They hit the ground on their bellies next to a stand of tall spruce. The glops of red gel struck hard, slapping their backs with heavy force. Max flew low and Ryan knew the danger to the air tanker with tall flame heights and heavy smoke. Did it slow the fire?
A crackling whoosh above them answered his question.
Gunnar snapped his head up and pushed off the ground. “Ryno, look out!”
Ryan turned to see the top snap from a tall, burning snag, dripping salmon-colored gel. He dove out of the way as it crashed to where he’d been standing. Another close snag whumped to the ground, scattering ash in slow motion. Ryan’s heart leapt out of his chest and his breaths came short. “Fuck! Let’s get out of here.” He sprang to his feet and ran. Nothing like a near miss to motivate a guy up a mountain.
“You lucky shit.” Gunnar panted behind him. “That widow-maker would have speared your ass.”
They made it to the ridgetop. Breathing hard, they watched the fire slow its advance toward Bettles. Score one for air attack.
“She’s finally lying down.” Ryan squinted through binoculars.
Gunnar blew out air. “About time. Now we can get in there and cut a line before she kicks up in the morning.”
“Dispatch, need a weather update.” Ryan spoke into his radio for the latest report.
Good news. Dispatch reported weather would improve. The jumper crew sawed and dug line all night, thanks to the twilight. Around 4 a.m. Ryan and Gunnar staggered to their gear and shook out their sleeping bags on the other side of the ridgetop.
“Screw setting up the tent.” Ryan pulled off his boots, grunting, and fell back on his sleeping bag. “I’m coyoting. Let the bears chew on me.”
Gunnar zonked out, coyoting on top of his.
As he drifted off, Ryan wondered how Tara and Aurora Crew were doing. He fantasized pulling his fingers through Tara’s silky mane and fell asleep, dreaming she rode naked on a horse, hair cascading around her like Lady Godiva.
The last thing he remembered was pulling her off the horse and they fell to the ground together, her hair swaddling him like a blanket.
He slept better than he had in days.
Radio static startled Ryan awake. He sat up and sipped water from his canteen. He opened an MRE and tore open a package of crackers with his teeth, spitting out the foil.
Gunnar woke and moved off to relieve himself. “Love the smell of fire in the morning. Means more money in my wallet.”
Ryan keyed his radio. “Boone, do you copy? O’Connor here. You boys ready to end this party?”
“Affirmative. Time for a real party.” Boone’s voice crackled back.
“Tanana base, do you copy? Place an order with AFS dispatch for two mop-up crews. We need a taxi ride back to base. Pick up Boone and the boys on the east flank first. We’re on the west.”
“Copy,” responded a woman at the base. “We’ll have a 212 to you in twenty.”
They gathered their gear and humped it to the saddle, where a Bell 212 helicopter would pick them up. Ryan took in what was once stunning Tanana Zone scenery of rolling hills and majestic slopes, now a dark, smoldering landscape.
“Can’t wait for a thick juicy steak and a dump truck of mashed taters.” Gunnar put on his chainsaw bar cover, readying it for transport.
Ryan packed his own equipment. “A hot shower and an amber.”
“You left her in California, Bro,” grinned Gunnar, taking off his fire shirt and airing his armpits.
“Thanks for the reminder.” Ryan pictured shapely dark-eyed Amber. He still had a hard time with her decision that the porn industry needed her more than he did. She made more money than Ryan without breaking a sweat…or maybe she did under all those lights. I’d rather jump from airplanes.
A high-pitched noise pierced the morning air. Ryan scanned the scorched area around them. Nothing but ash and smoke.
“What the hell?” asked Gunnar.
“Shh, listen.” Ryan tilted his head toward the sound.
Another high-pitched sound, like whimpering. He crept along the blackened ridge, following the sound to a huge, charred stump. Something grayish-white and dark squirmed in the ash. He leaned in, disbelieving. “Gunns, come here.”
Gunnar hoofed over and squatted. Ryan held a dark, gray wolf pup. Gunnar picked up a light gray one. Several more scooted out of the hole under the stump.
“Where’s your mama, little guys?” Ryan scoped the area for mama wolf, then lifted the pup, inspecting it. “They can’t be more than a couple weeks old.”
“Little gray wolf pups.” Gunnar checked out his little guy.
“This one’s in tough shape.”
“Any more in there?”
Ryan raked ash and dirt with his fingers, uncovering another, but it remained still. His fingers explored further, finding another writhing body. “Four. One didn’t make it.”
“What do we do with them?”
“Can’t leave them. They’ll die.” Ryan glanced around. No sign of mama wolf.
“I’ll get my day-pack.” Gunnar handed him the pup and strolled to his gear, a short distance away.
“Bring water and a Visine bottle.”
The pups were dehydrated and ravenous. They nosed Ryan’s glove aggressively for a drink. He removed his gloves. Their fur felt soft, but the tiny teeth and claws were razor-sharp.
Gunnar returned with his daypack and canteen. He unscrewed the cap and poured water in it. The dark pup licked greedily but couldn’t get the hang of lapping it.
“Pour out the Visine, rinse the bottle and put water and sugar in it,” instructed Ryan. “We’ll give them droplets.” He scrutinized their packed equipment. “Stuff these little guys in your pack. We’ll take them with us. Fairbanks Wildlife Rescue will make sure they’re fed and cared for.”
“Fire wolves. Geez, hope the mother doesn’t want a piece of us.” Gunnar glanced around.
“If she shows up, we leave them here. This is a late litter; they’re usually born earlier in spring.”
Gunnar scrutinized one. “Mom won’t touch them with our scent on them.”
“Guess we’re committed then.” Ryan gently placed each whimpering, wriggling pup in Gunnar’s pack, and carried the pack to the helo retrieval point.
As if on cue, the Bell 212 rotors sounded, and the helicopter landed on the open ridge. Gunnar tossed in their gear and pulled himself aboard with the other jumpers. Ryan handed Gunnar the pup pack and hopped aboard. The pilot lifted off, swinging the fourteen-passenger helo toward Tanana. On the way, the jumpers took turns holding and feeding the pups droplets of sugar water from Gunnar’s Visine bottle.
“Poor little guys.” Ryan worked the dark gray pup’s mouth open, noting such sharp teeth for a young pup. Then again, it was a wolf.
The brutality of fire. He’d seen his share of collateral damage; the charred animals, trying to escape, taken down as flames overtook them. He’d jumped out of the way of stampeding deer and elk in Lower Forty-eight fires.
He recalled one story where a bear on fire had charged out of the flames toward a hotshot crew boss. He said it was the most beautiful, terrifying thing he’d ever seen. He and his Granite Mountain Hotshot crew of nineteen later perished in a fire at Yarnell, near Prescott, Arizona in June 2013, when their escape route was cut off. Stories like that tend to stick with a guy.
Several hours later, the helo landed at the Tanana fire base, where a fixed-wing Twin Otter waited to transport the jump crew back to Fairbanks. Ryan, Gunnar, and the others headed to the plane with their gear. Ryan’s pack made a ruckus. The wolf pups turned out to be great entertainment for everyone on the plane.
On the flight back to the smokejumper base, Ryan’s thoughts drifted to having the next two days off as part of his work rotation. He figured he’d do some fly fishing for grayling. And maybe after fire season he’d take Boone up on a standing invitation to split a condo in Belize for a month. Do some fishing for mahi-mahi or sailfish.
He looked forward to it.
Chapter 19
Tara blinked her eyes open and ran her tongue along dry, cracked lips.
“Hey hon, feeling better?” Angela dabbed a cool, moist washcloth on her face.
“Why am I here? What time is it?”
“You fainted and fell off the truck. Silva carried you here and fussed all over you. It’s two in the afternoon.”
She thought for a moment. Oh yeah, Smokey the Bear.
Liz appeared behind Angela's shoulder. “Colonel Sanders groused that it served you right. Silva reported him and filed a complaint with Bing Pickel. He felt bad for making us report to that dickhead.”
Angela nodded. “He sure did.”
“Wow.” Tara pressed a hand to her forehead. “Silva filed a complaint?”
“After you took a header out of the pickup, I tore my head off, stripped off my yellows, and beelined for the mess hall in my bra and Nomex pants. Chugged three Gatorades.” Liz laughed.
“Would have bought a ticket to see that.” Tara pushed to sit, accepting the blue Gatorade Angela offered. She gestured at Liz with it. “You should work it into a dance routine.”
“There’s an idea.” Liz pretended thoughtful consideration.
“Tupa told Colonel Sanders to get the hell out and go back to Colorado,” chuckled Angela.
“Yeah, Tupa and your Afi Slayers squad wanted a piece of Colonel Sanders,” laughed Liz.
Tara lifted the back of her hand to her cheek, then leaned back on the bed. “Still feel crappy.”
“You need to rest. We leave for Fairbanks early in the morning. We completed our rotation and get two days off, remember?” Angela rose to let her sleep.
She needed no convincing and drifted off, dreaming of parachuting out of the back of pickup trucks.
Tara woke refreshed, but ravenous. After a shower, she felt like a phoenix that had risen from the ashes. She dressed in a clean, red T-shirt and jeans, and sat on her bed to braid her hair.
Angela came into their bunkhouse. “Hey sleepyhead, it’s chow time.”
“I could eat an entire moose,” said Tara. The women walked to the dining hall and took a seat on a long table bench. The rest of the crew straggled in.
“Hey Smokey,” Rego yelled from the end of the table. “Heard from your paws lately?”
“Only you can prevent wildfires,” smirked Tupa.
Everyone laughed and Tara couldn’t help smiling. She turned to Silva. “Thanks, Jon, guess I owe you one.”
He smiled. “Waters, you were out of it. When you took a header out of the truck, we thought you were a goner.”
She took in their laughing faces. How funny she must have looked. “Well Jon, we were team players and cooperated like you told us to.”
He seemed sheepish. “I’m so sorry. I heard how the lame-o threatened the three of you. Honestly, had I known, I wouldn’t have insisted. At any rate, I nailed his balls to the wall and filed a complaint against him.”
“You didn’t know the guy was a bonehead,” said Liz in her matter-of-fact tone.
“Wish you could have seen yourself. A drunk bear flat on the pavement like possum roadkill,” joked Angela, spiraling her finger downward.
“Where is Colonel Sanders anyway?” asked Tara.
“He went back to Kentucky Fried Chicken for all we know. We should turn him in to PETA for mistreatment of bears and owls,” wisecracked Liz.
Everyone laughed, including Tara. A cell phone circulated with a video and stills of Smokey suspended in midair. As miserable as she’d been, the images were comical. She couldn’t help laughing at herself.
“This is our last night in Chinook. What’s on the agenda?” Tara surveyed the long table.
“Fourth of July party at Yukon Roadhouse,” said Silva. “I’ll buy the three of you a cold one as a peace offering, to beg your forgiveness.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go.” She grinned and pushed back from the table.
“Me too,” Liz chimed in. Everyone stood and filed out the door.
Seemed like the entire town was partying at the Roadhouse by the time Aurora Crew arrived. The party spilled out onto a back-patio deck bordering a generous lawn, where people threw darts and horseshoes.
Tara stayed inside and played pool with her Afi Slayers squad, while Liz enjoyed her reign as queen of the foos-ball table. The rest of the crew scattered outside to play horseshoes. Tara finished her game of pool and joined Silva at an antique juke box in a corner.
He fed quarters into the coin slot. “This must be the last holdout where needles drop onto vinyl. How about some Johnny Cash with Ring of Fire?” Silva shot his brows up at her.
“Yeah, play it.” Tara lifted her Alaskan Amber and clinked bottles with Silva. “Thanks for helping me today, even though it was partially your fault.”
“I feel bad. Tried to be Mr. Cooperative, so Bing Pickel would give our crew a superior performance rating.” Silva tilted his head. “Had to get you out of the Smokey Bear suit before I could pick you up and get you to your tent.”
“Thanks for leaving my Nomex on.” A corner of her mouth quirked up.
“That part was not my job. I pride myself as a gentleman.” Silva took a long pull on his beer. “Glad you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks to Gatorade.” She sipped her own bottle and grinned. “If the situation were reversed, no way could I lift you to my shoulder with or without a Smokey suit.”
“But wouldn’t it be fun trying?” He pulled on his beer, his dark eyes seriously checking her out.
Heat climbed to her face. She liked and respected Silva, but nothing more. Change the subject. “I saw your coveted Snowy Owl, by the way.” She may as well share it, knowing how much Silva would appreciate it.
“No way! Where?” He drew back with wide eyes.
“When I drove the crew back to Chinook from Tideman Hot Springs a few days ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” He seemed genuinely offended.
A twinge of guilt twisted her. “I meant to. It landed on the windshield with its wings spread. I slowed and it stayed there. We had a stare down. Did you know it’s speckled with black on top and its under wings are solid white?”
“Yeah. I did know that.” His face softened. “Snowy Owls are a good omen. You should feel lucky.”
“It’s one of the most stunning birds I’ve ever seen. Why do you suppose it landed on my windshield?”
“They seek beauty.” He moved closer; his gold-flecked brown eyes boring into her.
Silva was a charming, attractive guy, no getting around it. If she were to break her no-flings-with-co-workers rule, she wished it would be with Ryan; but he wasn’t here and she felt like dancing.
Beer in hand, she swayed her hips to the music and Silva joined her, creating their own dance floor. She noted his eyes checking out her lengthy frame, resting on her form-fitting T-shirt. The song changed to Wildfire, by Dan Fogelberg, a slow ballad from the 70s. Silva pulled Tara in close for a slow dance. She hesitated, then placed her hands on his solid shoulders. It was odd seeing him out of his yellows, and hard not to notice how well he filled out his UAF T-shirt.
As they danced, his hand moved slowly around her shoulder blade and it felt good as he lightly massaged it. She almost said, “A little to the right,” but caught herself. He nuzzled her, singing in a low, sexy voice.
