Pure Heat (3 page)

“Where did you learn to fly like that?”

Again that long, silent moment of assessment from the pilot.

“Army.”

“I've flown with plenty of Army jocks. They don't fly like you. I've been up with enough of them to know that the Army doesn't teach this.”

“I flew for the 160th SOAR, Airborne. Major Emily Beale.” Then a note of deep chagrin entered her voice. “Retired, I guess.”

It was now Carly's turn to remain silent as they roared back toward the helibase for the next load of retardant. SOAR. The Army's secret Special Operations Aviation Regiment. The best and scariest helicopter pilots on the planet. Well, they certainly wouldn't need Evans as a backup on any future flights.

“Why are you flying fire?”

“As I said, had a kid. Didn't seem fair to her if I kept flying military.”

“Oh, like flying fire is so much safer.”

Emily Beale again answered with silence.

Steve's attention was drawn upward by the heavy thunder of a big rotor.

He forgot about the birds gearing up in front of him. A Firehawk came pounding out of the sky. At a thousand gallons, this was a heavyweight champ among this flock of medium and lightweight-rated birds. The only Type I helitanker in MHA's fleet.

There were heavier choppers around. Columbia and some others had Vertols and Chinooks, but they were downright ungainly compared to the Firehawk. Built from a military Sikorsky Black Hawk, she was the perfect combination of force and agility. A Firehawk could deliver six times the load of the MD500 into nearly as tight a space—and do it faster.

It was a dream machine like his Trans Am. Just the sort of craft for taking a girl out cruising. Like the other planes and helicopters of MHA, the Firehawk was painted gloss black with bright red and orange flames flowing back from her nose. It was about the most evil-looking machine he'd ever seen. The California Department of Forestry painted their Firehawks a blah white and yellow. MHA's color scheme was way cooler.

The bird came in hot and fast, leaving the ground crews to scramble out of the way as it swung into the retanking slot. She had one of the Simplex Aerospace underbelly tanks rather than a dangling bucket. She could either be reloaded with a hose if she landed, or she could dip a twenty-foot-long snorkel hose into a handy lake or swimming pool and suck up a quick thousand gallons. Sweet rig. There were only a dozen or so Firehawks in existence, but their immense reliability and toughness were making them a new star in the helitack firefighting world.

The Firehawk was also one of the reasons Steve was here at Mount Hood Aviation. If you were gonna fly, you needed to fly with the best.

Steve saw the guy stumbling out of the back as the ground crew latched in the two-and-a-half-inch retardant recharge hose. The guy took a moment to collect himself before he walked quickly away, as if he had no intention of climbing back aboard. As if he never wanted to.

It would be two, at most three minutes before they were refilled and airborne again. The pilot barely bothered to slow the rotors, merely flattened them so that there was no uplift.

Steve admired the Firehawk's long lines. He wasn't chopper rated, but it would be a seriously cool next step. The doctors had given him a flat “no.” His knee wouldn't take the abuse. But what did they really know? They'd also told him he probably wouldn't ever walk again and here he stood. Maybe he could coax a couple free lessons out of the pilot.

He watched the guy who'd climbed out of the back of the Firehawk head into the barracks. Nope, definitely not coming back.

Steve checked the smaller choppers. They were still finishing the layout of the lines, the crews making sure the big buckets wouldn't get twisted up in flight. The Firehawk would be next on the scene. He hadn't seen fire in a year. Hadn't eaten smoke in all that time. Hadn't felt the heat wash across his face with that brush of pain that left you wondering if you'd still have eyebrows when you got back to camp.

He hobbled back down the radio tower steps and trotted over to the chopper, doing his best to mask any limp. He also kept his head low under the spinning rotor blades. He couldn't help it, though he knew they were eight feet in the air.

Without asking, better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, he climbed into the cargo bay and grabbed a headset. They were just disconnecting the recharge hose, so his timing was right on.

“Hey. Just landed on base. Okay if I ride along?”

He could see the pilot shrug as if he didn't care. Whoever sat in the copilot seat started to turn but didn't complete the movement before they roared back aloft. Observer most likely, since he didn't think a Firehawk required two pilots.

They hadn't wasted a second on the ground. Good. He liked a sharp crew. He'd waited too many times in the fire while the pilots stopped for a cup of coffee or to whack off or who knew what, while he was the one with his ass in the flames.

He swallowed hard. That wasn't him anymore. He'd miss the fire. The challenge of racing ahead of the flames, cutting line, and battling the monster. But the doctors had told him that while he might be able to walk, the other damage around his artificial knee would never again let him tackle the ultramarathon of firefighting, of being a smokejumper.

Steve strapped in and checked out the cargo bay of the Firehawk as they lifted. First thing that struck him was the pristine paint job. Other than a couple of footprints on the decking, this sucker was factory fresh. Downright beautiful. He sniffed the air. He couldn't quite detect the new car smell over the bite of the retardant that had just been pumped into their belly tank, but he could feel that it was there.

The cargo bay of a Firehawk had room for a dozen people if they weren't carrying four tons of fire retardant. The ceiling was only four and a half feet high, but the seats were low slung and comfortable. Two of them nestled up close behind the pilot and copilot's tall chairs. These would be for the crew chiefs when one was required. Hopefully, one of the seats would be for him.

The rest was open in case they picked up a helitack crew and all of their gear. Right above the cargo-bay doors were the heavy hooks for ropes so that the crews could rappel down into some otherwise inaccessible fiery hellhole. Neatly coiled lines hung from quick ties across the back of the bay. On either side of the cargo bay were the long doors that slid back to make the bay so easily accessible and open to the outside world.

This was real. He'd done it.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, hoping he hadn't screwed up in his decision to come here. He'd trained. He'd learned new skills. Rebuilt his knee and his life, but that didn't mean he'd done it right.

Well, too late now. He'd contracted for the summer. But he just had to see the fire. Had to remind himself why he'd put up with all of those god-awful hours of physical therapy. The unendingly brutal hours learning new skills so that he could get back to a fire.

There was enough space across the back of the copilot's seat for the control equipment he'd need. If they put him on the Hawk. Right now it sported a small console of basic tanking controls. A quick glance forward between the seats showed that the pilot had a duplicate set.

So, the guy who'd bailed at the helibase had been running the drop controls. Then they'd decided he wasn't needed. Only reason to fly the extra body was a newbie pilot. He didn't fly like a newbie. This guy was really smooth.

Something about the pilot. Steve leaned forward for a better look just as the pilot spoke.

“Ground control. Firehawk Zero-one on-site in two minutes.”

Not he. She. He leaned far enough to see between the tall-backed seats. Long, dark blond hair, back in a ponytail, so he hadn't spotted it at first around the seat back. Good chin. Mirrored shades. Bulky headphones and mike boom obscured some of the view. A vest worn loose hid the rest of her shape. Not much to see, but a good start with what was visible.

“Zero-one, this is Ground. That was fast. We need a hit on us this time.”

The pilot turned to face whoever perched in the copilot seat. The seat back was too tall for Steve to see the occupant or what their response was, apparently nonverbal.

He wouldn't have heard the reply anyway. Almost head on, the blond pilot was distractingly nice to look at. He quick-checked the left hand she had on the collective control and saw no ring, but she did sport a white tan line. Maybe married. Maybe recently divorced and seeking a little bit of consolation. He'd have to keep an eye on that. Yet something about his brief view of her face told him maybe not. Something about her expression said she wasn't the sort you'd want to mess with.

'Course, Steve never turned away from a challenge.

“Roger, Ground,” the pilot continued. “You clear?”

Steve remembered the time he'd been on the ground and the pilot had missed the drop and hit the crew. The rust-red flame retardant had bowled most of them off their feet. The impact had hurt, and the retardant itself stung like a goddamn swarm of mosquitoes. Half of their gear stopped working. Air intakes on chain saws plugged with the crap. Portable pumps cemented so bad that you couldn't pull the starter cord well enough to start the engine. He'd since learned to duck behind a tree if the pilot looked sloppy on his run.

“We're shifted, now flanking the south side of the black so you're clear on the north.”

That should be plenty safe. The fire had already burned across that area, therefore called “the black.” A destitute landscape of grays and charcoal, dust and heat. Now the ground crews were scouring alongside the area already burned. There they'd be hunting and killing spot fires that were spinning off from the main blaze and seeking new fodder.

The flank of the fire's leading edge would be clear for a helitanker strike. Once they'd dropped their load, it should create a temporary buffer alongside the advancing fire. Give the crew time to rush forward and maybe cut in a firebreak to turn this beast back on itself.

“Roger. One minute out.”

Looking forward to see through the windshield didn't show Steve much from his position in the back. The two people in the pilot seats had a good view, but most of what he saw was the instrument console spreading across his sight lines.

The large cargo-bay doors were still slid open. No reason to close them on a hot summer day.

He pulled off his cap and leaned his head out into the slipstream enough to see but not enough to be battered by the roaring wind.

The plume of smoke was gathering over the ridge ahead. Three primary plumes and a little stuff off to the sides fed the brown-black cloud that loomed over the ridge like an ogre's massive club.

They approached directly across the ridge, so low he wondered if their wheels were going to hit the protruding rocks.

It was like they'd tipped over the edge of the world and were plunging into hell. A hell as familiar as an old friend and as dangerous as an unexploded bomb.

Flanking the black along the south? The ground crew was nuts. They were going to get pinned.

“The way they're set,” Steve called over the intercom. “They think their escape route is over the ridge.” From up here he could see what they couldn't, the flames threatening to climb up behind them from the next valley over. Not an escape at all.

“He's right.” Another woman. On the intercom. A woman in the copilot's seat. He'd climbed aboard a girlie bird. Nice voice, some part of him noted.

His heart ached for the team on the ground. They needed serious help, and they needed it fast. Did either of these women have what it took to deliver?

“Ground, Zero-one.”

“Ground, come back.”

“Ridge behind you is a trap. Get into the black now. We're going to cut your flank.”

They didn't respond.

The pilot took them up over the heat, which tried to brush Steve back into the cabin, but he leaned out farther trying to spot them. He could see the crew scrambling downslope toward the black, the only answer that mattered. A microburst slammed the chopper down toward the flames, but the pilot compensated so fast that there was little change in the altitude.

“Crew clear” sounded over the radio in a gasping breath, but he wasn't sure. It was too fast. The ground boss wouldn't have had time to count his guys yet, the way they were scattered.

The pilot swung them down over the heart of it. A couple of trees exploded when the superheated pitch simply went off. A whole line of trees toppled over right behind the crew still scrambling into the edge of the black.

“Shit!” came over the radio.

“What is it, Ground?”

“Trapped. A couple burners toppled and my leg is pinned. Getting hot. Shit! Dump. Right on me. Dump.”

“We don't have you, Ground.”

Steve leaned out and searched the area. This is what he'd trained for, waited for, but his equipment wasn't here yet. Not for another day.

“Kicking smoke,” came Ground's strained response.

Five. Ten. Fifteen agonizing seconds they waited until the billow of brilliant green smoke from the man's marker flare finally showed among the brown-smoke and orange-flame mess down below.

“Eight o'clock, two hundred yards out,” Steve called. Damn, the fire was on all sides of the guy—and close. The green smoke flare had mixed right into the brown and black generated by the fire.

The pilot was already diving on the spot.

The doors opened and the load of retardant hammered down. The guy on the ground would be lucky if he didn't drown in the stuff.

Steve scanned the cabin quickly. He found a rope and harness. A portable breather and a Pulaski tool, ax on one side, adze on the other. The tool was as new as the chopper and sharp enough to slice skin if he wasn't careful.

The rest of the crew had continued to scatter downslope. They'd be a long time getting back up the near-vertical terrain to the injured man. Several burning trees now lay scattered across their path of retreat like matchsticks.

“Get me over him!” Steve shouted into the headset.

He snapped the rope onto the ring in the ceiling, slung it through the rappelling brake on the harness, and strapped himself in.

“Wait!” one of the front-seaters called out.

“I'm safe if we do it now. I've got air and can get in on him before the fire catches its breath and overruns him.” Steve ripped the headset free and pulled on the breather. His voice echoed strangely inside the face mask. It was an echo of his former life. One tug on the forehead strap and it fit like a favorite pair of shoes.

“Now!” he shouted forward, then stepped out the cargo bay door.

They were too high and still hovered over the flames.

There were times you trusted your helitack pilot, and this was going to have to be one of those. He just hoped he'd been right about her being experienced, based on watching a ten-minute flight.