The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (166 page)

“Caught me.”

She pushed up, got a Coke. “You’ll drink this and like it.” She downed some first, then passed it to him.

“Thanks. And how’s the ball to my chain?”

“
What
did you call me?”

“He said it.” Gull narked on Trigger without remorse.

“Skinny Texas bastard.” She angled her head to read the cover of the book Gull set aside. “
Ethan Frome
? If you’ve been reading that I’m surprised I didn’t find you lapsed into a coma drooling down your chin.”

He gave the Coke back to her. “I thought I’d like it better now, being older, wiser, more erudite. But it’s just as blindingly boring as it was when I was twenty. Thank God you’re back, or I might have been paralyzed with ennui.”

“Get you.”

“It was a crossword answer a while ago. How’s your dad?”

“He’s in love.”

“With the hot redhead.”

Rowan’s eyebrows beetled. “I wish you wouldn’t call her the hot redhead.”

“I call them like I see them. How’s by you?”

“I had to get by the flower beds he’s planted, the flowers in vases, candles, the potpourri in the powder room—”

“Mother of God! Potpourri in the powder room. We need to get a posse together
ASAP
, go get him. He can be deprogrammed. Don’t lose hope.”

Since he’d stretched his legs across her lap, she twisted his toe. Hard. “He’s got all this color in the place all of a sudden. Or all of an Ella. I told myself it was fussy, she’d pushed all this fussy stuff on him. But it’s not. It’s style, with an edge of charm. She brought color to the beige and bone and brown. It makes him happy. She makes him happy. She filled the hole he couldn’t let heal—that’s what he said. And I realized something, that she was right that day we saw her in town. Ice cream day. She said that if I made him choose between her and me, she didn’t stand a chance. And if I’d done that, I’d be just enough like my mother to make myself sick. Either/or, pal, you can’t have both.”

“But you’re not.”

“No. I’m not. I have to get used to it—to her, but she’s put a light in him so I think I’m going to be a fan.”

“You’re a stand-up gal, Swede.”

“If she screws him up, I’ll peel the skin off her ass with a dull razor blade.”

“Fair’s fair.”

“And then some. I need to walk off the not-too-shabby skillet cuisine I prepared, then I’m going to turn in.”

“Wait a minute. You cooked?”

“I have a full dozen entrées in my repertoire. Four of them are variations on the classic grilled cheese sandwich.”

“A whole new side of you to explore while we walk. I want my shoes.”

Gibbons came in as Gull tossed the Edith Wharton onto the table for someone else.

“You might want to wrap up that card game. Everybody’s on standby. It’s not official, but it looks like we’ll roll two loads to Fairbanks tonight, or maybe straight to the fire. L.B.’s working out some details. And it’s looking like Bighorn might need some help come tomorrow.”

“Just when my luck’s starting to turn,” Dobie complained.

“New shoes for baby,” Cards reminded him.

“I rake another couple pots in, I can buy the new shoes without eating smoke.”

“Anybody on the first and second loads might want to check their gear while they’ve got a chance,” Gibbons added.

“I’ve never been to Alaska,” Gull commented.

“It’s an experience.” Rowan shoved his feet off her lap.

“I’m all about them.”

 

 

SHE STUFFED
more energy bars into her PG bag, and after a short debate added two cans of Coke. She’d rather haul the weight than do without. She changed from the off-duty clothes she’d worn to her father’s, and was just buckling her belt when the siren sang out.

Along with the others, she ran to the ready room to suit up.

The minute she stepped onto the plane, she staked her claim, arranging her gear and stretching out with her head on her chute. She intended to sleep through the flight.

“What’s it like?” Gull poked her with the toe of his boot.

“Big.”

“Really? I hear it’s cold and dark in the winter, too. Can that be true?”

She let the vibration of the engines lull her as other jumpers settled in. “Plenty of daylight this time of year. It’s not the trees as much there to worry about on the jump. It’s the water. They’ve got a lot of it, and you don’t want to miss the spot and land in it. A lot of water, a lot of land, mountains. Not a lot of people, that’s an advantage.”

She shifted, found a more comfortable position. “The Alaskan smoke jumpers know their stuff. It’s been dry up there this season, too, so they’re probably spread pretty thin, probably feeling that midseason fatigue.”

She opened her eyes to look at him. “It’s beautiful. The snow that never melts off those huge peaks, the lakes and rivers, the glow of the midnight sun. They’ve also got mosquitoes the size of your fist and bears big as an armored truck. But in the fire, it’s pretty much the same. Kill the bitch; stay alive. Everybody comes back.”

She closed her eyes. “Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

She slept like a rock; woke stiff as a board. And grateful they put down at Fairbanks, giving the crew time to loosen up, fuel up, and the bosses time to cement a strategy.

With nearly four hundred acres involved, and the wind kicking flareups, they’d need solid communication with the Alaskan team. She managed to scrounge up a cold soda, preserving the two in her bag, before they performed a last buddy check and loaded.

“You’re right,” Gull said when they flew southwest out of Fairbanks. “It’s beautiful. Not far off midnight, either, local time, and bright as afternoon.”

“Don’t get enchanted. You’ll lose focus. And she’ll eat you alive.”

He had to change his angle to get his first glimpse of the fire, shift his balance as the plane hit turbulence and began to buck.

“Just another maw of hell. I’m focused,” he added when she sent him a hard look.

He saw the white peaks of the mountain through the billows of smoke. Denali, the sacred, with the wild to her north and east burning bright.

He continued to study and absorb as she moved to the rear to confer with Yangtree, and with Cards, who worked as spotter. Others lined the windows now, looking down on what they’d come to fight.

“We’re going to try for a clearing in some birch, east side. The Alaska crew used it for their jump spot. Cards is going to throw some streamers, see how they fly.”

“Jesus, did you see that?” somebody asked.

“Looks like a blowup,” Gull said.

“It’s well west of the target jump spot. Everybody stay chilly,” she called out. “Settle in, settle down. Stay in your heads.”

“Guard your reserves!” Cards pulled in the door.

Gull watched the streamers fly, adjusted with the bank and bounce of the plane. The wind dragged the stench and haze of smoke inside, a small taste of what would come.

Rowan got in the door, shot him a last grin. She propelled herself out, with Stovic seconds behind her.

When it came his turn, he evened his breathing, listened to Cards tell him about the drag. He fixed the clearing in his head and, at the slap on his shoulder, flew.

Gorgeous. He could think it while the wind whipped him. The staggering white peaks, the impossibly deep blue in glints and curls of water, the high green of summer, and all of it in sharp contrast with the wicked blacks, reds, oranges of the fire.

His chute ballooned open, turning fall into glide, and he shot Gibbons, his jump partner, a thumbs-up.

He caught some hard air that tried to push him south, and he fought it, pushing back through the smoke that rolled over him. It caught him again, gave him a good, hard tug. Again he saw that deep dreamy blue through the haze. And he thought no way, goddamn it, no way he’d end up hitting the water after Rowan had warned him.

He bore down on the toggles, saw and accepted he’d miss the jump spot, adjusted again.

He winged through the birch, cursing. He didn’t land in the water, but it was a near thing as his momentum on landing nearly sent him rolling into it anyway.

Mildly annoyed, he gathered his chute as Rowan and Yangtree came running.

“I thought for sure you’d be in the drink.”

“Hit some bad air.”

“Me too. I nearly got frogged. Be grateful you’re not wet or limping.”

“Tore up my canopy some.”

“I bet.” Then she grinned as she had before jumping into space. “What a ride!”

Once all jumpers were on the ground, Yangtree called a briefing with Rowan and Gibbons while the others dealt with the paracargo.

“They thought they could catch it, had forty jumpers on it, and for the first two days, it looked like they had it. Then it turned on them. A series of blowups, some equipment problems, a couple injuries.”

“The usual clusterfuck,” Gibbons suggested.

“You got it. I’ll be coordinating with the Alaska division boss, the BLM and USFS guys. I’m going to take me a copter ride, get a better look at things, but for right now.”

He picked up a stick, drew a rough map in the dirt. “Gibbons, take a crew and start working the left flank. They’ve got a Cat line across here. That’s where you’ll tie in with the Alaska crew. You’ve got a water source here for the pumpers. Swede, you take the right, work it up, burn it out, drown it.”

“Take it by the tail,” she said, following his dirt map. “Starve the belly.”

“Show’em what Zulies can do. We catch her good, shake her by the tail and push up to the head.” He checked the time. “Should reach the head in fifteen, sixteen hours if we haul our asses.”

They discussed strategy, details, directions, crouched in the stand of birch, while on the jump site the crew unpacked chain saws, boxes of fusees, pumpers and hose.

Gibbons leaped up, waved his Pulaski toward the sky. “Let’s do it!” he shouted.

“Ten men each.” Yangtree clapped his hands together like a team captain before the big game. “Get humping, Zulies.”

They got humping.

As planned, Rowan and her team used fusees to set burnouts between the raging right flank and the service road, sawing snags and widening the scratch line as they moved north from the jump spot.

If the dragon tried to swing east to cross the roads, move on to homesteads and cabins, she’d go hungry before she got there. They worked through what was left of the night, into the day with the flank crackling and snarling, vomiting out firebrands the wind took in arches to the dry tundra.

“Chow time,” she announced. “I’m going to scout through the burn, see if I can find how close Gibbons’s crew is.”

Dobie pulled a smashed sandwich out of his bag, looked up at the towering columns of smoke and flame. “Biggest I’ve ever seen.”

“She’s a romper,” Rowan agreed, “but you know what they say about Alaska. Everything’s bigger. Fuel up. We’ve got a long way to go.”

She couldn’t give them long to rest, she thought as she headed out. Timing and momentum were as vital tools as Pulaski and saw because Dobie hadn’t been wrong. This was one big mother, bigger, she’d concluded, than anticipated and, she’d already estimated by the staggered formation of her own line, wider in the body.

Pine tar and pitch tanged in the air, soured by the stench of smoke that rose like gray ribbons from the peat floor of the once, she imagined, pristine forest. Now mangled, blackened trees lay like fallen soldiers on a lost battlefield.

She could hear no sound of saw, no shout of man through the voice of the fire. Gibbons wasn’t as close as she’d hoped, and she couldn’t afford to scout farther.

She ate a banana and an energy bar on the quickstep hike back to her men. Gull gulped down Gatorade as he walked to her.

“What’s the word, boss?”

“We’re shaking her tail, as ordered, but she’s got a damn long one. We’ll be hard-pressed to meet Yangtree’s ETA. We’ve got a water source coming up. It should be about a hundred yards, and a little to the west. We’ll put the baby hoses on her, pump it up and douse her like Dorothy doused the Wicked Witch.”

She took his Gatorade, chugged some down. “She’s burning hot, Gull. Some desk jockey waited too long to call in more troops, and now she’s riding this wind. If she rides it hard enough, she can get behind us. We’ve got to bust our humps, get to the water, hose her down and back.”

“Busting humps is what we do.”

Still, it took brutal, backbreaking time to reach the rushing mountain stream, while the fire fought to advance, while it threw brands like a school-yard bully throws rocks, its roar a constant barrage of taunts and threats.

“Dobie, Chainsaw, beat out those spots! Libby, Trigger, Southern, snags and brush. The rest of you, get those pumps set up, lay the hose.”

She grabbed one of the pumps, connected the fuel can line to the pump, vented it. Moving fast, sweat dripping, she attached the foot valve, checked the gasket, tightened it with a spanner wrench from her tool bag.

Beat it back here, she thought, had to, or they’d be forced to backtrack and round east, giving up hundreds of acres, risk letting the fire snake behind them and drive them farther away from the head, from Gibbons. From victory.

She set the wye valve on the discharge side of the pump, began to hand-tighten it. And found it simply circled like a drain.

“Come on, come on.” She fixed it on again, blaming her rush, but when she got the same result, examined the valve closely.

“Jesus Christ. Jesus, it’s stripped. The wye valve’s threads are stripped on this pump.”

Gull looked over from where he worked. “I’ve got the same deal here.”

“I’m good,” Janis called out on the third pump. “It’s priming.”

“Get it warmed up, get it going.”

But one pump wouldn’t do the job, she thought. Might as well try a goddamn piss bag.