Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [11]
When she looked back, it became clear. Needing a life to replace the one that had been focused on family, she had discovered the brotherhood of fire.
Thousands had attended Frank’s memorial in Houston’s Rice University Stadium. Members of the Houston Fire and Police Departments had taken off work, along with representatives of departments all over Texas. The procession had stretched for miles while traffic cops struggled to deal with parking. Family and friends were overwhelmed by the presence of the city mayor and other dignitaries, as well as the ceremony of pipers and buglers. Frank’s coffin had been flag-draped, for he was a Navy veteran.
Clare had nearly stayed home. She’d wondered how many might whisper that she could have done more to save Frank. Who of them thought that if Frank had taken Javier, or any other man into that apartment house, he’d have walked out with little Pham Nguyen cradled in his arms.
They’d called Frank a hero, and her as well, but she had not been able to trust embraces and smiles. The department psychologist had warned about survivor’s guilt and post-traumatic stress, but putting labels on feelings you couldn’t control didn’t solve anything.
The only thing she figured might help was carrying on. Right now, that meant helping the people on board the chopper lost in Yellowstone Lake.
Deering floated with one arm tangled in his life vest, his teeth chattering. He wondered how much longer he could hold on.
He’d covered a fraction of the distance to shore. It looked like maybe a hundred yards to the line of trees, but it might as well be miles. He watched the Shoshone leap to the sky and eat its way toward where he would come ashore . . . if he made it.
Numbness stole over him and his shaking stopped as though the water had become warmer. He imagined he was home, lying beside Georgia in their bedroom with sun on the corner. He could take a little nap.
Deering closed his eyes. Cold water slapped at his face and into his ears, but the sensation seemed far away.
Through a growing lethargy, he heard a faint familiar rhythm. It reminded him of early morning in Nam when the first chopper in the air made a solitary song.
Opening his heavy lids, he identified the boxy silhouette of a Chinook, with rotors fore and aft. The big machine could carry thirty firefighters and their field gear or airlift a thousand gallons of water in a sling. Deering waved, shocked at how heavy his arm felt. He wished he had a purple smoke to signal with.
Without showing any sign of seeing him, the pilot guided the Chinook north past the whitened ground of West Thumb Geyser Basin.
Deering studied shore and struck out with rubbery arms and legs, failing to make headway in the wind-driven chop. It wasn’t fair that it should end like this, that he should fail with land in sight, all Georgia’s fears realized.
Behind him, the sound of rotors once more grew louder. His heart surged and adrenaline came to his rescue.
The Chinook came in low and hovered about a hundred feet off the water. The chopper door slid open and someone reached to a cable on a pulley.
The horse-collar landed three feet from Deering. In the chop, it looked like thirty. He reached to stroke and his hand splashed into the lake. The man above shouted, but the whipping wind and whine of rotors turned it to gibberish.
The Chinook moved forward, sweeping the horse-collar through the water. Deering saw it coming and let go of the vest he’d only partially donned. For a panicky moment, he was afraid he’d made a mistake, but the collar came into his hands. Although he was tempted to drape himself over it, he risked falling out when they lifted him. Another minute ticked past in the frigid water while he struggled to get the sling around his back and under his arms.
Aloft, the winch started and Deering lifted clear, dangling like a doll. He rode the twisting cable up through bright sun that failed to warm. Stiff wind whipped his flight suit, snapping the sopping cloth.
All the way