Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [19]
Garrett rubbed his bald head that bore the sheen of old mahogany and led Clare to a large mounted mosaic of topographic quadrangle maps. Clear plastic overlaid Yellowstone and the area surrounding it, with the extent of the burned areas outlined in black marker.
“The Yellowstone fires have increased tenfold, from eighty-six hundred acres to eighty-seven thousand in the past week.” Garrett’s thick finger pointed out the largest burn of nearly fifty thousand acres in the unpopulated eastern highlands of the Absaroka Mountains. “The Mist and Clover fires started July ninth and eleventh and burned together on the twenty-second.” He moved his hand west. “Our problem now is the North Fork. It’s heading for Old Faithful.”
She studied the oblong streak that began about ten miles due south of West Yellowstone and stretched in a northeasterly curve.
“Started four days ago,” Garrett went on. “Some loggers took a cigarette break in the Targhee National Forest, not three hundred yards from the park boundary. With Old Faithful and Madison in its path, we’ll have one helluva battle.”
“And no rain in sight,” she added.
He nodded. “That’s the worst news.” With a gesture toward the map, he said, “I wanted you to see this. With your background training firefighters, I’ll need you to teach the military that will be brought in.”
She’d suspected when she left Texas that her instructor experience might be brought into play. Now that she’d seen the Shoshone rear like a cobra, she wondered what she could bring to the picture. “What makes you think soldiers will be needed? The policy is to not to fight the fires inside the park.”
“The Yellowstone Superintendent has suspended the natural burn policy. We’re to put ‘em all out.” His tone rang with finality.
She looked at the command center, imagining it full of workers relaying information on weather, manpower, and terrain, deploying everything from helicopters to toilet paper.
Garrett’s eyes moved from the fire map to meet hers. Broken blood vessels marred the whites of his, suggesting that the fire season was already taking its toll on his sleep. “When we bring in green troops, it’ll be your job to see that nobody gets killed.”
Clare’s chest tightened. She thought of a child burned to death, or if perverse fortune had smiled, overcome by smoke before flames reached him. Little Pham Nguyen had not yet turned three. And Frank . . . better to think of his Jane receiving the folded flag and the bugler sounding “Taps” than to keep replaying the events of July 1. When she was awake she had some choice, but at night . . .
Garrett ignored a ringing phone and awaited her answer.
If he knew she’d seen a firefighter down so recently, maybe he’d think twice about trusting her. But Buddy Simpson at A & M had relied on her to supervise training the week after Frank was buried. A good friend and mentor, Buddy had stuck his neck out recommending her to Garrett, one of the top Incident Commanders in the nation.
She straightened her back. “You can count on me.”
Outside Fire Command, Clare was surprised to find pilot Chris Deering lounging on the rock stair railing. Jeans and a T-shirt advertising Lava Hot Springs, Idaho, accentuated his slim frame. “I thought I saw you go in here.”
“If it isn’t the downed aviator.” She brushed back her hair from where it had fallen over her forehead. “Are you all right?”
The white look beneath his tan had disappeared since she had seen him at the hospital yesterday, but the bruise on his cheek was livid. Although the sun shone full on his face, he reached to take off his mirrored sunglasses. “My pride is in tatters. I’m fine as ever.” Dark eyes flicked over her. A speculative glance at the front placket of her yellow Nomex shirt, a swift perusal of her cinched up olive fire pants, and his attention returned to her face.
She leaned back beside him against the rail. He was tall for a pilot, having nearly a foot on her five-three. Across the dry-looking lawn and a potholed parking lot, another rustic stone structure, the old Union Pacific