Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [33]
“Just gonna smoke.” Deering walked off the ramp away from the planes and fuel trucks, patting his retardant-soaked coveralls for his Marlboros. After several tries, he managed to light a limp cigarette. Georgia was always on him to quit.
That little gal Clare, he didn’t think she smoked. Quick guilt slashed, for he hadn’t worn a wedding ring in years, and he had failed to mention Georgia. He told himself that his reply to Clare’s question about family hadn’t been a lie. Summers in fire were tough on commitment.
Not exactly a lie.
Thankfully, common sense had prevailed and he hadn’t left a message for her at Fire Command. On the other hand, he hadn’t phoned home either, still too angry with Georgia. Last week at Old Faithful when he’d told Clare he needed to be flying, he’d been as shocked as if the words had appeared in a cartoon balloon. If he’d said that to Georgia, she would have shrieked. Saying it to another woman who understood his sense of loss made it feel doubly like betrayal.
The DC-7 he’d filled revved up in a low-pitched drone. The plane swept down the runway, gathering speed with each passing second. With the need to get back in the air an almost physical ache, Deering pictured himself in the cockpit with the patched concrete rushing past at over a hundred miles per hour.
The tanker’s speed increased until it seemed it would be out of runway. The weight of two fifteen-hundred-gallon tanks riveted onto the aircraft’s belly made it necessary for the rest of the plane to fly empty. The engines rose to a scream and finally, the pilot let the DC-7 have its nose. It swooped up and over the spiky mat of hundred-foot trees, that appeared as matchsticks from the air.
His chest ached and his anger at his wife renewed. Deering yearned for his Georgie, still in Yellowstone Lake. Not until next week did the insurance company plan to salvage it. As his claim had not been settled, the salvage outfit was gambling between two possible outcomes—payment from First Assurance or taking title to Deering’s helicopter.
He refused to consider that, focusing instead on the moment when he would see his prize emerge from the lake. A complete overhaul would put off flying it until next year’s season, something that should make Georgia the happiest woman in Idaho.
He couldn’t help but think again of Clare. If he got a flying gig, she’d help him celebrate.
Another tanker landed and he recognized by its blue-on-white paint job that he knew the pilot. Adam Parker was a fellow veteran of Vietnam from the fixed-wing side. Adam and his copilot moved off the ramp for a smoke while Gary Cullen helped Deering drag the heavy hose. After coupling, it took under five minutes to load several thousand gallons of retardant, then quick-release.
When the crew came back to board, Deering said, “Hey there, Parker.” He removed his goggles and bandanna so Adam could recognize him.
“Deering!” Adam’s broad face, splotchy from the heat, broke into an astonished look.
“The hell you doin’?” He gestured at Deering’s soaked coveralls and tapped his younger copilot on the shoulder. “Last time I saw this guy, he was flying his own helicopter.”
Deering’s face warmed. He hoped the other pilots would chalk it up to the scorching afternoon. “I had to ditch in Yellowstone Lake when the Shoshone came through Grant.” He tried to sound casual, but he was sick of explaining the accident.
“Why aren’t you flying for one of the other charters?” Adam asked.
“I talked to most of them and the word was they had help.”
“Hell, talk to them again. Folks are gonna need relief.”
“Yeah.” Deering looked at the DC-7. “Even this lumbering giant is starting to look good.”
Helicoptering could be a risky business, but flying tankers was even more dangerous. Taking their