Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [34]
“It’s a bitch out there,” Adam declared. “Like clockwork, every day at noon the temperature inversion breaks and all hell with it.”
“Tell me about it,” Deering chimed in as though he were still flying.
“See that fellow there?” Adam pointed.
Deering recognized Demetrios Karrabotsos. The stately, silver-haired owner of Island Park Helicopters seemed to lead with his chin as he strode toward a mess tent. Deering had heard that he was a veteran of both Korea and Vietnam. Although he’d seen the older pilot from a distance, they had never met.
“I heard that Island Park is understaffed,” Adam went on.
“I’ve tried to see him, but he’s always out.”
The tanker pilots climbed back aboard and Deering watched as before, until the blue and white fuselage became a silver spark against the sky. When he blinked and could no longer find it, he ignored a dark look from Gary Cullen, and dogged Karrabotsos toward the concession area.
Despite the warming day, he bought a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee, sipped and found it bitter. Sighting his quarry straddling a flimsy folding chair, he approached. “Demetrios Karrabotsos?”
“Yeah?”
“Chris Deering, of Deering Charters over in Idaho.” He tried to keep his outstretched hand steady and not to stare. Although the older pilot must have once been a handsome man, his face and neck were deeply incised by shiny scars that had to be burns. In his bulky flight suit, he looked formidable.
“Heard of you.” The voice was gravelly, as though flames had seared his vocal cords as well. Black eyes studied Deering until he felt like a target in a gunner’s sights. “I go by Karrabotsos,” he finally offered, belatedly shaking the hand Deering had in the air.
Pulling out a chair, Deering sat and held his cigarette by his side. “Pretty wild fire season.”
“Worst since the blowup of 1910,” Karrabotsos agreed.
“This drought and wind keep up . . . “ Deering sipped his coffee nervously. More small talk might be in order, but, fingers crossed, he started his pitch. “I’m a one aircraft service and I’ve been grounded since I ditched my Bell.”
“Heard that.” Karrabotsos did not sound quite as neutral as before.
Deering took a deep drag on his Marlboro. “I wonder if you might need a pilot.”
“Nope.”
He exhaled smoke. “This is going to get worse before it gets better. Your craft . . . You have four of them, don’t you, will be busy day and night. Even if you have a full staff . . . “ He paused to allow Karrabotsos to admit he did not.
The two men stared at each other. It went on so long that Deering concluded either Adam was mistaken about Island Park being understaffed, or Karrabotsos did not want to admit it.
“Your men will still need relief,” Deering said.
Karrabotsos studied him again with eyes shiny as ripe olives. “How’d you wind up in the drink?”
Sweat broke out in Deering’s armpits. “Bad luck. We’ve all been there, especially us vets.” He forced a smile to include Karrabotsos. If those burns had come from combat or a crash . . .
The other man’s face stayed stony. “Word has it you had a park ranger on board. Seems this fellow told a bartender friend of his, who told a member of a tanker crew, who told one of my pilots . . .”
“What is this, some goddamn game of kids’ gossip?” Deering’s face warmed.
“He said you’re reckless.”
Georgia would have cheered.
“A dangerous hot shot,” Karrabotsos went on, “who didn’t need to trash a million dollars’ worth of helicopter.”
“Haywood’s a fucking liar!”
“That may be.” Karrabotsos shrugged. “I’m not willing to take a chance.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
August 3
Clare woke in her cabin at Old Faithful. She checked her watch that she slept in from force of habit at the fire station. Ten minutes to her four-thirty alarm, not enough time to get back to sleep.
Disjointed snippets of dream played on her mind’s dark canvas. While she slept,