Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [47]
“There!” Sherry pushed and the cargo tumbled out, its chute unfurling just in time to prevent the boxes from smashing.
As they gained altitude and flew over the valley one last time, Sherry pointed out the jumpers. Randy had landed in the clearing, along with the cargo. Hudson’s smaller chute hung on the side of a tree, not far uphill.
“Should have capped it,” Sherry said. As the plane banked away from Bighorn Peak, she grinned. “All over for them now but the drudgery.”
Clare relaxed and watched the mushroom clouds from the larger fires as the sun-warmed air allowed the convection currents free rein. Each day, she had to remind herself that a building thunderhead did not promise rain.
Sherry reached for her Bendix radio with a frown. “Come in?”
An excited male voice came over the airwaves. “Hudson’s bleeding bad!”
“Randy?” Sherry asked.
“He landed in a tree and burned through. Fractured his femur and severed an artery.”
Sherry looked forward at the pilot and Clare saw her rapid calculation. “We’ll have to radio for a chopper.”
Deering smoked a Marlboro and looked around the broad West Yellowstone ramp. The usually secluded area at the north end of the runway had undergone dramatic change in the past few weeks.
The tanker traffic had become constant and the Smokejumpers were making frequent runs. After almost two weeks on the ground, Deering still couldn’t believe that no one wanted him to fly.
The chop of rotors approached. By the Island Park logo, a gold-rimmed oval with a black helicopter, this one belonged to Demetrios Karrabotsos. Deering’s yearning ache gave way to anger at Steve Haywood for carrying tales.
The Huey’s pilot, a bowlegged man Deering did not recognize climbed down, went to a Dodge pickup, and drove off.
Deering put out his smoke. Looking around to make sure Karrabotsos was not in sight, he began a leisurely walk toward the helicopter. The nostalgic fuel smell made him hurt inside.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the Smokejumpers’ plane coming in hot from the runway. The white Beech with orange stripes careened up in front of the base building. Almost before it stopped, a small woman in khaki shorts and a tank top leaped out of the open rear doorway. Deering recognized Clare Chance, sun-pinkened and animated.
“There!” Clare pointed at Deering. She broke into a run toward him. “We need you to fly us into the park to rescue an injured Smokejumper.”
The old familiar surge propelled his heart and the rest of him into action. He turned, as if to leap into the cockpit.
Clare slammed her fist into the palm of her other hand. “Let’s go.”
Deering felt like she’d punched his stomach. Without an aircraft, he was worse than useless.
Clare waited for Deering to move, but he stared at the Island Park helicopter like he didn’t know what it was.
“It’s not mine,” he said dully. She knew his helicopter had gone in the lake, but thought he was flying this machine. Then she realized he wore jeans and a T-shirt rather than a flight suit.
Adrenaline surging like she was at a fire, she looked around the ramp.
“The pilot drove off,” Deering said. “You might find the owner in that trailer. Unless he’s out flying.”
“I’ll go, Sherry,” she told her.
“I’ll get our rescue gear.” Sherry ran away toward the base.
Clare set out for the trailer. Even with his long legs, Deering lagged her.
Three charter companies shared the rental trailer on the edge of the ramp. The Island Park logo was in the middle below Yellowstone Charter’s red and black lettering and above the bold blue triangle of Eagle Air.
Clare raised her hand to knock. Deering said, “Just go in.”
She opened the door. “Excuse me.” She stopped, stunned at the facial scars on the man behind the desk. She recovered. “I’m looking for whoever owns that Huey out front.”
“That would be me. I’m Karrabotsos.” Calmly, he sipped coffee, keeping his salt and pepper head bent.
A muscle in the side of her jaw tensed. “The Smokejumpers have a man down on Bighorn Peak.”
Karrabotsos looked