Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [50]
Deering waved her off and landed on the flattest spot he could find. Even so, the Huey canted strongly to the side.
Clare was last aboard and Deering got a look at the fierce concentration on her sun-browned face. The door slammed. Sherry’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Go!”
Now was the time when déjà vu would come in handy. Deering ran up the RPMs and picked the Huey up about five feet, guiding the hover backward until the tail rotor slashed the pines. At some level, he registered that Clare and Sherry had acquired their headphones and were discussing a shot of morphine.
With a few hundred feet of open space, Deering lifted the tail and gathered speed. There wasn’t enough room to accelerate in a straight line so he went into as tight a turn as he could.
Flying in a circle around the clearing, he managed on the third go-round to achieve lift speed, about twenty miles per hour.
The aircraft lurched, then leaped into the sky.
He changed frequency to let West Yellowstone Control know he was coming, then let Sherry talk with the Smokejumpers’ base. A larger team of six had been dispatched to dig a line around the fire.
Concentrating on flying, Deering handled the Huey with a mingled sense of strangeness and long familiarity. Although it had been nine years since he’d flown a UH-1, once he held the controls it had surged back.
After Sherry completed her report, Deering radioed Demetrios Karrabotsos.
“Clare says the jumper’s stable, just out cold from the pain and morphine,” he relayed. “She clamped his artery while we were shaking all over the sky. If I ever need a medic, you call her.”
Before Karrabotsos could reply, Clare said strongly, “If you ever need a pilot, you call this guy.”
Deering gave her a smile he was sure would make Georgia go ballistic. Clare returned it.
He headed for West Yellowstone. In front of the Smokejumpers’ base, an ambulance waited. Alongside stood a tight group with notepads, cameras and at least two video units.
“The press is here,” Deering announced.
“Who called them?” Clare asked.
He powered down, flipping switches. As the ambulance attendants rushed to the chopper, he finished shutting down and climbed out. It felt odd to be standing on the tarmac in jeans instead of his usual flight suit.
“We’ll follow them to the hospital,” Sherry told Clare. “I’ll get the other guys who aren’t on deck.” She and Randy headed off toward the base building with its tall parachute loft.
Ignoring the press, Deering started to relax. A cold drink, maybe a steak this evening.
Then he noted that Clare’s forehead still furrowed. Her small hands made fists as the gurney wheeled toward the pulsing blood-red emergency flashers.
He thought of telling her that Hudson would be all right, but he didn’t know that.
Billings Live Eye captured the Smokejumper being lifted into the rear of the ambulance in blood soaked coveralls. A red-haired woman reporter in a jeans jacket pressed a microphone at him, but Hudson lay motionless.
Deering looked down at the top of Clare’s tousled head and felt his adrenaline rush subside. He put a hand on her shoulder and remembered her touch, just before she jumped into the clearing. “Do you think he’ll be okay?” He massaged the tightness in her neck muscles.
Her fists slowly relaxed. “Should be . . . if the leg is the only major injury.”
He’d not thought of that. With the departure of the ambulance, the reporters headed toward them.
“Mr. Deering! Could we have a word?”
“Carol Leeds, Billings Live Eye,” said the redhead. “How does it feel to be a hero?”
Deering broke into a grin.
“Mr. Karrabotsos said this was your first day flying with his company,” Carol Leeds went on.
Sonnavabitch.
Across the ramp, Demetrios Karrabotsos balanced in the open trailer door. He propped against the frame with one hand and gave Deering a thumbs-up with the other.
A pony-tailed video cameraman crowded in and filmed.
Someone from the West Yellowstone News raised a Nikon. “How about a photo, Mr. Deering? Of you with the helicopter.”
“Damn right!” He