Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [69]
Hoping that this excursion might be his ticket back to the real world, Steve packed his gear, gulped a second cup of coffee and went to wait outside. The usual daily weather pattern was already shot to hell. Instead of morning smoke lying in the lows, boiling convection cells rose like thunderheads off every major fire in sight. Haze crept over the flanks of the mountains and cut visibility to ten miles.
Steve’s palms were wet. Before he was ready, the dreaded whopping approached.
The helicopter came in, an olive drab Huey with an intimidating military look. The wash of wind from the blades flattened the dry grass around Steve’s feet. His heart raced and he bit the inside of his cheek to get some saliva flowing.
The skids were down.
The pilot reached across and opened the passenger door. Steve ducked his head and hurried to climb aboard. Putting on headphones, he heard a western drawl, “No way this was my idea, Doctor Haywood.”
“Deering!” Steve gripped the door handle. He almost got out, but Shad Dugan wouldn’t buy cowardice.
Before he was strapped in, the chopper lifted rapidly over the treeless patch of summit. Within fifty yards, the slope dropped away and they were flying at a thousand feet.
Steve’s stomach rebelled. He clapped his palm across his mouth and took a frantic look for a barf bag. Deering lifted his hand from the collective and plucked a small sack from a pocket on the side of his seat.
Steve choked back the acid liquid, but kept the bag close at hand. He’d never been prone to motion sickness, it was just those last ill-fated flights. He didn’t need three strikes.
Although Deering appeared to handle the controls deftly, sweat trickled from Steve’s brow to his cheek. Looking out, he tried to concentrate on the land.
The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone yawned, a steep-walled, towered chasm striped in shades of burnt orange. Hydrothermal waters had altered the rock, turning it so rotten that the river easily cut a deep gorge.
South of the canyon was another world. There, the Yellowstone meandered peacefully across the golden, grassy expanse of Hayden Valley, oblivious to its upcoming wild ride.
The Huey turned west into the wind. Steve made a conscious effort not to clench his fists.
“I was directed to drop you at Norris.” Deering’s voice penetrated the overpowering white noise of the engine.
Steve frowned. Just yesterday, the North Fork front had been five miles southeast of Norris Geyser Basin. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but once more, Garrett Anderson had accurately predicted trouble.
“Look,” Deering went on, “about that day we went down . . . “
“I’d rather forget it.” Keeping his head averted, Steve concentrated on the horizon and keeping his stomach tamed.
“Believe me, I would too,” Deering went on, “but my Bell’s rusting in a shed in West Yellowstone.”
“Tough.” Steve’s hands fisted on his thighs.
“If I don’t get my insurance money, the salvage company can claim her.”
“What’s that to do with me?”
“The insurance folks want to talk to you.”
Steve gritted his teeth as the Huey flew like it was driving the potholed stretch of road between Madison and Norris. Black smoke roiled off the North Fork and the rest of the sky had a reddish cast.
Deering said, “Getting that money will help get me out of a jam. My wife’s pissed off enough.”
“I don’t care about your personal problems.”
“You don’t have to worry about them blaming you for screwing up the bucket.” Deering persuaded. “I told them I got set by wind off the firestorm.”
They were coming in fast. Steve held his breath and tried to make sense of what he’d just heard.
The Huey set down. Steve crumpled the barf bag and threw it in the floorboards. “Blame me?” He opened the door and let in the howl of wind. “When I finish telling them about you,” he shouted above the din, “you’ll be walking.”
Deering’s hands shook as he landed at West Yellowstone. He tried to tell