Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [70]
God damn the day he’d first set eyes on Doctor Steve Haywood. Within two hours of Deering meeting the man, his helicopter had been at the bottom of the lake. If that Smoke-jumper hadn’t broken his leg, Deering would still be schlepping retardant onto aerial tankers.
As hot as his rage was, he couldn’t completely ignore its cold companion, a stony feeling in the pit of his stomach that reminded him where the real fault lay. Georgia was right about him being a daredevil. If only he could turn back the clock, take the time to find a landing spot and make sure the bucket was suspended properly beneath his chopper.
When Deering found out whom he was going to pick up this morning, he’d been half-afraid that Suzanne Ho had taken his advice and hiked up Mount Washburn. Instead, it appeared that the corporate wheels were turning more slowly.
Deering’s momentary relief that she had not talked to Haywood had been wiped away when he realized his claim wasn’t going to be paid until she did. Now that he knew how Haywood felt, he was sweating large caliber bullets.
Pushing away his unpleasant thoughts, he wondered where Garrett Anderson was. He’d been instructed to pick him up near the charter trailer.
At the sight of the nearby Smokejumpers’ Base, Deering thought of Clare and the day she’d helped him in the rescue. The urge to see her again rose as it had with unruly regularity in the past week.
Garrett came up to the Huey from behind and opened the left-hand door. Deering jumped as the wind flapped a copy of last week’s Time in the floorboards. The cover bore an artist’s rendering of the Crucifixion for a story on the movie, The Last Temptation of Christ.
“Can we fly in this?” Garrett slammed out the wind, reestablishing the illusion of calm. “I just did. After ferrying a guy from Washburn to Norris, I was dropping incendiaries on the North Fork.” The ping-pong ball sized capsules of fuel were dropped to ignite backfires. When the main fire arrived, the area of expended fuel might stop it.
“I heard the tower might call down the planes and choppers.”
“This is recon, right?” Deering started flipping switches. “Let’s check the wind along with everything else.”
Moments later, they flew east along the Madison River at about five hundred feet. In the burned-out sector of the North Fork, National Park Mountain’s stark cliffs loomed. Beyond, Madison Campground had been made into a fire camp. Colorful tourist tents had been replaced by olive drab and the RVs by troop transports.
Deering headed northeast and began to see areas of active combustion mixed with untouched vegetation. This mosaic created a patchwork effect. As they approached Norris, where Deering had dropped Steve earlier, the sky grew reddish and hazy. Radio chatter intensified as other choppers flying buckets of water checked in. The day’s air controller warned someone about getting too close to the flaming trees.
“We’ve got battle lines at Norris and on the road to Canyon,” Garrett said. “I don’t think they can do anything but watch this burn.”
A few miles on, a roadblock held up a line of traffic below. In an open field beside the highway, several helicopters sat idle, obviously ordered down by the air controller.
Garrett’s thick fingers gripped a handhold as he looked at the grounded helicopters.
Smoke spiraled up, reminding Deering of the afternoon he’d ditched in Yellowstone Lake. He was careful to fly well clear this time.
The North Fork threw off a pocket of rough air. Deering corrected course and concentrated on keeping the aircraft steady.
Garrett peered back at the parked choppers in the drifting orange light. “I’d hoped to check out Silver Gate and Cooke City.” The small towns in a high valley outside the northeast entrance had a love-hate relationship with the Park Service. In winter, the highway over Beartooth Pass closed, making the route through Yellowstone their only access. This summer a few hothead residents thought park officials hoped to burn them out.
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