Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [72]
Steve wiped his bloody blade on the calf’s coat and replaced the knife in his belt pouch. The wind shifted, bringing a strong smell of smoke from the firestorm raging at Norris.
When he was but halfway to the highway, a woman with a microphone came toward him, trailed by the ponytailed cameraman who’d heckled Steve at Roaring Mountain.
There were nearly thirty-five thousand elk in the park, but it would do no good to speak of them today. The loss of these thirty was news.
“Carol Leeds,” called the reporter. “Billings Live Eye.” The wind snapped her jeans jacket.
Clare heard it coming through the treetops, a sudden downburst off the North Fork’s convection cell. The raging gale bordered on hurricane force.
Snags scattered through the forest went down as though a scythe mowed them.
A shower of embers began. In front of Clare’s feet, one landed on a log and burned a small black patch. Within seconds, it burst into flame.
Sergeant Travis was already in retreat, as were the troops. That was good, for if Clare had shouted no one could have heard. Down the line, the group of California hotshots she’d seen on the Mink Creek abandoned their position.
Once in the truck, bouncing along the rutted dirt track, Clare was pleased that Sergeant Travis routinely invoked executive privilege and rode shotgun. It was nice not to listen to his twist on their retreat. It was also pleasant to be in the company of the young people the nation relied on for defense. Wide-eyed at the almost nuclear forces the fires released, they nonetheless recovered quickly. Eager voices expressed determination to get back out there and slay the dragon.
Once again, they reminded Clare of Devon, whose October birthday was just over a month away. It was difficult to believe that her little girl was almost old enough to serve her country, but there it was. Many of these soldiers must have mothers at home; women who worried and watched the nightly news, praying no harm would come to their child. As youthful as they were, some probably had wives and children.
When the troop transport reached the highway, it joined a line of cars and trucks held up by the road closure. Clare switched on her radio and listened to the biggest battle going on in the world this day.
South of the park, downed trees on power lines had started two new conflagrations. One had caused the evacuation of Flagg Ranch, where Deering had picked up meals for the Mink Creek camp. The Clover-Mist, Hellroaring, and Storm Creek fires were torching over a mile of forest an hour. The renamed Red-Shoshone was making another run at West Thumb, causing a new evacuation.
When Clare heard that Dr. Steve Haywood had discovered thirty dead elk, she was sorry for the animals, but glad Steve was off Mount Washburn.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
August 20
Steve took a deep swallow of the double bourbon he’d ordered from the Mammoth Hot Springs Bar. It seared all the way down. He looked for anyone he knew in the anonymous tourist crowd, telling himself that he was safe here even as he damned it for a lie.
Through the wide windows opposite, he saw the oasis that irrigation had created, a sanctuary for Mammoth’s elk herd. A group of perhaps fifteen lay in the soft grass while daylight waned.
Steve imagined what would happen if the North Fork, only ten miles south, burned to here. Over two thousand firefighters were on the lines, but today’s blowups made it clear that man was helpless in the face of such natural forces.
If the North Fork came to Mammoth, he wanted to be on the front lines, to cut that bastard down the way it had destroyed those defenseless elk.
Steve took another drink. It didn’t burn as much.
If Clare knew he’d succumbed, she’d be disappointed. He wished he knew where she was on his first evening in civilization. At Old Faithful, West Yellowstone, or was she in one of the myriad fire camps? With the