Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [78]
“Damned feds, taking over everything in sight.”
“Forest service is cut out, too,” agreed a slender man whose smooth cheeks and downy hair made him look too young to be a firefighter. “The Type I teams and the military just marched in.”
Clare took a closer look and noted from their T-shirts that the men were members of the local fire department, grousing about folks like her and Garrett Anderson.
Inside, the battle lines appeared drawn. The lectern was set up opposite the townspeople. Garrett stood flanked by men with rangers’ shining badges and military officials in camouflage fatigues. It looked as though they hoped to reassure the population, but unfortunately, the rear windows faced south. Not three miles away, a crimson tentacle of the North Fork crested a ridge.
“We’ve got all kinds of resources, helicopters, and tankers,” Garrett said into the microphone. “They’re clearing a six-blade dozer line west of town and east by the park.”
“All this ‘let burn’ is going to burn us out of town!” A woman with a hard-looking face called from near the stone fireplace.
“Damn right!” someone else shouted.
The tallest of the park officials stepped forward. “I’m Tom King, Yellowstone Superintendent.” He looked over the sea of angry faces. A flush suffused his own face beneath a shock of unruly hair. After a pause to let the catcalls go unanswered, King cleared his throat. “On July 27th, the Secretary of the Interior upheld our suspension of the park’s ‘let burn’ policy. Ever since, we’ve been throwing everything we have at these fires.” He nodded toward the military. “Even brought in our boys in uniform, but . . . “
A big man who looked to be in his early sixties took off his orange ball cap and stepped forward. “I’m Pete Cullen, sir, own the Red Wolf across the way. Every time you say a fire won’t burn past this place or that, you come back later and say the place is toast.”
“We’ve never seen wildfire act this way,” King said. “This season is defying all the models.”
The people murmured like a rising wind.
Pete Cullen raised his arm and they quieted. “Me and some folks are doing something. Bringing in irrigation equipment and setting up a great big line of sprinklers on the edge of town.”
“We’re much obliged to you,” Garrett told him, then announced to the room at large. “Mr. Cullen will be up front if any of you good people would care to help him out.”
Clare didn’t like the little frisson of hope that went through the room. A few sprinklers would have little use against the North Fork. Garrett must have realized. “I hate to say this, but if I lived in West Yellowstone, I’d be thinking about what to take with me in case of evacuation.”
“No matter what bullshit you shovel,” someone shouted, “you’ve given up our town.”
Garrett’s jaw set, but Tom King was faster. “Putting firefighters in front of these fires is like putting your hand in front of blowtorch. You know you’re gonna get burned.” The Superintendent paused. “We believe that people’s lives are more important than property.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
September 4
The next day was Sunday, but it saw Clare back on the line with a new batch of troop trainees.
On Cutoff Mountain, inside the northeast corner of Yellowstone, she shielded her face with her gloved hand and used a drip torch to splash flaming diesel onto the forest floor. The dry mixture of needles and bark flared.
Stepping back, she joined Sergeant Travis, who stood in an attitude of command. She’d learned that his father was a career Army officer who had sent his son to military school, starting with seventh grade. In her mind, this helped to explain, but did not excuse his behavior.
Ignoring Travis’s pose, Clare watched the burnout eat its greedy way across the slope. With luck, the small blaze would deprive the approaching Hellroaring Fire of fuel.
Behind the backfire