Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [80]
Today he’d been chasing a report that the Hellroaring had killed over a hundred elk. Shad Dugan had flown the area earlier and neither he nor Steve had seen any dead animals.
Although it was past six, Steve heard over his radio that the air war to save West Yellowstone was still in full swing. A few hours ago Garrett Anderson had told him there was only a twenty-five percent chance of saving the town.
The wind picked up. Steve smelled fresh smoke, a distinction he recognized between the scent of charred forest and one burning actively. He swore and headed for his truck. Hoping the product of government maintenance and a hundred-thirty thousand hard miles would start, he made plans for a hot meal at the Storm Creek Fire Camp, a few miles away inside the northeast entrance.
The burning smell grew stronger.
Steve picked up his pace, limping after hiking for hours on his bad knees. A few hundred yards to the west, a sudden flare indicated ground fire leaping into the treetops. He reached for his radio to notify Fire Command, just as a ragged assemblage of firefighters straggled onto the trail.
Clare recognized Steve despite his fire clothes and hardhat. She raised an arm. As dirty and soot-streaked as she was, he probably didn’t know her.
“Our trucks are a half mile west,” she called over the rising roar as the fire crowned. She looked at the green government pickup parked behind Steve.
“Let’s go,” Travis shouted in command.
Steve opened the driver’s side door and leaped in. Clare and the soldiers piled into the truck bed. The engine nattered, but failed to turn over.
Clare surged off the tailgate and ran around to the front. Wrestling the hood release, she revealed the oil-stained engine.
“Piece of shit,” Steve muttered at her side. He turned, saw her, and said, “You again,” in an ironic voice.
Silver gray eyes met hers for the barest second and they both broke off to scan the compartment. He prodded at corroded battery terminals and lifted a cap while Clare stood on tiptoe to jiggle the spark plug wires. It did not escape her that Sergeant Travis sat on his ass in the truck bed.
Steve got behind the wheel and tried again. “We’ll have to push-start it.”
Without even looking at Travis, Clare ordered the soldiers out. They obeyed in quick unison and put their arms to the rear panels. It was no good, as the fire worked its way down to the road, effectively blocking them from heading back into the burned area for safety.
The impulse to run seized her. It showed on every face as heat reached them.
Steve gripped her arm. “Out of time.” He reached for the belt pouch that contained his ‘shake and bake.’
Dear God, not those flimsy things.
Steve pulled out a wad of silver foil.
Just this morning, she had shown the troops the use of their shelters. Now she waved her arms and shouted for them to clear a spot. It seemed impossible that the tiny tents could keep out the wall of flame that raced toward them.
The soldiers spread out uncertainly, shrugging off their packs. Clare wished she could coach each of them through this. Unfortunately, she was forced to dump her pack and begin clearing a place where she might save her own skin.
While she worked, she noticed that Steve was close to her side, his head down as he dug with a shovel he’d pulled from the bed of his pickup.
A sudden gust thinned the smoke. The troops scraped away at anything that could burn. Clare looked at the Hellroaring and worked faster. Sweat poured down her sides.
A rain of embers caught the dry grass in a dozen places. She leaped to stamp out one small fire, and then another.
The troops fumbled at their belts for their shelter pouches and shook out the pitifully inadequate looking covers. Silver foil whipped as they struggled to control all four corners.
Steve whirled to put out another spot fire with his shovel. Clare put a hand on his arm. “Here it comes.”
She stared at the blazing trees for a moment, transfixed. Then she reached for her shelter.
A look of horror spread over the face of her most enthusiastic