Читать книгу The Height of Secrecy - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 7

Jack Chastain tipped the drip torch forward and burning oil dribbled out, setting fire to a clump of sagebrush. The flames grew, engulfed the sage, and flashed toward a thicket of oak brush. He dipped the torch forward again to the same effect.

Wind, from nowhere, pushed back, blowing heat in his face. He stood up right. The holding crewman to his left stepped back, ready to stand his ground, but looked more surprised than prepared.

The wind died away.

Between the fire line and advancing front of flame, the strip of black was no longer narrow. It was growing. That could be good or bad, a buffer to stop the main body of the now-named, Pistol Creek Fire, or a potential problem. With so much fire on the ground, it would be hard to control if winds came early. The forecast said tomorrow, not today.

Jack raised his eyes to the horizon.

A gray zone of smoke rose up along the ridgeline. Two columns poked up above the trees, trying to come to a boil.

This had better work. The fire cannot be allowed to move this direction. Not this close to the boundary. Even doing good things to the west, there would be hell to pay. Explaining why this fire was seen as potentially good after starting under suspicious circumstances—a pickup found burning on the desert and quickly extinguished, but not before starting a spot fire on the plateau—would not be easy. Explaining the decision to manage the fire—or allow it to burn—would be difficult with evacuations occurring or houses burning. Heads would roll.

Johnny Reger’s plan seemed good, until now. The small number of firefighters from which to draw hadn’t seemed a major concern—it was so early in the year, before the worst of the fire season. A few firefighters from nearby parks, reinforcing the fire staff from Piedras Coloradas National Park, and a little help from Jack, and that seemed enough. Until now, with the wind.

One day. That’s all that’s needed. One day to secure this stretch before forecasted winds arrive. Then the fire can move north and west. Monitored and allowed to burn. Allowed to do good things.

But not if we lose it here.

Jack checked the others. As the wind died back, the firers pressed on, their line of fire heating up, flames lapping back. The holding crews leaned into their shovels and waited, ready.

Up the way, outside the line, a firefighter stood between the fire and a scratch line cut to protect a sandstone outcropping and a small population of rare plants, a wallflower, proposed for endangered status. It had to be protected. Once the burn advances past where the woody-stemmed plant grows—its roots penetrating cracks at the base and up the face of the rock—the firefighter can move down the line to help elsewhere. Procedure. Johnny was being thorough.

Jack moved northwest, along the edge of the black, lighting off more brush. The sweat on the back of his neck turned cool. Another wind shift. He stopped and raised the drip torch.

He exchanged glances with Johnny Reger, who gave him a serious look, the sparkle gone from his usually jesting eyes. Sweat matted dark strands of hair falling below the brim of his helmet. Nerves.

“Where did this come from?” Jack shouted.

He shrugged. “Phantom winds. Said nothing about ’em in the forecast.”

Tops of ponderosas swayed.

“Should we stop?” Johnny asked.

“Don’t know. Feels like we’re committed, and only so much time till tomorrow.”

A hot, dry wind bit his face.

Tree tops buffeted.

Not good—not with this much fire on the ground.

Jack checked up and down the line.

A gray-bearded firer raised his drip torch and stopped, he too, seemingly concerned. Looking up, he appeared to be watching the tree tops.

A tall, gangly firer stepped past Gray Beard and lit off a patch of sagebrush. Fire ate through, crackling, moving with the wind. The young firer backed away from the heat, a moment later stepped past it, and tipped his torch forward. Gray Beard grabbed his arm, and waved over a man from the holding crew.

The wind died away. Tree tops grew still.

Gray Beard watched for a long moment, then signaled the young firer to proceed. He lowered his own torch and lit off the brush at his feet, pushing the fire through a swell. Smoke moved aimlessly back up the hill, mingling among the trees on the edge of the opening.

Jack exhaled, and looked over at Johnny. Johnny shook his head and smiled. He pointed a firer on. Progress had to be made.

Jack watched Gray Beard approach a downed pine and dip his torch. Dry, red needles popped into flame, and raced along the length of the tree. It was fully involved in a moment. Gray Beard stood back and watched.

Jack studied the heat waves. Shut the burn down, or take our chances? Can the Pistol Creek Fire be caught at this stage of the game? No, best odds are with finishing this burn. He dipped his torch forward and moved down the line.

Near the top of a rise, wind bit his face. A wind shift.

A firer moved into the sagebrush near the rare plants. Blonde ponytail flowing out from under a red helmet, it had to be one of the park firefighters, Christy Manion. Fire ecology diploma only freshly minted, but fire boots well worn, she was a veteran firefighter. Jack watched her coax the burn through the sage, then into the needles at the base of a monarch ponderosa. She slowed and watched. Abruptly, she turned and signaled the firefighter on guard, waving him over.

The fellow ambled toward her, shovel on his shoulder.

Wind burst into the opening. Flame climbed into oak brush. Leaves flashed. The man stepped back.

“Hit it with dirt,” Christy shouted. “Winds are shifting!”

The big man let the shovel head slip to the ground. He settled into his lean and watched.

“Hit it!”

Burning leaves tumbled along the ground, through black, into green. Grass burst into flame. Sagebrush ignited. Flame and heat marched at the scratch line.

“Hit it! Put it out!”

Jack bolted.

The man stood watching.

Fire rolled over the scratch line, igniting woody-stemmed plants at the base of the rock.

Manion dropped her torch and dashed past the spectating firefighter. Shielding her face, she danced on the flames, grinding her boots into burning undergrowth.

Flame lapped up the wall, stepping from plant to plant, each bursting into flame.

She grasped at dirt with her hands, flinging it up the wall, slowing the fire—but it was too late. She dropped her head.

Stunned, Jack watched.

Christy slowly pointed. “Get a line around it,” she muttered.

The man stooped over and gave the ground a scrape. A token scrape.

“Line it,” Christy demanded.

“It’s done. Besides, there’s nothing left.”

“Do it anyway,” Christy said, sounding near tears. She dug in her boots, kicking dirt at the remains of the plants. Smoke wafted from scorched stems. “How could you let that happen? Why didn’t you stop it?”

The man settled back into his lean. “Would’ve been hard.”

Jack’s bile rose in his throat as he stepped up behind the light haired man.

“You could if you tried . . . but you didn’t,” she said, continuing to kick at the dirt. “They’re . . .” She raised her head. “Get over here. I’m bustin’ my butt.”

The man cocked his head. “I’d say keep it up sweet cheeks. It’s not hurting you any.”

Christy slowly stood up right and glared, then noticed Jack. She shook her head.

Johnny Reger stepped out from the shadows, following the line. He stopped. His jaw dropped. “What? What happened?” His eyes darted from scratch line, to smoldering plants, to rock outcropping, to Christy, to the other firefighter. “What did you do?”

“Nothing?” Christy said. “He did nothing.”

The man smirked. “Don’t expect miracles.”

Johnny turned to Jack, mouth slowly moving, no words coming out.

“You can’t work,” Christy shouted. “You’re a lazy ass.”

“And this is the . . . only . . .” Johnny said, barely managing the words.

“The only known population,” Jack said. “Might be fire adapted, but we don’t know for sure. The botanist who described the species thought it might be found elsewhere, but so far . . .” He let his words trail off.

“This plant was . . . ,” Johnny said, sounding in shock. “What do we do now?”

“Not sure. This is bad,” Jack muttered. “We’ll need to do a review of some kind, but I’m not sure we can think about that today.”

“It’s this guy that ought to be in trouble,” Christy said, pointing at the big man.

“Your problem, not mine,” he said. His smirk grew into a smile.

Johnny cocked an eyebrow. “A little smug, aren’t you?”

“Your fire, not mine.”

Johnny’s eyes moved between the fire and the crewman. “I don’t have time for this shit. I need everyone here. If I didn’t, I’d put your ass on the first train home.”

The man threw back his head and laughed.

“Forget that. You’re out of here,” Johnny said.

The man sobered up and stared back. “I don’t think so.” He turned. “Hey, boss man,” he said, in Jack’s direction.

Jack turned toward him. “You talking to me?”

“Yes, boss man, you need to get involved with this.”

Something about the man’s green eyes. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you.”

“How?”

“Stories.” His smile grew. “My brother’s stories. Remember the name Foss?”

“I know a Foss,” Jack said, not at all pleased.

“I’m sure you do. Mover and shaker. Superintendent of a park so close to Washington, he drops in on the Director just to say hello. I’m his brother, Carl.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Christy groaned. “Doesn’t explain your lazy ass.”

Foss kept his eyes on Jack. “Clint Foss’ brother. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

Christy’s mouth gaped open, incredulous.

“I’d get these two under control,” Foss said. “You don’t need more trouble. You know, trouble? Like in Montana?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jack turned away. “It’s Johnny’s fire. Take it up with him.”

“What should I do, boss?” Johnny asked.

“Johnny, you said he’s out of here. He’s caused enough trouble. You don’t need his disruption.”

Foss turned to Johnny. “He’s hanging you out to dry. Letting you get your ass in trouble, saving his.”

Jack spun around and stepped forward. “Johnny, strike that. I’m pulling rank.” He turned to Foss, and pointed toward the trucks. “Get the hell out of here. Get your stuff. Go!”

Christy pointed in the direction of the vehicles.

Johnny managed a smile.

The man stood his ground. “You’re not exactly overstaffed. Don’t be stupid.”

“Go,” Jack shouted. He took a quick step toward the man.

Foss recoiled. He threw down his shovel, and kicked the ground.

“Go!”

Foss stomped off.

“When you get back to your park,” Jack shouted after him, “tell your boss to expect a call. To talk about your reputation. What’s left of it. Count on your name coming up in a review of what happened today.”

“Jerk,” Christy muttered. “We don’t need him.”

“Actually, we do,” Johnny said. He turned to Jack “Love it when you pull rank. Way to kick some ass by the way. What’s that about another Foss?”

Jack sighed.

“Someone mentions Montana, you stop talking.” Johnny spun around to the smoking remains. “Makes me sick but I can’t think about this now. Got wind to worry about. I need an updated weather forecast. Tell me later what I’m in for on this review.”

He reached for his mike. The radio popped first. “Johnny, one of the crew just walked off the job. He’s in a truck, hauling ass out of here.”

“We released him.”

“We did? The folks from his park aren’t exactly heartbroken, but they wonder how they’ll get home.”

Johnny keyed the mike. Before he could answer, Christy shouted, “I’ll drive ’em.”

A deep tone bled over the radio, then, “Reger, this is Dispatch.”

“This is Reger. I was about to call you, Molly. I need a fresh weather forecast.”

“Stand by, Johnny. Prepare for instructions regarding personnel.”

Jack picked up his drip torch, but paused to listen.

“Go ahead,” Johnny said.

“Regarding that person you released,” Molly said, then ended the transmission.

Jack turned toward the two-track. Dust hung in the air. Could Foss pull strings that fast?

“He was a problem,” Johnny said. “Had to send him home.”

“Understood, but . . . stand by.”

Johnny dropped his hand. He kept an ear to the radio.

The radio popped and Molly came back on. “We’ve got a bigger problem. Luiz needs help. He needs you to keep him.”

“The guy’s worthless. Plus he’s gone. What’s up?”

“Rescue. We’re short-handed,” Molly said, a slight crack in her coolness. “We need all the help we can get.”

“He won’t be much good.”

“You’re not gonna like this, but we need him. And, we need some of you.”

“No way.”

“No negotiating. We need people. We’ve got a man stuck on a wall.”