Читать книгу Public Trust - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 8

Jack Chastain stood perched on an outcropping, looking out over the valley, watching the crew make their way across the slope on the other side.

Hell of an assignment. Walking the edge, looking for sleepers—embers that might be laying low, smoldering since the night before—making sure they didn’t spring to life at the hottest part of the day. It was good of Ambrose to think they needed an easier job, after working most of the night with little more than a catnap, but this job was not exactly easy. Not with the lowest parts of the drainage so steep and treacherous. At least they could pace themselves until the end of the day, then get carried back to camp for a full night’s rest. They needed it.

Jack saw something he did not like. He keyed his radio. “Tammy, stop your squad. Some of them are below Paul’s people.”

“Copy.”

They stopped. Jack watched them re-stagger themselves across the slope, and then start their trudge, moving as a perfectly spaced unit. A rock kicked loose. The firefighter downslope and behind stepped back and watched it roll all the way to the bottom.

“That’s why,” Jack shouted.

The excitement settled down.

Idle chatter began to drift across the drainage.

“Me too,” one of them said, agreeing with jumbled words. “I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed.”

Another wanted to see his wife and kids.

Jack let out a quiet chuckle. Signs of homesickness. Being tired of it all. He couldn’t blame them. He was feeling it too, but being crew boss he couldn’t admit it. He was tired and sore, every part of his body wanting nothing more than to sleep in a familiar bed, and soak in a long, hot bath. Those things would be at home in New Mexico, at Piedras Coloradas.

But ready to go back there? He could hardly believe he was thinking it. Only two weeks ago, when this interagency crew was assembled in the rush to find crews, the assignment had felt somehow safer. Only the few from Piedras Coloradas National Park knew him. The others didn’t. They knew nothing about the reassignment to Piedras Coloradas, the controversies in Montana, and the local big shots who had wanted him made into an example, and who made good on their threats through connections with a U.S. Senator.

Jack dropped his eyes. Surely they all knew by now. He couldn’t rule it out, and he couldn’t keep himself from starting to put up the same barriers and the same strong face he did at Piedras Coloradas.

Might as well be at home, inside four walls. There he could drop the charade—even if it meant being alone. Even if Courtney wasn’t there to turn to.

Why had she chosen to stay in Montana? Why had she refused the agency’s offer of reassignment when it imposed one on him? Injury added to insult. When he needed someone most, why had she ended things without explanation? “Just wasn’t meant to be,” he said aloud to himself. It tired him hearing it.

He tore his mind away, and watched a BLM firefighter stop and lean on her shovel.

“You people who’ve done this for years, I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “It’s just not worth it to me. I didn’t go to college to do this kind of thing.”

“Me neither,” came another voice.

They’re tired. He’d felt that way himself, on other fires, in other years. When the callouts came, he went. They would, too, he figured.

“Found one!” the BLMer called out, sounding almost surprised. She knelt down and felt through the ashes. “I think it’s out.”

At least she’s paying attention. “Put a line around it,” Jack shouted. “Just in case.”

She scratched out a line and moved on.

“Good eyes, even if it isn’t why you went to college,” Jack said, trying to tease her.

“I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant that I’d rather be at home, doing my real job.”

“Understood. We all would.”

She stood and looked his way. “What do you do back at the park? You a ranger?”

“Kind of, but not exactly,” Jack said, not wanting to get into it.

“What then, exactly?”

He sighed. “I’m a resource manager, a biologist.”

“Cool.” She stared across the drainage, waiting for details, holding up the others behind her.

Jack held his tongue.

She moved on.

Cool. Maybe it was cool. It once was—or almost always had been. Until Montana. It always seemed such important work. It had seemed important to the public. Until Montana.

Forget Montana. You’re dealing with New Mexico now.

But would it be any different? It was too early to tell. Piedras Coloradas wasn’t a bad place, really. Nice park. Beautiful canyons. Beautiful sunsets.

Give it a chance.

Paul Yazzi stopped at his position high on the slope and probed at the ground with his shovel. Without comment, he scratched out a line.

The night before he’d misjudged Paul. Paul was just a practical guy, from a different culture. He owed Paul an apology, or a compliment—or a medal for keeping them all from being lumped into the same group as that damned arsonist.

Jack looked up at the ridge, above the crew, at blackened trunks of standing dead trees, wisping smoke into the wind. What a thing to do, he thought.

Why would someone do that? For the thrill? Because he was a pyromaniac? Or because he wanted to pick up a few bucks fighting fire?

Or was he disillusioned? Could it be that? Did something happen to him? Something like Montana?

He shook his head. Don’t go there.

The memories came on their own. Montana. Snowmobiles and wildlife. Public battles. Times when everything seemed under control. Controversial but under control. Then, out of nowhere, a lost cause.

Sure, there had always been people stirring things up, and others demanding they be heard more than their fellow citizens, but he’d tried keeping his eyes focused on the agency mission and the needs of all, thinking that if he avoided being manipulated more by the noisy ones pushing only their own agendas—their own damned petty, little self-interests—then everything would work out okay.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. On all counts. The first cracks, the warring factions, the fighting over principles that seemed to have little to do with the real issues. How could he have been so naïve? About those who demanded preference, and proved themselves to be influential, and those who were supposedly on his side, especially the young staffer Clint Foss, who lacked experience, but showed in time that in some things he was already an expert. Like the tried and true path to success—seeking the lime-light, schmoozing the big wigs, helping them get everything they wanted, and telling the bosses everything they wanted to hear.

Jack could almost see the newspaper accounts. The subtle shifts in direction—shifts that eventually gave the big shots everything they wanted. Control, so they could champion anything that suited their agenda. Places where elk and wolf wanted to winter became noisy playgrounds, despite pleas from others. As for Foss, if the word on the agency grapevine was true, he had landed a promotion—superintendent of a park somewhere back east. The snake had already capitalized.

Jack tightened his fingers around his shovel handle and twisted.

Was it worth it? Were the games worth enduring? At one time, they had been.

He laughed self-consciously, remembering how idealistic he once had been. Nothing could have made him turn his back on the things to which he had devoted himself— the wild places, the wild things, even public service. Sure, there had been hard days, but when the job was worth it, it was really worth it. Until Montana. Would it ever be the same? The passion? Would it ever return?

A firefighter stepped below another. Jack reached for his radio. “Johnny, slow your squad.”

They stopped in their tracks. The one firefighter stepped back. They started moving again as a unit. The man in the rear cupped his hands and shouted across the draw, “Hey boss. Some of the guys tell me you worked up in Montana.”

Jack took in a deep breath and let it out. “Yes,” he shouted back.

“Nice country?”

“Yes.” He froze as the firefighter raised his hands again to his mouth.

A crack echoed across the gorge, then a crash, muffled by the breezes beginning to whip through the trees.

“What was that?” Jack shouted.

Noise came flowing down from above.

A log rolled out of the black, and careened off a rock. Firefighters scrambled out of its path.

“It’s burning,” one of them shouted. “Damned thing’s burning.”

It rolled and bounced, all the way to the bottom, disappearing into the brush.

Jack strained to see where it landed. It was somewhere below him. If fire came out the drainage, it would be heading his way.

“Hurry, put it out,” someone shouted.

Crackling rose up from below.

Another noise. Jack looked up. Two firefighters raced down the hill. Loose soils gave way at the feet of one, controlling his speed. The other bounced with the changes in terrain. They held their shovels high on the handles, out to their sides. One slipped and slid on his rear. He jumped up, and took off again at speed.

“Be careful,” Jack shouted. But hurry.

Red helmet—must be Tammy Sams. Yellow—Johnny Reger. They came from different angles, leaving their squads on the slope. They disappeared into the brush. Three others started after them.

“Careful,” Jack shouted. He held up a hand. “Don’t kick any rocks loose. Don’t come down directly above ‘em. Stay off to the side.”

“Spot fire,” Paul Yazzi shouted. He pointed his firefighters at a smoke rising along the log’s line of descent.

There were others. “Paul, more below you,” Jack shouted.

Paul pointed firefighters at each of the growing fires. They quickly knocked them down with dirt.

At the bottom of the hill, a firefighter handed his pulaski to someone in the brush.

“What’s happening?” Jack shouted.

“They’ve got it. It’s not going anywhere.”

Jack took a deep breath and relaxed. For a moment it looked like yesterday all over again.

At least there was no more talk of Montana.

For now, anyway.

He wanted to go home.

— • —

A firefighter stopped his truck. There was nothing here to stop the fire but road, and this is where he’d been ordered to start a backfire. Time was of the essence.

A van with a satellite dish pulled up behind him. A reporter and her cameraman got out of the van. The reporter approached. She’d made her contacts well. She wore a yellow nomex shirt and green nomex pants, the same as the firefighter. She was reminiscent of a war correspondent in fatigues. There was ample smoke to make the coverage compelling.

“I don’t have time for this,” the firefighter said. Anxiously, he fumbled with his equipment, a Very gun and flares. The backfire had to be set now. He had to have enough brush burnt on this side of the ridgeline to stop the advance of the fire. The road had to hold it. How did this reporter get in here?

The reporter set the scene for her viewers.

The firefighter moved away, loading a flare as he did. He stopped and fired. The flare whizzed into the brush. He fired another, and then another.

The reporter loved it. She directed her cameraman to pan across the scene.

There was a roar behind her.

Flames appeared from behind the ridge, rising thirty feet above the brush like a cat pouncing on its prey. Brush burst into flame.

The firefighter fired off more rounds, dropping them along a line in the brush. The flaming front quickly rolled over them. “Get out of here,” he shouted. He fired another flare into the air. This was his last line of defense and it wasn’t going to hold. He broke into a run.

The reporter continued talking, but her cameraman turned and followed. She glanced back and froze, stammering as she lost concentration.

She dropped her microphone and ran.