Page 13 of Light My Fire

See, she knew what she was doing.

He drifted down, cleared the southern flank of the fire, and came in at an angle. A gust billowed out from the fire, blasting him with heat and ash, but he let up on the toggles and rode it out, landing just outside the jump zone in a passable roll.

He came up to yelling, just in time to spot Skye. The gust had reverted, caught her in a downdraft, and flattened her canopy right above a stand of flaming black spruce.

“Reef down on the toggles!” Tucker was on his feet, unstrapping, his gut coiled as he watched her struggle. She pressed down on the toggles, fighting to keep her chute filled, and he nearly wept as she cleared the trees, her feet so close to the flames he thought she might have lifted them.

The wind had refilled the chute as if the hand of God caught her, and she landed just beyond him, tripping over some strewn logs.

He unclipped his gear and pulled it together before running over. “You okay?”

She untangled herself. “You wouldn’t pass me for that.”

“You’re alive. You pass.” He helped her up, then left her to climb out of her gear while the second stick jumped.

Romeo and Riley. Then Seth and Hanes and Eric.

Tucker left Riley in charge of landing the cargo, including a five-gallon cubinator of water, and headed to a lookout point just north of their landing zone.

He surveyed it through his glasses. The entire western flank was moving south at a dangerous rate, and spot fires were igniting a hundred yards from their jump area. They needed to scratch out a line along the west, get another team on the southern front, along a broad saddle of meadowland that could prove to be the perfect spot for a burnout, killing the fuel between the fire and the forest beyond.

He got on the radio. “Base, this is Tucker.”

Don came through the line. “Go, Tucker.”

“This thing has the potential to blow up, but I see a way to stop it. We’re going to need another team to cut a line about a half mile south of our position.”

A pause as Don most likely was looking at the map. “Roger, but you’re the only jump team we have in the area.”

“Send in a hand crew. They can come in through one of the service trails.”

Another pause. “No can do. We have no one to send.”

Tucker pressed the radio to his forehead, wincing. C’mon. “No one? Maybe a team out of Fairbanks?”

A pause, then, “Sometimes we draw from the correctional facility. But they’ll need supervision.”

What? “A correctional facility?”

“How many do you need?”

“Eight? Ten?” He was mentally doing the math. Who’d he get to watch them? Not Seth, but maybe Riley. Or himself. Riley could stay here and cover the flank.

“Roger. So, are you a go?”

Prisoners. Well, certainly they wouldn’t be sending murderers. Probably guys in for DUI, speeding, and maybe some petty crime. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“We’ll have them to you by lunchtime.”

“We could use some mud, too, Don. Just to slow it down.”

“That’s not going to be easy. Maybe we can attach a bucket to Kingston’s chopper. The rest of the bombers are up at B-407.” The fire north of Fairbanks.

“Copy. Clear.”

Tucker headed down the ridge, met up with the team, and pulled out his map, crouching in front of them. He spread the map out, the wind ripping at the edges. The fire gusted cinder and ash into his eyes, and he blinked, letting them water. Fury roared downwind. “The BLM is sending in a hand crew—south of here about a half mile. I want you to scratch out a line down to this point here.” He indicated the far western edge of the saddle where the ridge flattened to rock. “I’ll work the crew coming in, meet you there. Our goal is to corral the fire enough for Barry to get some mud on it and take it down.”

He was met with a few military hooyahs and tucked the map back in his pack. Skye had picked up her Pulaski, but he stopped her. “You’re with me.”

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