Page 87 of Burnin' For You
And gaining ground fast.
“We have two loads,” Gilly said. “I’m going to start the run at the high edge of the canyon, then slip down into the saddle, drop the first load, and bank out to the southeast.”
He just hoped to hold on. But she needed more than him just holding on. He reached for the yoke, added pressure with the foot pedals.
Gilly always made flying a sort of aerial ballet, the plane moving as if an extension of her body, up and over the trees, along the ridge, dropping into the canyon along the wind currents, almost effortless. She made it seem, well, easy.
Unless he glanced at her, took in the set of her mouth, her whitened grip on the yoke.
They dropped into the canyon, the heat rising around them, and suddenly their ride turned to washboard as they bumped along the gusts and flares of the firestorm.
“Hold on!” Gilly shouted.
Oh yeah. It was a good thing he hadn’t eaten anything, because his gorge rose again. He tightened his grip on the yoke, following her lead, and fought with the pedals for control, shaking away the rising fear that they’d simply flip and nose down in a fiery ball, straight into the flames.
He couldn’t help, also, a glance out at the right wing, just to make sure the new rivets still held under all this jarring. They were shuddering, but maybe Gilly was right—Patrick wasn’t out to kill her.
Just Reuben and the other surviving smokejumpers from last year’s team—Pete and Conner.
She did exactly as she said—ran them along the leading edge of the fire. And just before they reached the head, she shouted, “Release!”
He’d already moved his hand onto the trigger, the button that would unleash a ton of slurry onto the fire. The syrupy, red liquid drifted out below them, dropping onto the flames, coating the trees, the bushes, the loamy, sizzling forest floor with a mixture of water, fertilizer, and clay.
White smoke sizzled up from the muted flames as Gilly banked and ascended out of the turbulence.
Once free, she came back around, surveying the damage.
“One more drop and we’ll have that head shunted. At least until the fire can regroup—and by then the PEAK Rescue team should be able to get in.”
She descended, heading again toward the far ridge, apparently for a repeat run.
“Young to Eight-Seven-Alpha-November, come in.”
Conner.
Reuben toggled the radio. “Eight-Seven-Alpha-November, copy, Young. Come in.”
“I’ve found them. They’re all alive—and Pete’s here. He’s already called in the PEAK chopper. Just keep that fire out of our back pockets. Come back.”
“Roger that. Over.”
He glanced at Gilly, offered a smile.
And that’s when he saw it. Something shiny and gray out of the left window, shooting across their airspace.
A bird—no—
Gilly let out an exclamation—more surprise than anger—banked hard to miss the projectile. Reuben slammed against the cockpit door.
“What was that?” Gilly leveled the plane, searching for the object.
But Reuben recognized it too well—although disbelief turned him cold.
“A drone,” Reuben said thinly. “It looks like the one Conner lost in the Cabinet Mountains a couple weeks ago.”
Gilly shot him a look, wide-eyed, her mouth gaping. “You’re kidding me—”
“Patrick’s a mechanic. He must have found the drone and patched it up. And then listened to our radio transmission.”