Page 15 of Some Like It Hot
Except, maybe what had gone down between them was better, so there was that. So much for his instincts.
“Don’t let that fire jump the line!” Riley jogged along the line the team had cut down to the mineral soil. It edged the burnout like the finger of God drawn in the sand. Flames had chewed through dry, green grasses, leaving behind the blackened wasteland where the oncoming main blaze would be starved of fuel. Over fifteen acres now, the main fire advanced with a fury, chewing through aspen and willow, black and white spruce, torching shaggy pine and gnawing on hearty white birch.
Riley had gotten a good look at the fire from the air some six hours ago as the plane circled the burning acreage, the flame lengths then only three to five feet, the blaze slow going as it worked its way through the tinder and reindeer moss of the boreal forest. Lightning had ignited it along a ridge, and the winds blew it southeast toward a meadow below another ridge. Rock and stone to the west made an easy black zone, with just enough moss to require a scraped line to shut it down.
To the east, the fire had to fight its way through a stand of birch, long-burning and hardy. It bought them time.
The team had deployed on the rams to the north of the blaze, and that’s when Riley had caught his first whiff of trouble in a spur of wind that tufted his chute and blew him back into the fire.
He’d reamed hard on the toggles, flared the backside, and it bought him lift. Then he toggled hard left and somehow managed to clear the blaze.
Never mind that he landed hard on a tumble of rock and debris. Or that when he rolled, he managed to jerk his shoulder. He’d bounced up, Larke’s words in his head.
Stay alive.
You betcha.
The rest of the team landed unscathed, and Tucker set them cutting a fire line along the western perimeter, a safety precaution, while he called in slurry drops.
Which, apparently, there weren’t any.
“The planes are being used for a fire up in Fairbanks,” Tucker said when he hiked back to the crew.
Tucker outlined his plan then—another line cut into the meadow below the ridge, a burn toward the main blaze. Then they’d trust in the hardy birch and tonight’s dew points, along with the winds to cooperate and slow the fire down enough for a water drop to snuff it out.
“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.” Tucker had crouched on the rock, using a stick in the dirt to outline his plan, drawing it down to where the two cut lines would meet. He indicated the far western edge of the meadow where it 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.”
His plan was met with a fewhoo-yahs.
Tucker sent Skye off to sit watch on a cropping of rocks to the north, and Riley suspected that Skye’s brush with the fire torch had spooked him. Especially since he was now acting fire boss.
Skye seemed less than thrilled with the gig, her voice over the walkie bearing shades of a thirteen-year-old sent to her room.
But someone had to watch the fire line. And frankly, Riley also fought the memory of seeing Skye standing in the middle of a fire, frozen.
“Riley.” Tucker motioned him over, away from Eric and Hanes, who were doing the initial scrape, and Seth and Romeo, cleaning up the line.
“S’up, boss?” Riley said.
Tucker ignored the new moniker. “Listen, here’s the deal. We need reinforcements, and with everyone working the fire up north, we’re beggars.”
Riley frowned. “What? Are they sending in a bunch of church volunteers?”
“I wish. Convicts. Actually, low-security guys—I don’t think they’re even bringing a guard with them. But they’re from the local correctional facility.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
Tucker shook his head. “It’s not like we haven’t worked with the Department of Corrections before—”
“Those were guys trained to fight fires. Are these guys trained at all?”
“Probably just volunteers who can dig.” Tucker lifted a shoulder. “The BLM sounded like it was a decent option.” He glanced over at Skye.
Riley picked up on what he was laying down. “Yeah, all right. I’ll keep an eye out. Anything else you want me to do?”
“Keep our guys focused. I’ll meet the hand crew and get them started on the burn line.” He looked back at Riley. “Stay alert. I don’t want trouble.”
Which led to problem number two. Because Rileyhadkept an eye on the work crew, starting all the way from when the chopper from Sky King ranch landed. The crew disembarked, all wearing bright orange shirts, not unlike his own yellow Nomex, with CCCF printed on the back. Tucker gave them a briefing, armed them with shovels, and put them to work on the meadow line.