Smoke Season

CHAPTER 21

Mel disconnected the call with shaky fingers, True’s words ringing in her ears. Go on the offensive. With True, that could mean anything, and Mel’s nerves were already shot: Fallows’s relentlessness at the Eddy last night had put her out of sync with Sam again just when she’d been rediscovering the groove of their partnership, punctuating her disloyalty in a way that made her loathe what she needed to do all the more. And now, outside the station window at Carbon Rural, a seemingly endless line of trucks bore down the highway into Carbon. Reinforcements in the form of privatized hand crews.

Local traffic had given way, and despite the uncomfortable cocktail of heat, smoke, and humidity, people in N95 masks or handkerchiefs watched the progression of the out-of-town crews from the sidewalk. Cutting through the sound of the engines, car horns honked in support.

Bring in the cavalry, Mel thought ruefully. She always had to work to not resent crews like this for their abundant overpay and bonuses she could only dream of. It wasn’t like she could apply to join them as they hopped from state to state, playing the hero; she was away from Astor and Annie enough as it was. Besides, Carbon Rural couldn’t exactly afford to turn down the help.

“Best for all just to try to get along,” Hernandez told the Carbon crew over a hasty breakfast, confirming that the wildland experts with the USFS and Oregon Wildfire Response and Recovery had officially taken over command. Hand-crew teams from Dust Busters, Firestorm, and Flashback Fire had reported for duty, along with the first hotshot crew, arriving from as far as Flagstaff. “But Carbon Rural has been invaluable,” Hernandez said. “With the help of the Outlaw and Eagle Valley crews, we’ve contained what we can close to town.”

“Which means it’s time to take the fight to the river corridor,” Mel interjected.

White didn’t miss the chance to shoot Hernandez a look, and Mel bit her lip. True was rubbing off on her. “Sir,” she added weakly.

Hernandez sighed. “Your sense of urgency is valid, Bishop.” He looked around the table. “And I doubt you’re the only one sick of playing defense.”

“Up against the ropes, more like,” Deklan mumbled.

Hernandez actually chuckled as he checked his watch and rose from his chair, probably already due at another interagency meeting or press release. “You’ll be happy to hear, then, that I’ve been ordered to send a team down the river road today,” he said.

Mel sat up straighter. “The full length of the road?” If she could get downriver, maybe True wouldn’t have to mess with the rapid tag after all.

“At least the section that runs parallel to the south bank of the Outlaw, opposite the fire. Maybe even on the north bank when the road crosses Wonderland Bridge. That a problem?”

“Not at all.” A bit of the extra weight that had settled onto her shoulders lifted. One fewer person in danger meant one fewer complication, not to mention one less way she’d let Sam down this week.

“We’ll knock on doors, encourage proactive evacs, and help the hand crews hold the line.” Hernandez turned to his second-in-command. “White? I’ll leave it to you to assign duties; then FEMA has requested we set up a remote command near the closure area.”

White started making noise about being so far from the action as Mel felt herself deflate. With her least-favorite superior in charge, she’d never get the assignment she asked for.

Ryan held up his hand. “Wait. So closing the river road wasn’t just a precaution? My folks are gonna freak.”

Lewis gave Ryan a sympathetic nod as Hernandez left the room. It was every local’s worst fear during smoke season, especially those with small businesses, like the Sloans, who were hoping their son would follow them into the fly-fishing game after he got this firefighting thing out of his system.

Or like Sam. Or True.

Mel glimpsed a rare, shared look of maturity pass between Ryan and Deklan. They were starting to get it: forest fires made far more lasting impressions than simply a scarred land and inspired far more sobering anecdotes than the boastings of rookie ground pounders.

“So where will we be assigned?” Deklan asked White cautiously.

“I’d love to help mobilize the crews from the command center,” Mel cut in carefully. Because if she knew White ...

White’s head swiveled to her. “You’re next-in-command, Bishop. I need you to head up the crew in the field while I man the command center.”

Well, that was easy.

“You’ll take Lewis and the volunteers,” White continued. Under his breath, as they all pushed out from the table, he added, “You can babysit our rookies.”

She called True back as they loaded up. “Don’t use the tag,” she told her. “I can get the ammo box.”

“What? How?”

“We’re rolling out now. River road. It will place me closer than I think your rapid tag can.”

“But how will you ...?” True trailed off.

“I’ll find a way.”

They departed Carbon at 0700 in a small convoy, keeping parallel to the fire while the hotshots from Arizona utilized whatever resources were at their disposal (a.k.a. whichever they damn well pleased, Janet muttered) to attack the blaze from the air before it hit the federally protected Wild and Scenic section of the Outlaw. They’d already commissioned a water tanker from the Outlaw airport and planned to scoop water from the ranches and properties with ponds.

Like Claude’s, Mel thought, picturing the old man’s acreage on Highline adjacent to Sam’s, with its carefully tended garden and duck pond used for irrigation. She imagined the boots that would soon trample down the marsh surrounding the pretty little pond, the hotshots tossing their packs and mud-caked gear on the oak bench on which Claude had hand-carved a memorial for Ingrid.

She redirected her focus from the hotshots to her own assignment. The sooner she completed her task, the sooner she could detour to Temple Bar to retrieve the ammo box, and the sooner she could get Fallows’s boot off the backs of their necks. At least while the fight, as she’d put it, was here in the river corridor, it was not up on Highline. Level 1 status there would hold.

She gripped the wheel of the command truck she’d been assigned and leaned forward into the next curve as her volunteer riding shotgun, an old-timer everyone just called Sly, braced a hand on the dash. He’d signed on with Carbon Rural after his wife told him he was driving her crazy in retirement, underfoot all the time. Deklan and Ryan rode in the back bench seat. A wildland fire engine followed; in a rare show of generosity, White had assigned them one of the good ones, she’d noticed, the West-Mark that had just come out of the shop last week. Lewis rode shotgun in it, their driver engineer—Carlos today—at the wheel. One of the two hand crews trailed about an hour behind them, tasked with burning more backfires closest to where the blaze edged toward the river. Mel’s crew’s containment lines further downriver would serve as insurance, hopefully never needed.

A stack of rapid tags sat in Deklan’s lap, ready to be delivered to the often antisocial and sometimes downright hostile residents of the off-the-grid homes out here, their green cardboard practically glowing after her debate with True. As a last resort, the tags would be affixed to the front doors, and Deklan shuffled them absently like a deck of cards as they bumped along the rural road. The rhythmic slap of them against his leg echoed in the quiet cab, playing on Mel’s nerves. She’d assured them all this mission would run like clockwork. So much so that their battalion chief can slip away for about an hour to run a personal errand at Temple Bar? She sure as hell hoped so.

“You get enough sleep, kiddo?” Mel asked, tossing Deklan a backward glance. With the river road officially closed, she didn’t have to check her speed as she would normally; no opposing traffic should surprise them on the hairpin turns.

“I dunno. I guess.”

“After he finally got to call his mommy,” Ryan supplied with an elbow into Deklan’s rib cage.

“She was worried, okay? The wildland volunteer website never gets updated. Sheesh. Sorry someone loves me.”

“Someone loves me, too,” Ryan shot back with a dumb grin. “My girlfriend. She loves me so good, I—”

“We all know there’s no girlfriend,” Mel interjected, earning her a chuckle of amusement from Sly. He hadn’t been subjected to the Deklan-Ryan show much yet and was in for a treat.

Luckily, she could tune them out, because even without traffic on the river road, driving now demanded her full attention. Just ten miles into the thirty that led to Temple Bar, the smoke had thickened, funneled as it was into the narrowing river canyon. This road—originally intended only for loggers—proved dangerous in good conditions, the way it wove right to the edge of the river in some places, crazily climbing in elevation to return to the ridgeline in others. The last time they’d driven a wildland rig out here, the heavy-duty tires and weighty engine had sent scree tumbling down the embankment toward the river on the tightest of the turns, the near nonexistent shoulder of the road providing little to no room for error. She was sure that behind them, the West-Mark engine was sending even more debris downhill today, Lewis navigating less cautiously than on a training run. Mel tempered her own speed, hoping it would encourage prudence.

They drove another mile or so at a crawl before starting another downhill descent as the road eased closer to the river bottom.

“Ah, shiiit,” Deklan said.

Now that they were well below town, they could follow the Flatiron Fire’s progress; it burned bright over their right shoulder as they drove, on the slope on the far side of the river. Just like at Highline, ash spun in the wind, obscuring their view out the windshield if the wipers weren’t on full blast. Mel experimented with the headlights: Full brightness? Or dimmed as in a snowstorm, so as not to reflect the flakes of ash, turning them from sooty gray to bright white?

“At least it can’t jump the Outlaw,” Deklan noted as they approached the first of the many mountain streams that fed into the river. They’d arrived at one of True’s favorite first-night camping spots, Antelope Creek. The fire burned on both sides of the creek on the north bank with effortless abandon, but Deklan was right: the wide Outlaw indeed stopped the path from reaching the south shore.

“But there’s plenty of reason to stop it on the north bank, too,” Mel let him know. Wonderland Lodge sat on that bank. More than a few fishing cabins. And after the river road crossed from the south side of the Outlaw to the north at Wonderland Bridge, it led directly to the take-out area at Temple Bar.

“When are we gonna cross over and fight it?” Ryan wanted to know. Mel noted he sounded less eager than he and his rookie friends had two days ago.

“Not until evacs are completed over here on this side,” Mel said. “The hotshot teams are already on it, as well as several hand crews. We’re going to follow the orders we were given.” At least, you boys are.

“Wait, so we’re gonna drive right past the fire, over here on the south bank?” Deklan wanted to know.

Mel nodded. “We’ll eventually get out ahead of it so we can cut a containment near Wonderland, but we’ll be knocking on doors first.”

“Perfectly safe,” Sly grunted. He turned to Mel. “That’s what I told Doris, and that’s what it’ll be, right?”

“Right,” she promised, even while inwardly flinching.

“Like we were perfectly safe cutting that containment on the slope of Flatiron?” Deklan noted dryly.

His observation was spot-on, of course. Every firefighter knew not to promise anything to anyone. Caution kept you alive. Assuming the worst worked in your favor. No one answered for a beat. “You’re right to keep your guard up,” Mel conceded to Deklan. She hoped Ryan was listening, too. “Never know what the wind will bring, right?”

She chanced another glance in the rearview mirror to see Deklan swallow and Ryan’s cocky grin fully disappear. “Right,” they echoed.

For the majority of the morning, they kept abreast of the fire, driving parallel to the blaze along the river road all the way to Devil’s Drop, the last of the smaller rapids before Quartz Canyon. It took them far longer than Mel had anticipated to veer onto every private dirt road, ignoring the Private Property , No Trespassing , and No Hunting signs posted on trees and stakes at each long dirt driveway to knock on doors. Had there always been so many folks living out here?

“Halllooo?” Mel called out at each property, running her siren in one quick bleep of warning before allowing Deklan and Ryan to exit the truck to approach the houses. These were precisely the type of homesteaders most likely to shoot first and ask questions later if a couple of teens crossed to their door without invitation. Their homesteads were mainly comprised of double-wides littered with junk cars, very few of them resembling anything close to True’s carefully curated yurt studio.

Of course, Mel doubted anyone put such deliberate care into their home, except maybe Sam. The first time Mel had seen True’s place, the vulnerability laid bare on her face, watching Mel take it all in, had almost been too damned hard to look at, like squinting into direct sunlight. The Outsider . Mel hated that name. It made her ache for that tender part of True, the part that, no matter what True said to the contrary, no matter what brave front she put up, wanted it all. Mel wished she could tell her the same thing she told Sam: it wasn’t a “build it and they will come” situation. Life threw curveballs, and no amount of river rock or solar panels could change that.

“Clear, Chief!” Deklan called out now, and Mel let the sight of the front porch of yet another dilapidated homestead wash the image of True’s yurt from her consciousness. Deklan affixed a green rapid tag and descended the sagging porch steps, leaping much like a monkey himself as he returned to the truck.

All of these properties sat empty, thank goodness, save for a few animals. While Deklan and Ryan continued to affix tags to each door, Sly and Mel called in a few to Animal Control—livestock still contained in barns and stalls, mostly—knowing the department would be making rounds as soon as they were cleared to drive the river road. Deklan attempted to chase down a few panicked dogs, all of whom escaped capture.

“They’ll be fine,” Mel assured the boys, even while swallowing her own misgivings. What could she do? She had to keep her priorities straight. Animals tended to flee; the dogs would undoubtedly find a drainage pipe or irrigation ditch to cower in, where they had as good a chance as most.

“These all pot farms?” Deklan asked, climbing back into the battalion chief truck after clearing a ramshackle cabin deep in a tangle of overgrown forest.

Mel eyed the dense vegetation, excellent camouflage back in the day when the Feds combed these woods looking for hidden grow sites. “Must be.” It explained the increase in farms out here, off the grid. “At least, this place probably is.” She wondered how often search and rescue and the sheriff’s department had been here in the past few years, checking on compliance with state regulation.

“Wouldn’t kill ’em to clear the ground of undergrowth,” Deklan observed, kicking at the layer of brittle pine needles blanketing the dirt drive.

“Bad for business,” Mel told him tightly, “once upon a time. Now, these farmers are just lazy.” Or growing far more than is legal, in order to sell commercially to the cartels on the I-5 corridor. The Fallowses being the worst offenders, of course.

“Oh yeah,” Deklan said. “I forgot weed didn’t used to be legal and stuff.”

“Whelp,” Sly grunted from the front seat, as mention of illegal grow caused Mel’s mind to flit to Fallows, and then to Astor and the fear she must have felt this morning. She shut that thought right back down. If she fixated on that now, Mel would be unable to do her job. And if she couldn’t do her job, she wouldn’t collect the ammo box. She wouldn’t get her payout. Annie wouldn’t get her prescription. Every terrible thread of Mel’s reality was knotted to the next, in a seemingly endless tangle.

They continued to pick their way along the river road, listening, over the sound of their own engines, to the intermittent buzz of chain saws across the water—one of the hand crews at work on firebreaks closer to the blaze—and watching the regular rain of Phos-Chek falling from the sky from the planes that circled the air, releasing the rust-colored fire retardant onto the flames like that saffron-tinted powder thrown at the Holi festival True had taken her to in Portland once. They were making good use of the daylight, but the task seemed never-ending. So much for Mel’s optimistic promise to retrieve the ammo box from Temple Bar today. At this rate, she’d be lucky to make it that far southwest by this time tomorrow.

They made it another five miles downriver over the afternoon, and when the persistent flicker of flame over their right shoulders finally dipped out of sight in a cloud of smoke, leaving them with a view of only ash-gray forest instead, Deklan sighed in relief.

“And ... we’re officially ahead of the Flatiron Fire. About time, too.”

“This means Wonderland Lodge is still standing over on the north bank?” Ryan asked, peering through the windshield in an attempt to spot it.

He wouldn’t. Not in this smoke. “Yes, it’s there,” Mel told him, “and should remain standing, after we cut a containment line.” They’d set up camp here on the south side of the narrow, one-lane Wonderland Bridge, built to last from the CCC days, where it was safest.

Mel eyed the bloodred sun, angry against a dark sky, and thought of True, standing not far from here across the river only the day before, asking for Henry Martin’s mercy. She thought next of Astor, braving this disaster without her mother. Of Annie, with her father.

Never since her separation had Mel wanted to be with them more, all together at the house on Highline, its weather-sealed windows keeping the wolves—in all forms—at bay.