Firestorm-pigeon 4 by Nevada Barr Page A

cold front came in. The National Weather Service forecast it. They were counting on the precip to put the fire out. That's what gets most of them out—not as glamorous as I'd thought. This time the winds got bad, sheared in a canyon, fuel was dry and boom! The thing just exploded. Like a bomb. A squad—half the San Juan Plateau crew—was building line on about a two-hundred-acre finger of the fire. Sort of a thumb-shaped burn. When the wind sheared it blew up from two hundred acres to thirty-five hundred acres in less than an hour. Must've been awesome." Timmy's youth crept through the professional recital.

Frederick was pushing the receiver against his head, bruising the delicate if generous ear tissue. He loosened his grip. "The crew?"

"They were cutting back the whole operation. The San Juans were camped out a ways—twenty miles or so from the main camp. One squad had already been taken off the fire as well as two other guys, one with bronchitis and one with back problems. The other squad—about half the crew—was finishing up a section of fireline they'd been building. They may have gotten caught in the path of the fire when it went out of control. They're the ten missing."

"May have? No one's checked?" Frederick was angrier than he had a right to be and it bled into his voice.

Affronted, Tim was all business when he responded and Frederick made a mental note to be effusive in his thanks once he'd gotten what he wanted.

"No, sir. They can't. The fire burned over the camp, the heli-spot and the road for they don't know how many miles. The storm pushing the winds came in with snow at the higher elevations and sleet and rain in the valleys. Winds are still high. Visibility nil. Aircraft arc grounded and they can't get machinery up the road. Some have started up on foot but there's no news yet and there's been no radio contact from the missing crew. Word is they have hand-held radios but they're only good for line-of-sight. They're meant for the crews to talk to each other. The commander said they might be able to reach the Incident Base camp if they were high enough. So far they haven't called in or responded. I talked with Gene Burwell. He's the incident commander. He said as soon as the weather breaks they'll get helicopters up there. According to the National Weather Service it should start clearing mid-morning tomorrow."

Frederick digested that. Tim Spinks waited silently.

The incident commander, not the information officer; Timmy must have cloaked himself in the armor of the Bureau. Frederick felt a small stab of embarrassment. He'd headed up enough bad situations to know how costly and irritating it was to have to shift mental gears to talk with other agencies. Especially those not directly involved.

"Good job, Tim," he said, and meant it. "Have you got a list of the missing crew members?"

"John LeFleur, Crew Boss, Newton Hamlin, Leonard Nims, Howard Black Elk, Joseph Hayhurst, Jennifer Short, Lawrence Gonzales and Hugh Pepperdine."

No Anna Pigeon. Frederick felt a wave of relief so strong it surprised him and he wondered why he hadn't asked for the names first. Mentally he wrote it off to the orderly progression of his mind but he suspected it was pain avoidance.

"Read them again." Jennifer Short rang a bell. He'd worked with a ranger with that name in Mesa Verde. "Again." This time he counted on his fingers as Tim read off the names. Eight.

"How many in a crew?"

"Twenty, sir."

"A squad?"

"Ten."

Twenty total, ten demobed, two invalided out. That left eight. "You said there were ten missing. Who are the other two?"

"Emergency medical technicians running the medical unit. A Stephen Lindstrom out of Reno, Nevada, and an Anna Pigeon from Colorado."

There it was. Frederick felt the tightness harden into a knot. "Are you on all night, Tim?"

"Yes, sir.

"Keep an eye on things. Call me if there are any changes."

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks a bunch, Timmy. You've been super," Frederick added sincerely,